An acoustic guitar opens the door with a Spanish figure, bright and a little formal, and then the trumpets arrive as if a parade had taken a wrong turn into a love song.
A bright chord sequence opens like a window in the morning, Vince Clarke's machines already smiling, and Andy Bell comes in with a request so plain it could be missed, which is the daring of it.
The piano states a gospel figure with a rock band's impatience, and then the choir arrives, except the choir is three men who have already sung the last song to death and are now singing this one as if Aretha were in the control room