38. Gary Numan
Roundhouse
21 November 2013
Gary Numan’s career has played out less like a traditional arc and more like a full-blown sci-fi epic: it starts with accidentally pressing the right button on a Moog synthesiser in 1978 and ends in confusion, involving airborne stunt planes a penchant for leather trench coats, and a reinvention too far. The rise was meteoric. The fall? Well, let’s just say Newtonian physics didn’t hold back.
After firing out three undeniable masterpieces: Replicas, The Pleasure Principle, and Telekon, Numan promptly swerved into what can only be described as Bowie cosplay. There was the “New Romantic Accountant” era (Dance), the “Poundland Mad Max” era (Warriors), the “Burberry Iceman” (Berserker), and then whatever The Fury was.
And sure, some of us still fly the flag for the weird stuff. There are defenders of Dance, Warriors and Berserker (me included). But by the time we hit Metal Rhythm, well, we’ve all agreed never to bring that up again. With the music industry rapidly losing interest, Gary pivoted to being a full-time stunt pilot, because, obviously, if your music career is tanking, the next logical step is barrel rolling over Surrey.
Enter Gemma. Wife, muse, saviour, and general bringer of sense. She told him, quite rightly, to get back in the bloody studio and reminded him that the magic ingredient wasn’t the eyeliner or the eyeliner or even the eyeliner, it was Numan himself. Not the persona. The person.
The result? Splinter (Songs From A Broken Mind). A comeback album that doesn’t just flirt with relevance, it kicks the doors in. After decades in the critical wilderness, this is the first record since the early ‘80s that can stand shoulder to shoulder with his golden run. And shockingly, it’s phenomenal.
This isn’t just a comeback; it’s a public breakdown set to music. The backdrop? Four years of crippling depression and a marriage on the brink. But instead of drowning in it, Numan weaponises his despair, channelling it into an album that hits hard. This isn’t synth nostalgia; it is industrial catharsis. You get the sense that writing this record didn’t just save his career; it might’ve saved him, too.
Live, the Splinter material is thunderous. The stage is draped in LED monoliths pulsing in time with the music like a dystopian disco. “Here in the Black” slinks out like a liturgy to some forgotten god, abandoned, rage-filled in a dark basement. The bass doesn’t so much drop as detonate. Then there’s “Lost”, the aching, broken centrepiece of the set. Numan sings it like he’s still barely holding on, because he probably is. It’s raw, unvarnished and… human.
Of course, the classics are still in rotation. “I Die: You Die” makes a gloriously bitter appearance, the synth-pop equivalent of flipping the bird to every hack who ever dismissed him. It still bites. And the crowd, a mix of lifers, goths, and new converts, roars along like it’s holy scripture.
But make no mistake, this isn’t a nostalgia tour. This is reclamation. Numan isn’t just back. He’s here. He’s present. He’s making music that doesn’t just nod to his legacy, it builds on it, brick by jagged, pulsating brick.
The “Numan” is back in Gary Numan. And he might just be better than ever.