The Ecstasy of Sound

Now I don’t know about you but I am very passionate about music. I’m also lucky enough to appreciate all genres of harmonic sound, but it would seem that the electronically produced variety is my all-time favourite.

The late eighties was the era that introduced me to the joys of synth, also known as a sound synthesiser, it’s an electronic musical instrument that imitates other instruments, or indeed creates new timbres of noise. It may not be to everyone’s taste, but as a child of the eighties there was something about it that really appealed to me, setting it above and apart from the other genera. I found myself fascinated by the fact that an electrical instrument, such as a keyboard or even a fingerboard device, could produce such a vast array of sounds.

It was about the same time in discovering this synthesised music that I heard Gary Numan playing on the radio; I didn’t know it then, but I would later grow up to find myself an avid fan of his. It was almost two decades subsequently, when I followed Nine Inch Nails on their Wave Goodbye concerts of 2009, that I was surprised by an accompanying guest performance of Numan upon NIN’s stage. It turned out to be one of the most memorable moments of my life, and consequentially the onset of my glide into a world of Numanoid fandom.

The poverty of previously being both a student and unemployed is not a good thing if you’re a music fan however; because of course trying to follow your musical heroes around the UK needs an abundant supply of cash. But I am a stringent saver; often foregoing essential things just to save enough money for my live music lust. This saving, to my delight, has allowed me to witness some of the most magnificent performances of my life. I have seen over one hundred live performances now, at numerous venues spanning across three countries, and I am very, very thankful to have done so.

After a performance it’s often hard to put into words the wonderful feelings that have manically soared through me at the time. However, I will endeavor to describe some of the joys that an often soulless person like me is capable of feeling, when faced with something that they so copiously care about.

I can’t speak for others; I don’t know how they feel, but here I describe the brilliant and exhilarating emotions that a very special performance by Gary Numan at the Eventim Apollo, Hammersmith, has honoured me with.

On a cold damp evening, Friday 28^th November 2014, I drifted into the meandering queue of awaiting Numanoids.  Dressed in my typical black attire, and a lovingly homemade tee shirt, I stood at ease like a person finding herself amongst old friends, and certainly there were a few familiar faces from previous gigs.

Huddled up and smiling we gathered slowly in number, chatting to strangers like they were family and trying our best to keep warm. People of all walks of life could be found here, from new fans to old, from goths to granddads, Numan has a fanbase that spans across the decades, pop stars come and go like shooting stars in the night, but Gary Numan’s following burns forever brightly.

At six-thirty the doors swung open, and having arrived fairly early, like a die-hard fan is apt to, I didn’t have to wait too long. I shuffled into the stunning venue that is the Apollo; blue glow sticks in one hand and a chilled bourbon from the bar in the other. It was a first here for me, for although I’ve been to many venues this one I had not, and it was every bit as grand as I’d imagined. Ornate ceilings and plasterwork, deftly painted stalls and fixtures; the iconic 1932 building’s art deco design was traditionally and perfectly restored.

Being short in stature and covertly determined, I made my way to my usual front and centre position and gazed at the stage before me. It’s a strange feeling entering a somewhat empty auditorium and turning your head an hour later to find that thousands have gathered behind you. It’s also quaintly reassuring to know that everyone is there for just the same reason as you; to watch the performance and thoroughly enjoy themselves.

For this particular gig there were just three or four rows of other fans in front of me so my view was moderately decent, even if my camera was a lump of rubbish – I must really invest in a decent gig camera! So, slowly sipping my drink I observed the stage being set up for the opening act; Gang of Four. There is always a huge build up at any gig you attend for the main act to arrive; regrettably the opening gig is often criticised heavily because of this. They are condemned by the impatient, those people who can’t wait for the main act to start, who shout and hurl abuse at the opening act; there’s always at least one of those unprincipled people in a crowd. I’m a great believer in giving the opening act my respect, even if I do actually care more about the following act. This is because the openers are so often chosen by the main act, and if the band I worship loves the opening act then I believe they’ve already got my admiration.

So we wait. Wait. Wait. In the moments after the opening act have left the stage you not only feel the excitement grow in its intensity but you can hear it too. Conversations grow louder, people become ecstatically anxious, every time a technician flashes a row of lights or a billow of smoke bursts from the fog machines, you ask yourself is this it, is this the moment?

And then the moment comes.

Your heartbeat quickens. The stage is curtained in a cloud of smoke, the stage lights are shining, the crowd is roaring in unison, going wild, the music throbs like a pulse through the air around you, the smoke clears and there he is. This person who you’ve had singing into your ears all those months, those years, this person who’s written lyrics that make your heart race and the hairs on your arms stand on end, he’s there stood in front of you. There is an adrenaline surge and the wait is over, I’m really here, this is it.  A static buzz flows through your veins like electricity and the performance begins.

Although I maybe ranting and sound somewhat unhinged, I’ve never been one of those obsessed, or I supposedly creepy fans; I am a fan who feels an absolute admiration for an artist and their work, who appreciates it and moreover is grateful for it.  Gary Numan had been ill that night, he could have so easily cancelled, but it was quite obvious that he wanted to be there just as much as his fans did. It has become all too common to see an artist perform for the sake of performing, if that even makes sense. What I’m trying to say is that Gary Numan didn’t just perform for the sake of showmanship, he went out there and he gave it his all because he wanted to and because he appreciated his fans just as they appreciate him. Even with a sore throat his performance was astounding.

The crowd, the fans, we became one and we sang our hearts out, united, beatifically happy. The super-charged sounds of synth, electric guitar, drums and the mixing desk, floated out across the elated audience. The sublime bass vibration of certain songs making you bounce with energy, the wonderfully bleak and haunting melodies of other songs taking your breath away and filling you with a beautiful sadness.

Every single bit of a performance is uniquely important, from the mesmerising light show to the assortment of effect pedals, everything is put together with expert knowledge and it only adds to your enjoyment. I so often fear that the backstage guys - and girls – are overlooked, but I am always secretly appreciative of their labours. 

When Gary Numan picked up his electro-acoustic guitar and began to play a rarely performed song, Jo the Waiter, the emotion of the crowd swelled like the big black sea. It was a glorious feeling, smiles and sensations of gratitude. Gary appeared to shed a tear; we all cried and clapped with joy. Before we knew it the finale songs were being played, the cheers and effort reached a new pinnacle and we gave our thanks along with our idol as the lights dimmed down and our applause began to fade.

So it was over. A sort of tranquil melancholy washed over me. My heart felt peaceful. My soul felt cleansed. I took one last look at the empty stage and turned my back upon it. The show may be over but the memories of it will stay with me forever.