Throughout Gary Numan's concert I kept expecting a droning metallic voice to break in and explain, "this is a recording... this is a recording..."

Even if it had happened, I'm not sure anyone would have noticed. Most were mesmerized by the stage set, a futuristic affair that perfectly suited Numan's mechanical, synthetic music.

Numan is either 20 years ahead of his time or so far out in left field that two decades from now they'll be laughing at how stupid his music was.

He poses with David Bowie-like aloofness, and even Numan's deadpan voice seems to have been run through the synthesizers that dominate his music. Numan's stark white features and jet black clothing paralleled the sterile precision of the stage and other-worldly atmosphere it created.

It's the stage set-up as much as the music that made Numan's presentation so interesting. On either side of the stage were two hexagonal pillars panelled with vertical rectangles of light. Inside were trapped two keyboard/synthesizer players, and in the background, raided about three metres off the stage were the bass, drum and guitar players (who also double on synthesizer). Stark, multi-colored light continually bathes the set, and the patterns are timed to coincide precisely with the music - not only as part of the beat, but to accentuate the cold, calculated mood. Ultimately, the lights became an integral part of the music. Everything Numan does is synthesizer oriented. In the long run the music is boring. Dull.

Perverse Intensity

But to an extent the sound is captivating in its perverse intensity, the computer rhythms creating a feeling of dread, like some musical hell where the drums crash on and on into eternity while the drone of synthesizers echoes in the background.

Numan simply wanders about the stage, staring down at the audience, mugging occasionally, for all the world a programmed robot, more a technician than a musician. The music has no real beginning or end, always fading in or out and in a constant state of flux.

Underneath Numan's music lies an incessant mechanical heartbeat, the synthesizers adding a fluid life and body, and Numan's vocals the precise, critical cerebral element. But no soul. No feeling.

Still, Numan must be approached and appreciated on his own grounds. The music is curious, even fascinating for its approach: Impersonal, yet reaching out for a distant emotive level that music seldom attempts to capture.

Numan is like a hypnotist, trying to draw out a deep perversion, something the conscious mind keeps closely guarded. And it only takes a glimpse, a mere fraction of a moment, to make it real.