210. Gary Numan

Electric Ballroom

13 April 2023

There are few venues in London with a pulse as storied as The Electric Ballroom, the grand old dame of Camden High Street, still standing proud while half the capital’s live music history has been turned into co-working spaces and artisanal doughnut shops. Run for nearly a century by the same family, the Fullers; now run by the daughter of the original owner. It’s one of those rare places that still can genuinely lay claim to being an integral part of rock history. Everyone from Joy Division to Prince to The Clash have rattled these walls, and tonight, it was Gary Numan’s turn to light the place up once again.

This gig had that rare feeling of coming full circle. Numan, the High Priest of the Synth Apocalypse, playing in a venue that’s seen it all and somehow still hasn’t collapsed into the Northern Line.

My best friend and I started the evening in classic fashion, dinner and drinks at The Spread Eagle pub, just across the street from the famed Dublin Castle. As showtime neared we decided to migrate upward to the balcony for some breathing space. That’s when I spotted it, a roped-off section. I turned to my friend and whispered: “Just walk through like you own the place. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t stop.” We did. And somehow, it worked. One second we were casual ticket-holders, the next we were in the Numan friends and family section, overlooking the stage.

To add to the surrealism, the support act turned out to be none other than Numan’s daughter, Raven, who strutted on stage like she’d been raised under strobe lights: all goth-burlesque attitude, dark cabaret beats, and a confidence that could melt eyeliner. It was moody, theatrical, and surprisingly good; Siouxsie Sioux meets Nine Inch Nails and a touch of nepotism.

Then came the man himself. Numan burst onto the stage in full post-apocalyptic regalia: part desert warrior, part android messiah and his stadium-filling sound hit like a seismic pulse in a venue this small; the Ballroom’s walls and floor were vibrating, and I briefly entertained the concern that we might be exiting this show on the gurney of a search and rescue team.

There’s something extraordinary about seeing Numan in a venue this size. Having conquered Wembley Arena, where we last saw him, here he was returning to the intimate, sweaty chaos of his roots. The lighting rig might have been small, but the sound was monumental: industrial crunch, electronic fury, and those unmistakable dystopian melodies we had seen many times before

At one point I glanced to my right and realised we were standing next to members of his family, including Gemma Numan, cheering and smiling proudly, which made the whole “how the hell did we get in here?” experience even more absurd.

I will not go into the show itself, god only knows there is a lot written about a Numan gig in these pages that needs no more embellishment. As the last notes faded, my friend and I exchanged one of those small, stupid grins that only happen when you know you’ve accidentally blagged your way into something. We had come for the gig, but we’d left as honorary Numans, watching the whole spectacle unfold from the best seats in the house.