Pitchfork

On this, his first notable solo album in years, Gary Numan spirals down a rather demonic goth, spiritual black hole. Exile is comprised of gloom-n-doom hymns for the coming millennium, and possibly, the end of existence itself. It's all incredibly minimal: sampled flecks of sound, programmed bass and drum tracks, with light synthesizer and some occasional treated guitar overlay. Yet the album's narrow breadth, both lyrically and compositionally, is ultimately a hindrance. Exile is less accessible, and complex than Replicas and Telekon, two stellar works of Numan's most creative period.

In one sense, Exile is a very conscious attempt at pledging allegiance to the techno- ruled times. But then, Numan's always been obsessed with technology and artifice. He's traded in his android persona for that of the Dark One himself. At times, he's little more than an atheistic prophet commenting on a world consumed by moral and spiritual vacuity. Take it from Gary, folks, he really has been to Hell and back: in the mid '80s he was exiled from the land of the living. He fell from grace when jettisoned from Mother Earth's fickle pop charts. For a time, he was forced to walk among pop music purgatory's legion of forgotten souls. Now he's returned to the terrestrial fold with newly- found wisdom: God is dead, and Satan rules.

Exile skirts the edges of ambient trip-hop and industrial- goth. In fact, much of the instrumentation hearkens back to early Depeche Mode, as well as the forerunners of ethereal gothcore repetition, the Cocteau Twins. "Dominion Day" opens with the menacing prickle of metallic guitars as Numan laments the universe's inevitable surrender to the hands of evil forces. Numan envisions the final triumph of Satan's smoky underworld over everything good. The Devil makes rallying cries to his demons and disciples: "He's sold us all/ Sold us to the hunger/ The body of Christ is as black as his soul."

True, Numan's never been much of an optimist, yet his dark side has rarely sunk to these murky depths. Has he refashioned himself as a thinking man's Marilyn Manson? Possibly. Exile is funereal, bleak, and without hope. It's the perfect musical companion to a Black Mass, an autopsy, or possibly, the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust.

'80s- mongering earthling trendoids be advised, Exile exists far outside the rabble- friendly new-wave territory of "Cars." Musically, it's a bold, yet somewhat failed experiment in repetitious extremes. If you were, however, given warm fuzzies by albums such as the Cure's wrist- slashing masterpiece Pornography, you may find Numan's Exile tolerable.