Dave Gahan 1997.
“Remember New Orleans?” enquires Gahan, with the ambivalent merriment of a man reviewing his past as a pillock. “At the end of the gig I couldn’t go back for the encore, Mart had to do a song solo while all the paramedics rushed me off to hospital. I’d overdosed, I’d had a heart attack. Next day, we didn’t think any more about it. How about Los Angeles? I was in deep shit there and I didn’t know whether I was going to be able to get myself out. I was so fucking paranoid, I carried a .38 at all times. Going downtown to cop, those guys you hang out with are heavy people, they have guns sitting on the table in front of them. I was scared of everything and everyone. I’d wait until four in the morning to check the mailbox and then walk down to the gate with the gun tucked in the back of my pants. I thought they were coming to get me. Whoever “they” were.
That was when I started toying with the idea of going out on a big one. Just shoot the big speedball to heaven. Disappear. Stop. I wanted to stop being myself, I wanted to stop living in this body. My skin was crawling. I hated myself that much, what I’d done to myself and everyone around me.