149. Gary Numan

LCR Norwich

23 September 2016

There is not much I can write in these pages about Gary Numan that have not already been written. Then, some gigs aren’t just about the music. Sometimes they’re about who you share them with. This one started, improbably enough, with a business deal, in Norwich. Somewhere amid the long hours in negotiation rooms, I found a kindred spirit, a fellow music obsessive and a fellow soul who also managed to thrive in the stark harshness of the corporate world, with the heart of a poet.

So here we are, me back in Norwich, on a crisp September night, at the LCR, watching Numan, the man who once soundtracked my teenage years. He arrives in silhouette, wreathed in smoke and strobes, like some post-apocalyptic prophet, still wearing black, still bringing the end times with him. His set is a fierce, hypnotic blend of vintage android anthems and newer, heavier material that owes as much to Trent Reznor as it does to Tubeway Army.

The set is characteristically powerful and propulsive, with a light show that would not look out of place above Wyoming’s Devil’s Tower in a Spielberg film. The bass rearranges several of our organs and Numan himself is stalking the stage like a cyberpunk preacher. He still sounds like the future, but tonight was also about the present, the simple joy of a friendship, and the quiet magic of sharing something loud, dark, and strangely powerful.