For years, Gary carried these school memories around without a clear explanation for them. Ordinary conversation is still not easy for him. Eye contact is one part he has never found natural. He has said he counts the seconds while looking at someone, because he had to work out for himself what feels normal to other people.
He also missed social signals for a long time. In the studio he could turn down another musician's idea flatly, with no softening at all, and people read that as arrogance rather than what it actually was - a plain, direct way of speaking.
His wife, Gemma, changed a lot of this. She has a brother with Asperger's, and she started noticing the same patterns in Gary not long after they met. She began explaining things after the fact: why a comment had landed badly, what someone's face had actually meant, when a joke wasn't the right response. Sometimes she would give him a small signal, a touch under the table, before he said something that might come out wrong.
His stage persona grew out of the discomfort. Early in his career he had no idea how a performer was supposed to move or connect with a crowd, and the anxiety of it was real. Instead of faking an ease he didn't feel, he built a still, distant, almost mechanical character. Audiences read it as science-fiction cool. It was really stage fright, turned into something he could wear.