Pitchfork

At the time of Telekon's original release in 1980, 22- year- old, self- styled space- case Gary Numan had already become a formidable creative force behind the insurgence of rock's New Wave. He'd built a solid career foundation with influential neo- punksters Tubeway Army, and soon after, he found smashing success as a solo artist with his albums Replicas and The Pleasure Principle-- the latter yielding his classic "Cars." A progenitor and imaginative practitioner of the Moog synthesizer, Numan employs both a mini-Moog and poly-Moog on Telekon, but unlike most of his contemporaries, Numan advanced his use of the synthesizer beyond mere showy, mindless electronic frippery.

On Telekon, Numan is a master texturalist, skilled in creating synth parts that perfectly coalesce and swim melodically around each other; an interplay much like Television innovated in the mid-1970s using guitars. He works wonders with his arsenal of simple synthesizer effects. He also utilizes acoustic piano, and occasionally integrates electric violas, violins, and flecks of distorted rhythm guitar. And he uses this many- sided approach to optimal effect; the piano and synthesizers trade off carrying melody and countermelody, while some Moog parts are used expressly for atmospheric effect or layered to build the rhythmic girth of a song. Numan's ideas no doubt serve as a template of sorts, and many of these compositions have more than withstood the trials of time. Many of today's legions of sample- happy, MIDI- obsessed nerds claim to have learned a thing or two from Numan's intelligent compositional craft.

Unfortunately, few '90s electro-heads could ever hope to match the majestic synthetic sound sculptures Numan created on Telekon. There's the hopelessly catchy opening keyboard figure on "This Wreckage" while the song's lyrics quickly reveal Numan's chronic skepticism and manic- depression. (And what if God's dead/ We must have done something wrong/ This dark facade ends/ We're independent from someone.") His mild nihilism set to lush, pop- inflected sonic backdrops makes for a compelling juxtaposition, and sets the tone for the rest of the album. The stark delicacy of "Please Push No More" features nothing more than Numan's robo-vox accompanied by soft Moog lines seeping over a deceptively simple piano arrangement. There's also an alternate take of the classic "I Die, You Die," and an acoustic piano rendering of "Down In the Park." Lastly, we come upon the gentle "Tres Gymnopedes," one of the most melodious piano/ synth compositions you'll find anywhere this side of Planet Eno.

True, the kitschy, early '80s starman exterior invited many critical misconstructions that Numan was just some insubstantial, image- conscious neo-Trekkie. Yet, under all the otherworldly pomp surrounding Numan's public image, there lingers plenty of pure, sincere artistry. As the '80s progressed, however, Numan undeservedly suffered from the same critical slings and arrows that felled many of his inferior Moog- manipulating contemporaries. Nevertheless, the plastic beauty of Telekon should serve as an important historic reference for the wet- behind- the- ears technoid- rockers of today.