Memento mori, a Latin phrase meaning remember you must die.
Ironically, also the subject of my most recent tattoo.
This phrase, adored by the Victorians, stands as a reminder of every individual’s inherent mortality. Its interpretation varies across cultures and individuals.
In Depeche Mode’s album, I see “memento mori” as an invocation of sensation: a narrator lays himself bare before an audience, succumbing to self-doubt and despair.
Through an assortment of carefully-woven sounds, the audience enters the narrator’s “mind palace” (“My Cosmos is Mine”).
An almost smoky synth arrangement coalesces with the dismal energy of Dave Gahan’s vocals. An undercurrent of gloom stripes the band’s characteristic sensuality, painting a romantic picture of misery and yearning.
For an opening track, “My Cosmos is Mine” does an excellent job of setting the auditory scene.
However, the album’s second track, “Wagging Tongue,” is a sharp stylistic pivot. The song is comparably upbeat, though still decidely morose with the lyrics “watch another angel die.”
Compared to its darker predecessor, the song strikes a New Wave tone with a brighter, more colorful energy.
Synths function to produce vibrant electronic beats while Gahan harmonizes with bandmate Martin Gore, whose angelic voice obfuscates the song’s pessimistic lyrics.
Following “Wagging Tongue” was “Ghosts Again,” originally released as a single Feb. 9, 2023.
The song features ebullient synths and a danceable beat, again far removed from the deep gloom seen in “My Cosmos is Mine.”
Together, “Wagging Tongue” and “Ghosts Again” complement each other. However, they fail to connect to the album’s opening song.
As a fan of Depeche Mode’s more woeful sounds, (and a passionate hater of “I Just Can’t Get Enough”) I began to worry about my compatibility with the album moving forward.
I had expected something mournful and dark, but the album appeared to be moving towards the figurative “light.”
I almost considered canceling my review and selecting an album from a different artist, accepting the disappointment of “Memento Mori.”
However, everything changed as the album’s fourth track began to play.
“Don’t Say You Love Me,” the fourth track on “Memento Mori,” marks a drastic tonal shift away from the colorful New Wave beats of “Wagging Tongue” and “Ghosts Again.”
One may argue that the track represents a return to the style that first garnered Depeche Mode’s admiration within the goth subculture, a melange of cold industrial sounds and Gahan’s reverent voice.
Listening to Gahan wax poetic about tumultuous and toxic love was enough to restore my faith in the album. Each track moving forward continued to capture the often-theatrical melancholia of Depeche Mode and the idea of beautiful darkness.
Final Thoughts
My first introduction to Depeche Mode was through “Violator,” an album they released a decade before I was born.
I didn’t discover the album until around 2015. By then, mainstream discourses surrounding the release had long since faded.
With no point of reference, I consumed the album without an ounce of criticality (arguably one of the best ways to experience albums).
Eight years later, I approach “Memento Mori” with a wholly different perspective.
For individuals unfamiliar with the works of Depeche Mode, “Memento Mori” may not be the best place in the band’s discography to start listening.
While the album is ultimately satisfying, it maintains distance from what I would consider to be the schematic Depeche Mode.
For those just getting into the band, I would recommend starting with “Violator” or “Music for the Masses” before visiting “Memento Mori.”
"All of This Will End" album cover. Art by Kimberly Oberhammer
I was first introduced to Indigo de Souza by my boarding school roommate who had gone to the same school as the singer in Asheville, North Carolina. When I began playing a radio show, I was always excited to play a small, local artist like Indigo de Souza. In the coming years, she would become not-so-small, and her discography would expand in a way I could not be more pleased about.
Cover for "First Two Seven Inches" by Minor Threat
I love record stores.
There’s something unparalleled about walking into a brick-and-mortar shop and seeing rows upon rows of crates and shelves, the walls papered with posters and zine covers and collages. It’s the best kind of liminal space.
The EP was a primary contributor to the soundtrack of my late teens. At the time, I lived in a beach town still recovering from the previous year’s hurricane.
A primier vacation spot for many middle-class families, the town fell to ruin in the off season. Homelessness, drug addiction and violent crime underscored the area’s stark wealth disparity.
The “clean” coastline was peppered with million-dollar beach homes and luxury condos. Ten miles inland, average citizens struggled to make ends meet amid a stifling job market.
Many turned to drugs and alcohol as a means of making life bearable. Among these individuals were friends, coworkers and bosses.
It was during this time that I became first acquainted with Minor Threat. The band’s jilting, ragged strains mirrored my own consternation with the building chaos in my inner circle.
Cap'n Jazz at a 2010 performance. Photo courtesy of Nicole Kibert, under Creative Commons License CC BY-ND 2.0
I heard people nitpick the definition of midwest emo long before I began listening to the twinkly, mathy indie-emo that most consider to be actual midwest emo.
For every pretentious boyfriend I’ve had who’s corrected me when I slipped up and put Mom Jeans into the midwest emo category, there are 100 other people on Reddit telling a well-meaning user that no, Joyce Manor is not real emo.
