“Your lies are more attractive than the truth.” Dave Gahan’s voice doesn’t just sing that line in Depeche Mode’s Should Be Higher—it bleeds it. There’s a raw, hollow ache in his tone, a sound that’s been scraped by life and left wanting. When it hits, over the brooding pulse of the 2013 track, it’s not resignation or exhaustion—it’s deeper, darker. It’s the sound of someone who doesn’t just see the lie for what it is, but craves it anyway. Loves it, even. And that’s the wound: the lie isn’t just shinier—it’s better than the truth, and we’re damned for knowing it. In love, in culture, we’re caught, tethered to a fiction we can’t quit.
Picture the start of a romance. They sweep in—charismatic, smooth, a walking promise. The way they talk, the way they look at you—it’s a polished glow, a version so vivid it drowns out the ordinary. You don’t care if it’s real; you don’t want to. That first kiss, that electric rush—it’s a lie, sure, a curated high. But it’s better than the truth waiting down the line: the arguments, the silences, the slow reveal of someone who’s just as lost as you. Gahan’s voice carries that ache: he’s not peeling back layers to find something truer—he’s mourning that the lie can’t last. Deep down, we don’t want the real person. We want the dream, and when it fades, the disappointment isn’t in them—it’s in us, for needing it.
The world around us hums the same tune. Scroll X or Instagram: it’s a parade of gloss—perfect lives, perfect loves, all sheen and no sweat. Consumerism doesn’t just sell us stuff; it sells us a lie we can’t unsee—happiness as a filter, success as a pose. The influencer’s golden hour, the ad’s fairy-tale couple—it’s not real, but it’s better. Better than the grind of bills, the weight of doubt, the quiet of a life that doesn’t trend. We’re not fooled—we’re complicit. The lie dazzles, and we lean in, not because we’re blind, but because the truth feels flat by comparison. Gahan’s singing from that trap: the shine is a drug, and we’re hooked.
In love, it’s personal, and it cuts deeper. You fall for the glow—their wit, their spark, the way they make you feel like the center of the world. It’s a lie, a polished front, but it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt. Then the truth seeps in: they’re flawed, they falter, they’re not the savior you dreamed up. You’d think that’d be a relief—someone real to hold onto. But no. You resent it. You miss the lie—the rush, the fantasy—because it was better than this ordinary mess. There’s no going back: once you see the truth, the illusion’s gone, and you’re left with a despondent ache, not for what they are, but for what they aren’t. Gahan’s voice drips with that—he’s not mad at the liar; he’s mad at himself for wanting the lie more.
Culture doubles down on this. We’re wired for the high now—swipe-right flings, viral moments, instant hits. The lie is everywhere, relentless, algorithmically perfect. A TikTok romance outshines a real one; a staged proposal buries a quiet vow. It’s not that we can’t handle reality—it’s that we don’t want it. The world rewards the fake: attention flows to the loudest, shiniest thing. And we play along, posting our own highlights, chasing our own mirage. The disappointment isn’t in the lie’s collapse—it’s in knowing we’d pick it again. Gahan’s tone is that reckoning: a man who’s seen the truth and still longs for the fiction.
That’s the sting, the no-way-back of it. In love, you can’t unsee the real them—their ticks, their tears—and you can’t rewind to the lie that lit you up. In life, you can’t unlearn that the world runs on gloss, that we’re all half in love with a script. The lie is better—not truer, not kinder, just better—and that’s the trap. We’re not victims; we’re junkies, chasing a high we know won’t hold. The sadness in Gahan’s voice isn’t regret—it’s despair, a quiet howl that we’re built this way, drawn to what’s not there.
Even the song’s title, Should Be Higher, feels like a cruel tease. Should be—sure. But we’re not. We’re down here, tethered to the lie, wanting it more than the truth we’re stuck with. You see it in every breakup that mourns the spark, not the person; every feed that scrolls past the mundane. The lie wins because we let it, because it’s the hit we crave. And yet, there’s a strange beauty in that ache—a compelling, alluring pull that keeps us listening, keeps us falling. Gahan doesn’t offer escape—just the sound of a man, and a world, caught in that hopeless dance, despondent and disappointed, but somehow still entranced by the lie’s fleeting glow.