Going to a Gary Numan show is a special event. If you know that Gary Numan made a world-obsessing hit and then scads of influential and vital material deep into five decades later, well then you know that you’re going to witness a living improvisational documentary of the essential synth as it applies to the roots of Electronic, Industrial, TechHouse, EDM, PC Music, Drum and Bass, and a million granular sub-genres of popular culture since the beginning. Stop trying to interrupt. I’m talking about Gary Numan.
Before the show even starts, I’ve lost my mates. It’s dark, and everyone is a 40–50-year-old white man in jeans and a black skiing jacket. I’m not bragging when I say if any of us stuck out, it would be me. I mean I’m still wearing jeans and a black skiing jacket, but I’m weird-looking at least.
It’s opener Tremours’ first Montreal show. Lauren Andino’s Mazzy Star vocals float atop Echo and the Bunnymen riffs and propulsive ride and tom patterns. Pretty solid two-piece act. They are very welcome here any time.
So, I don’t know how to say this without sounding incredibly stupid. But Gary Numan is about seven times cooler than I thought he would be. It took until the bridge of his second song to touch his synth. And when he did, the place went from fireworks to a bomb dropped on the building.
Aura.
He wails like the Gollum of Bowie. Intense and cunning in his voice, choosy over the delivery of every word, us barely making it out because of the sheer volume.
He dances like a ballet prodigy who couldn’t be bothered once he found out he couldn’t wear the type of makeup he really wanted on stage. A gangly teenager dancing like he’s got multiple untreated fractures has floated in the gap in front of me. He is in his happy place. A body unsure of what dancing really is but dead set on moving to the motorik rhythm. Good for him. High school is tough. Escape in the music, dancer boy. Oh well, it turns out he’s got silver hair poking out the neckhole at the back of his black NIN T-shirt, and actually his Calvin and Hobbes haircut is spiky, and he’s got a wedding ring, and he’s 58. Even better. Get your freak on, bro, I’m here for it.
The guitar and bass players’ holocaust frocks are on loan from Billy Corgan, and they look and stand and sway very cool. No wonder, I think they are on loan from Brandi Carlile’s band. Unless 6’3 pale bald twins on stringed instruments is a career path now. Yes, they look and sound very cool. As soon as I think that thought, it is revealed that “Steve” is playing his 700th show with the band. Well, his dress looks incredibly billowy and comfortable. Happy 700th show, “Steve.”
I bet Steve has stilts under his skirt.
You see where James Murphy got a lot of his swag from. Trent Reznor must have been influenced early and fed back into Gary’s sound. I hear Moby and Underworld and Devo and Dépêche Mode and the Gorillaz. I hear so much, but it’s all him. So much would not exist without this man. Or would not have been the same.
Gary’s daughter comes out and a volcanic song I will get the title of later. It belongs on a big Hollywood blockbuster soundtrack. It really feels disruptive.
Predictably, “Cars” comes on and the roof blows off. It sounds louder and more vital than ever. He sounds however old he was when he recorded, which is a crazy far cry from his grizzled two-pack-a-day speaking voice in between songs.
Marvellous.
I really like how the stage is set up. Gary in the middle, bass to the right (my right, Gary’s left), drums back and further right. Guitar and synth on the left. It’s a balanced stage, but you hardly ever see a four- or five-musician lineup without having the drums straight up the middle. A small difference maybe, but it literally and figuratively skews the experience and adds to the unique feeling.
Oh, nearing the end of the set, Gary actually does something a little goofy. He holds his guitar up like a trophy in between some poses. Adorable, let’s see if he actually plays the guitar. I’m hoping he doesn’t, I think that’s cool again, not goofy. Oh no, he does play the guitar, but there’s no sound, so double goofy. Double goofy Gary. You were doing so great all show too.
Oh, maybe I hear the Gary guitar now. Mixing is hard.
And that’s the thing about Gary Numan. You walk in knowing the legend and somehow still leave with your ceiling raised. A man who has been doing this since before half the room was born, still finding new rooms inside the same songs, still commanding a stage like he invented the concept and is mildly annoyed no one else has figured it out yet. The set ends and the lights come up, and everyone in their black ski jackets shuffles back into the Montreal night a little different than when they came in. Even the 58-year-old Calvin and Hobbes dancer. Even me. Especially me.
Keep coming back, Gary. Montreal loves you 7/10
Review – Mike Rogers
Photos – Ryan Rumpel
