ast night, I found myself at a Depeche Mode concert. I was a big fan from about 1984 until 1993 or so. I gave up after Songs of Faith and Devotion failed to engage me for more than a couple of listens. When I was a fan, I didn’t go to concerts. Not because I didn’t want to but, because of where I was living at the time, I didn’t really have the option.

So, last night I found myself at a Depeche Mode concert and, although I don’t listen to a lot of Depeche Mode these days, I connected with the music in a very intense way. This was because of all of the old songs that they played, I had a string of youthful, teenaged memories attached to them. It reconnected me with a part of my life that had become pale as the years have distanced me from it. Old friends, old girlfriends, old rivalries, old bits of ridiculous drama, and all of the rampaging immaturity that made those years what they were.

It was fun and it was cathartic. It was cathartic to stand there and sing, at the top of my lungs and any other lungs I could borrow, all of those old songs. I remembered the words to all of them and so I belted them out, the words, as I walked through the tight labyrinth of my nostalgia and made some kind of contact with the ghost of me and the ghosts of those people whom I once called friends. It was a good walk that left my legs and throat ragged with exhaustion.