It's 106 miles to Chicago. We got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark and we're wearing sunglasses.

-- the Blues Brothers

Well, it was more than 106 miles to Chicago, but you catch my drift. Instead of the cigarettes, I was armed with my best friend, my 1988 Depeche Mode tour shirt, and a surly attitude made worse by both the incompent service at our pre-concert restaurant choice and an Allstate Arena security guard who clearly got off on harassing me.

Then the show started.

I hadn't been to that venue since it was the Rosemont. A dear friend of mine had Grateful Dead tickets, it was warm out, the air reeked of...well, you can guess. Last night was bitter cold and the only thing you could smell in the air was anticipation and clove cigarettes. Every major concert I've been to in the past year has been "Favorites of My Childhood Return To The Stage" (such as the Pixies, and Bauhaus), so there's an extra dimension to the usual preshow excitement. Childish glee, if you will.

On the stage: a giant silver ball with a peep-window and words which lit up according to the song: "sex," "angel," "love," "vice"...as well as UFO/donut-shaped keyboard stands for Fletch and the (sob) Alan-substitute keyboard player.

Dave Gahan was wearing his usual:

Tight black pants + suit jacket. This quickly became...
Tight black pants + leather vest, then finally...
Tight black pants + glistening six-pack + tattoos.

Fletch wore his usual glasses / Casual Dad look (not that there's anything wrong with that). All the better for his "hit keyboard key, then raise your hands in the air and wave 'em like you just don't care" schtick. There was a live drummer. And then...there was Martin.

Oh, Martin Gore. Seventh Sartorial Wonder of the rock world. Who else can get away with wearing (among other outfits over the years) bondage gear, frilly dresses, rubber pants, black nailpolish and a curly bleached coif on stage? I submit to you last night's getup:

Black boots covered in feathers, black leggings, a black pleated leather kilt, black top, black feathered wings, and...oh, I couldn't even make this up: a black chullo-style hat with a giant, fuzzy wool mohawk on top, akin to a Tibetan lama's headdress. Not bad for an ex-bank teller, eh?

The setlist? Similar, if not the exact same as previous shows. Despite my previous snarky comments about Martin Gore suddenly inheriting a cache of Kraftwerk records (there's quite a few beep-boop-bop noises on the new album), his songwriting has veered away from the gospel vibe that threatened to depress half of North America for a while back into the pure rock camp.

In fact, watching Gore parade across the stage stage armed with his Gretschs during some of the guitar-heavy tunes, you'd think he was Angus Young wearing eyeliner!