Fad Gadget
Under The Flag

Daniel Miller, founder of Mute Records back in 1978, had a keen eye for talent. He signed the first contract for his fledgling label with a man named Frank Tovey. But to others, he was known as Fad Gadget. This peculiar man, with a gaunt face and slightly unsettling features, still holds immense respect from a flock of fans who continue to pay tribute to him almost reverently. Yet for the rest, he is nearly a nobody, completely forgotten amongst the dusty shelves of rock. He is the quintessential case of a "cult" artist, lost in the depths of a controversial career with remarkable artistic value.

Fad had talent and was highly regarded by his peers. Imagine, Depeche Mode once opened for him at his concerts. After 15 years, the roles were reversed. But why didn't he achieve the recognition he deserved? Fad was a troublesome character. He didn’t follow trends. He wasn’t a synth intellectual; his music didn’t carry the sugary taste of new-romantic melodies nor the brutal, devastating force of industrial music. Most significantly, Tovey inspired a bit of fear, alienating many who might have sympathized. On stage, he was a great frontman, a sort of more perverse Dave Gahan, with strong charisma, but his lyrics often carried social critiques. Even the title of this album is an unveiled reference to the marked nationalism of early 1980s England. He was particularly affected by the Falklands War, leading him to compose almost a concept album.

"Under The Flag" is his third album, released in 1982. The Depeche, from the same stable, were churning out catchy, light refrains at the time, while he went further. He didn’t reject melody, quite the opposite, but his compositions possessed a distinctly superior force. Imagine less crude DAF, with a definite flair for arrangement and melody. His sound could be described as a successful hybrid between industrial and synth-pop. Tovey had neither the exaggerated brutality of the former nor the banality of the latter, yet he excelled in creating danceable tracks and possessed an enviable "epic" register. His voice was deep and baritone, sinisterly tuned, though devoid of Gahan's warmth. It was often cold and detached, perfectly integrated into the ambiance of his sound. Female voices, sometimes choruses, sometimes sweet lullabies, played a crucial role, adding a "hybrid" flavor to the tracks.

The album opens with the title track, where a background hum introduces the forceful entrance of a "heavy" drum machine resembling a whip. Then comes Tovey's voice, almost a chant-recite, interrupted only by a simple synth loop. This is the only track closely related to DAF's EBM, with a strongly danceable and repetitive beat.
But immediately after, with "Scapegoat", we enter milder territories. A “deviated” synthetic piece, oblique, where the innocent melodies of early Depeche appear, along with female choruses and lullabies, Tovey's alienating singing, and synthetic notes somewhere between dreamy and bucolic. His music, especially on this album, was "strange," not easily defined, but displayed creativity above average. It was also, in some cases, intensely engaging. Take for instance the following "Love Parasite," as trendy as the most fashionable tracks of the period, strongly captivating with its incredibly catchy chorus. Over all, however, loomed a sinister, unsettling, and subtly perverse component.
The ridiculous a cappella verse introducing "Plainsong" is emblematic. A crescendo almost like a mass, with female counterchants and children's pranks. You expect the rhythm to kick in eventually, but it never does. The entire track unfolds on this bizarre architecture.
But Fad redeems himself with the masterpiece that is "Wheels Of Fortune," featuring gospel choirs, pounding and melancholic piano notes, unraveled over an epic tapestry, caressed by the warm breath of a saxophone, performed by Alison Moyet, and a finale of synthetic orchestral strings. A piece years ahead of the trendiest hits of its time. Yet, inexplicably unknown.
Less impactful, but still of high quality, "Life On The Line," almost acts as a reprise of the previous. Right after comes another moment of high tension: "The Sheep Look Up", a splendid gem of dreaminess and drama, arranged with great taste, boasting an epic, goosebumps-inducing refrain. It's practically his version of "Little 15" by his Depeche Mode comrades, 5 years prior and with more class.
A dark rumble and a funeral piano toll open "Cipher,” an unnerving journey of nearly 5 minutes into Tovey's psyche, hypnotic and disturbing. Always the same toll, always the same minimal evil notes... and the faint wail of a morbid would-be lunatic.
The next step is nearly an anthem to the limbs of the body, shaken by an irresistible rhythm, compelled to raise hands to the sky during this obsessive dance, a decadent sabbath of great allure.
The discourse ends where it began, with a return of the opening track, but with different lyrics, and the definitive closing line encapsulating the spirit of the album: "Under the flag boy, under what flag?"

Frank Tovey poured his heart into his compositions, the same heart that betrayed him on April 3, 2002, stopping forever in that London that never rewarded him for his talent. Now that he is one of the many martyrs of rock, will he be resurrected? Or will the earth covering his deeds grow even more over time? It’s your first spadeful.