THE PRINCIPAL PLEASURE OF BEING GARY NUMAN

Gary Numan is a nice guy. Seriously. And what I want to know—and what he wants to know, too, though he’s probably too polite to ask—is why do people pick on him?

Anyone who noticed Gary Numan’s U.S. television debut on Saturday Night Live probably couldn’t help laughing a little. While the lyrics to “Praying To The Aliens” flashed onscreen, character-generated under what appeared to be the most characterless performer ever seen, Numan croaked to some long-lost Rodan soundtrack and sane viewers either scratched their heads or laughed. There was no middle ground.

Personally, Gary Numan makes me laugh. Not because I think he and his music are stupid; I really don’t think he’s any more stupid than tongue-in-cheek odes to rock lobotomies or, for that matter, rock lobsters. Not because he and his stage demeanor resemble David Bowie circa Station To Station straight down to the stage lighting, though I’m sure young Gary will deny this to his dying day. And not because I’ve seen two prepubescent girls pick up his “Cars” 45 at a record store and imitate the Numan croak, laughing all the way to the cash register.