When Cabaret Voltaire released Code in 1987, the industrial-music pioneers found themselves in a unique position. After years spent helping define the possibilities of post-punk and electronic music, Stephen Mallinder and Richard H. Kirk suddenly had access to ample major-label resources. And their response was true to type. Cabaret Voltaire upgraded its Western Works studio in Sheffield, England, from 16 to 24 tracks, affording Mallinder and Kirk greater flexibility while allowing them to remain autonomous.
Nearly four decades later, Code has now been remastered and reissued via Mute. Available on marble vinyl and as a three-CD set with period remixes and previously unreleased archival goodies, the package arrives as Mallinder takes Cabaret Voltaire around North America for its final lap. After a well-received West Coast run in May (the group’s first U.S. shows in more than 30 years), the second leg kicked off September 11 in Dallas.
Shortly before the final string of U.S. shows, Mallinder touched base with MAGNET’s Hobart Rowland via Zoom from his home in Brighton, England.
Did the EMI signing change your ambitions at all?
It was a means to an end for us. We didn’t see it as some kind of leapfrog into a bigger commercial world. We just saw it as a way of helping how we wanted to do things in a longer-term sense. The label was pretty easygoing with us. Clive Black, who was A&R at EMI, was a really good guy and a good friend. He signed us because he loved the band, not because he wanted to change us. So we didn’t feel any particular friction in that sense.
You’ve called Code a political album that didn’t announce itself as political. What was happening in 1987 that you hear most clearly when you listen to the album today?
In the previous three or four years, Britain had shifted from a manufacturing, industrial economy to a service economy. It was about money. It was about the city. It was about banks. It was about hedge funds. It was about people with very overt wealth and symbols of wealth. It was a weird, hedonistic time, as well. It was an indulgent time. We’d been through Reaganomics and Thatcherism, and we were still on the crest of that wave. Also, technology was shifting. It was the time of the introduction of mobile phones and this idea of autonomy or wealth and liberty for people who were wealthy—and a different kind of liberty for other people. We were aware that a lot of people had been disenfranchised by the political changes that had gone on. It was prior to the internet, but in terms of music technology, we were at the beginning of that phase. Code was an album that reflected those technological changes and the social and political backdrop we were dealing with.
A lot of albums made during that transition from analog to digital now sound unmistakably of their time. Why do you think Code has aged differently?
That was the great thing about working with (producer) Adrian (Sherwood). I think he offset the cheesiness of that digital stuff. It was the era of the gated snare and that kind of stuff. We had to get through that period acknowledging where we were but without going full-bore into it. A lot of records haven’t stood the test of time. The cheese factor is still very high in a lot of those ’80s records. I hope we skirted that. People go, “Oh, you were ahead of your time.” But we weren’t. We were just applying technologies a little bit before a lot of other people were. By that time, technology was catching up with us. Music was embracing its electronic makeup, as well. We were part of that, a little bit ahead of it and hopefully very different. But I think we managed to rough the edges quite a lot to make sure we didn’t fall into that trap.
The West Coast shows this past May were your first U.S. dates in more than three decades. What did you make of the response?
We realized there was an interest—and also new generations of people into it. Thirty years has meant that those kids who grew up on their parents’ record collections have now matured and know us and come to see us. It’s nice to know we’ve reached diverse audiences, and it’s been great to see some of the younger kids there. There’s a belief from newer generations in the authenticity of earlier music. I think it feels much more real to them. We represent that time when bands made records and toured and did artwork and all that. There was a kind of authenticity about music around the time we were making it—the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s—that I think is lost. I’m aware of the fact that people, old or young, look back to that as a much more vibrant and authentic period in music. I think we benefit from that. We were very visible. We were very tangible.
You’ve described these shows as Cabaret Voltaire’s final North American appearances. Why is it important to have a definitive endpoint?
I don’t want to be a tribute band, and I don’t want to do that whole thing of playing these tracks ad infinitum. I don’t want to flog that to death and lose its meaning and be disrespectful to the legacy of the band. I don’t want to take the piss and do that thing where you go, “We’re not touring again,” and then 12 months later you’re doing another tour. There may be a couple of one-off specials, but it depends. If I don’t get asked, I won’t do them. I’m fine with it, really. But it’s the final lap we’re doing now.
See Cabaret Voltaire live.
