OK, two small things.
Well, that is to say, two small things after having walked even further from the venue entrance to the security gate than from the tube to the venue, stood in a meandering queue for a further ten minutes, and eventually traversed [successfully, I might add] the sort of screening process usually only reserved for the White House or major international airports.
Yep, two small things after all that – though in fairness, I guess it’s the very least any of us can do to bid farewell to a band who have illuminated our lives for fifty years. To fully experience [and trust me, it is an experience] the extraordinary sounds and visions of which they and only they are capable. Come to think of it, it’s a privilege to even be here at all: many of my closest friends are not, though I think a few might be in the house tomorrow. Which brings me neatly back to those two things.
Firstly, I have to briefly pinch myself to check that I am indeed here and I’m not imagining this entire concert- yes, that’s right, you heard me, CONCERT, not gig – as part of some fevered dream. Right, that’s that out of the way then. Secondly, having now determined that I AM actually here [as is indeed my colleague, Jimmy Rowland of UberRock magazine] my next task is to remove both jackets [ie, the one I actually wear, and the overcoat in which I now have to carry all my medical supplies ever since the 02 Group started exploiting the threat of terrorism to make you pay £10 for a bag drop] proudly display my vintage Abacab jumper [ironic, as it’s one of the few albums ENTIRELY unrepresented in the set] sit back, take a deep breath, and come to terms with the enormity of this situation.
Because, er….I’m about to watch GENESIS.
I’ll repeat that for the benefit of anyone who didn’t hear me: GENESIS. No, not the Musical Box, The Watch or G2, great though all of them are: the actual band, for real, for the first time since 1992 [OK, there have been two other tours since then, but I somehow managed to miss both of them] and, more importantly, for the last time ever. [Aaah, but is it? We’ll come to that one later…] In the interests of further reiteration, no, NOT Pendragon either: not IQ, not Yes, Carl Palmer’s ELP Legacy, Caravan, Pallas, The Enid, Porcupine Tree or Fish. Gimme a fucking break, not even you, Steve bloody Hogarth and Mariddlywoke. GENESIS. Collins, Banks, Rutherford, Steurmer. The big kahuna- and, with the possible exception of Roger Waters, THE most high-profile act I’ve ever reviewed. And apparently, they want to read it as well- not that I’m shitting my pants at the prospect or anything….
Actually, come to think of it, I DID review one other superstar, at Hyde Park a few years ago- but that doesn’t really count, given that he’s the singer in this band anyway. Yes, him. I’m talking, of course, about the one and only Philip Collins: within the last 40 years, possibly THE most divisive performer bar Morrissey or Chris DeBurgh, and to one contingent of the Genesis fanbase [we’ll touch on that later as well] the cheeky-chappie drummer who became an overnight pop star and thusly ‘ruined’ the band, dragging them kicking and screaming into the world of suit-wearing yuppiedom [and multi-platinum record sales] Allegedly a Tory [except he isn’t, and even if he was, shouldn’t that be his own fucking business?] and a man who once dumped his missus by fax [again, ENTIRELY untrue, though that never stopped the wankier sections of the music press from repeatedly parroting it] he practically epitomised throughout my youth the very essence of ‘the man they love to hate’: yet on the other side of the divide, you’ll find just as many who respect and admire him. And I’m one of them.
Quite possibly because, underneath all that media bullshit, there’s a LOT to admire. Phil Collins the musician, the exemplary drummer and songwriter with a background in jazz-fusion and one of the most distinctive voices in rock: Phil Collins the geezer from ‘Aaaaahnslow, West Laaaahndaaaahn, a salt of the earth working-class [quite unlike his Charterhouse-educated bandmates] bloke who has consistently presented, ever since first stepping out from behind his drumkit to replace his errant bandmate Peter Gabriel in 1976, the living face of an affable, likeable, yet charismatic frontman. If you don’t believe me, vada the Lyceum bootleg DVD from 1980’s Duke tour: THAT, duckie, is the real Phil, not the [again, alleged] cokehead who hung out with royalty and played Buster Edwards. Such a decent cove was he, apparently, that when he undertook a series of club gigs in the late 90s as the drummer of his then-recently-reformed fave band [60s mod/freakbeat legends The Action] he charged little or no money for his efforts: having never forgotten what it was like to be a fan, he simply wanted, after years of performing in sold-out arenas to legions of screaming, baying devotees, to play with his hero, Reggie King. And he got to.
So, personally, I rather like the chap. Which is why, naturally, it’s a little disheartening to see him as he is now, wizened and frail, sat sage-like in his swivel-chair [although to be fair, he does walk to and from it with the aid of a stick, so he’s still relatively independent] quite obviously in a certain degree of pain, and though still more than able to handle all lead vocals, completely unable to do the one thing [I mean play the drums, you dirty sods] he enjoys more than anything else. Which, to literally add insult to injury, just happens to be the thing he once used to do better than anyone else – the sole exception being, of course, his one-time co-percussionist Chester Thompson [latterly replaced in this lineup by the ailing singer’s young son Nic]
As for precisely WHY this is, a whole plethora of half-explanations and hearsay [untreated spinal injury, drop foot, lack of confidence, depression, self-medication via a decade-plus of vodka abuse] abounds, but of one thing we can be in NO doubt: these three London shows [tomorrow marking the end of the run] which have been postponed and rescheduled more often over the last two years than Burton and Taylor divorced and remarried in two whole decades, are the last he will ever perform with any band. Which, naturally, means tonight’s performance is charged from start to finish with a mixture of poignancy, reflection and emotion. Be fair, how could it be anything but?
Sure, it’s also very much a ‘party’ for all present: the sheer joy that throbs from every note of triple-pronged opener Behind The Lines/ Duke’s End/ Turn It On Again proves that from the off, and the tongue-in-cheek audience participation sections that prefix epic set-pieces Home By The Sea/ Second Home By The Sea and Domino – both backed, incidentally, by some of the most breathtaking animations I’ve ever seen – demonstrate that despite his drastically altered state, the great man has lost almost none of his natural warmth and bonhomie. He’s also lost, despite what certain reports may suggest, little of his vocal range: sure, it’s deeper and more nasal now [as ANYONE of 71’s voice would be, spinal injury or not] and yes, he skirts around and speaks certain phrases [particularly on Mama, a song he should be congratulated for attempting anyway] while receiving noticeable support on the higher, longer notes by two capable backing singers, but from pretty much start to finish, he still sounds like the same Phil – albeit maybe an older and more reflective version thereof – that we’ve always known. Moreover, he clearly still loves playing for us: as he states early on, “we are Genesis, and we’re here to entertain you” Lovely boy…
Indeed, on both Duchess and No Son Of Mine, his presence is more commanding than ever – something undoubtedly assisted by the placing of his staring visage and tightly gripped mike at dead-centre of the main screen. Not that the set-up in any way devotes an unfair amount of time to him: granted, as the least able-bodied member of the band, some extra focus must be accorded, but there’s still plenty of space for several shots of principal songwriter Tony Banks [as ever, hunkered intently down weaving magic tapestries from behind his plethora of synths and sequencers] a craggy, distinguished Mike Rutherford and an ever-smooth Daryl Steurmer. With the former guitarist’s subtle, echoey minmalism set perfectly alongside the latter’s exemplary jazz-fusion widdly [most noticeably on Firth Of Fifth, where he uncannily replicates Hackett’s classic solo whilst at the same time adding a discordant ECM-style tone of his own] it’s a perfect combination: and on what for me is the set’s centrepiece [a dramatic conjoining of Fading Lights, the instrumental section of The Cinema Show and possibly the band’s quintessential post-Gabriel song Afterglow] all three instrumentalists are astounding. As, for that matter, is the increasingly confident Collins Jr: if ever ‘chip off the old block’ were an apt description of any musician, it’s surely him, and in their glances toward one another, the love and kinship between father and son is touchingly evident.
However, what’s also very much evident [and unfortunately so] is that even now, in this internet-savvy, fashion-unconscious age where entire back catalogues can be downloaded at one click of a mouse, there is STILL a massive divide between the ‘two principal types’ of Genesis fan. The yin and the yang, the real and the Rael: the eternal twain that refuses to meet. Oh, sure, there are plenty who do know the entire back catalogue verbatim: also, most fans born after 1990 won’t have grown up with the same fixed prejudices my generation had about musical genres, so to them, the join is invisible. But for others, though, there’s still a huge chasm- and nowhere is this better demonstrated than when ten sinister-looking, black-clad roadies suddenly run on and slide out a mini-stage within the existing one, thereby preparing us for the acoustic section.
Because now, away from all the blare, pomp and cicumstance of the lights and projections, the songs must speak to the crowd directly- and while everyone knows That’s All, and most seem to recognise Follow You Follow Me [the song which perhaps more than any other marks the ‘crossover’ point of the band’s career] only roughly half the audience choose to sing along with Collins as he proffers the mike for the chorus of The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway. Admittedly, that might be because they’re unfamiliar with its new, bossa-jazz arrangement, but I’m not fully convinced this is the case: and, as if to confirm my doubts, the very same dichotomy raises its head again during I Know What I Like/Stagnation [still possibly, other than the Floyd’s Arnold Layne, the best song about a sexual deviant ever penned] with the chorus and the frontman’s tambourine-forehead-interface chant section both garnering a fair quota of participants, but the “me, I’m just a lawnmower” line [at one time, possibly THE most enthusiastically yelled in-concert lyric of any rock band] eliciting little or no response from between 15 and 25,000 people.
And that’s more than a little disconcerting – especially given how some twenty minutes later, entire swathes of hitherto stoic punters suddenly leap to their feet for the titanic triumvirate of yacht-tastic candyfloss that is Throwing It All Away [though that does at least feature some fascinating backdrops of vintage concert footage and cassette artwork, another sublime addition from Patrick Woodroffe] Tonight Tonight Tonight and Invisible Touch. Seriously [or should that be ‘but seriously’?} if they’d served Spritzers at the bar, there’d have been a queue a mile long: even the aforesaid Domino [to my mind, still one of their most stunning works, and a masterful example of how to fashion an upbeat song from downbeat subject matter] doesn’t cause THAT sort of reaction, and that‘s off the same album. Then again, at 10 minutes plus, it’s still prog: maybe the gazillions of people that bought the album in ’87 always skipped it on their CD players? It was very much the start of ‘that’ era after all [see also under Brothers In Arms]
Alternatively, perhaps I shouldn’t fall into the same trap of snobbery for which I regularly chastise others: at the end of the day, we’re ALL here because we love and adore Genesis in whatever form. Besides, Land Of Confusion [briefly prefaced by Collins’ verbal dismantling of ‘that stupid cunt’ Putin] is still a perfect call to arms for any troubled generation: its infamous Spitting Image video may now be replaced by topical shots of deserted streets and faceless, masked droid-men, but they in turn are ultimately supplanted by bouncing beachballs of hope and optimism [quite unlike the recent video to That Fucking Godawful Marillion Single] and as the singer implores “use them and let’s start trying to make this a world worth living in” you can only hope that SOMEBODY somewhere soon tries to. And yes, the chorus to the aforementioned …Touch DOES sound like “she seems to have an invisible tough shit”, but remember, it could be worse: as far as misheard lyrics are concerned, at least this lot never implored you to live inside someone’s arse like the Scorpions, ran away from someone’s cock like Renaissance, asked a member of the cast of Taxi to hold them closer like Elton John or instructed Bill Oddie to put his hands all over their body a la Madonna. Small mercies and all that.
Plus, it has to be noted that when the encore finally rolls round, the mainstream fans who go apeshit for I Can’t Dance – not a bad song by any means, in fact if anything it’s closest resemblance is to late 70s Bad Co – do show the same recognition for the closing duet of Dancing With The Moonlit Knight/ Carpet Crawlers. For some reason, everyone, not just us old proggers, seems to know these two [have they been in a film?] and though Collins still only sings the first verse of the former [as he’s pretty much been doing for 42 years] its brief reign is nonetheless met with quiet, beautiful reverence. As the wistful, half-remembered line “perhaps he’s drowned….selling England by the pound” fades into the cascading keyboard arpeggio that heralds the latter tune, I [by now risen from my seat in pure admiration] start to feel quite tearful: this, folks, is the end.
OK, they’re doing it again tomorrow, but I won’t be here to witness it: personally, this is THE last time I will ever see Collins perform this song in the company of the two blokes from Surrey with whom he’s played for over 50 years and the dude from Milwaukee who’s been there for nearly 45, and the more the he pleadingly intones about “staircases that spiral out of sight” and “the tickler taking his stickleback back back back”, the more every hair on my back stands on end. As if that weren’t moving enough, the mantra-like repetition of the line “we got to get in to get out” across the arena chillingly reminds me that this is PRECISELY what Collins will soon be doing: just as he got in in 1971, he’s getting out in 2022, and as he, Banks and Rutherford take their final bowed embrace, and his bald pate slowly disappears down the stage steps to fuck-knows-where, it’s extremely hard not to blub like a burst syphon. No more fannying about: this time, 10 40 pm tomorrow night, it’s Goodnight Greenwich. That’s All. The Last Domino.
Or is it?
For Collins, undoubtedly. This isn’t a sales ploy or a marketing strategy: this is retirement time. OK, he might make another album at some stage – he’s not THAT old – and reinvent himself as a purely studio-bound musician ala Andy Partridge [which would in itself be ironic, as the two musicians shared the same producer during their early ’80s heyday] but as far as touring goes, there is no way whatsoever he will ever be physically up to it again, irrespective of Rutherford’s comments in the 2020 rehearsal documentary. In fact, one has to question whether, had this tour not been delayed by umpteen pandemic-related obstacles, he’d have gotten through it all in one go. So for him, it’s home to Miami, and a well-deserved, well fucking-earned rest. And good luck to him.
But for the others? Let’s look at this logically and financially for a moment.
Despite not having toured for some time himself, Peter Gabriel still remains very much the epitome of the ‘thinking man’s’ rock musician: a champion of world music and video technology and the creator of a chain of critically-acclaimed series of albums that successfully surfed the punk wave and came out the other side. And in this post-modern age, he’s practically an icon all over again [something in no way hindered by his appearances in The Life Of Rock With Brian Pern, a witty parody of his career written by and starring Day] Meanwhile, Rutherford, flanked by personality bandmates/co-writers Andrew Roachford and Clark Datchler, still leads his Mechanics, specialising in top-quality AOR: Steve Hackett, following his departure in 1977 after Wind And Wuthering, has never ceased producing a stream of challenging, exciting releases that edge closest to the band’s original prog sound, and since he started playing more Genesis material in his set this century [to the point of even hiring a Gabriel-alikey frontman in the shape of Nad Sylvan] his ticket sales have [inevitably] skyrocketed.
Elsewhere, Steurmer and Thompson have always enjoyed active careers in the jazz-fusion world and still do: original guitarist Ant Phillips has made several fine solo records [not least of all the utter mantelpiece that is Wise After The Event] from which he still continues to derive a sizeable cult following, and errant 1990s frontman Ray Wilson continues to gig regularly with both his own band and his former group Stiltskin. Hell, even former lighting and sound man Richard Macphail is out busily touring the book circuit, often making appearances at Hackett shows to plug his compendious tome on his tenure with the group.
But what about Tony Banks?
Principal songwriter and bandleader he may have been, and granted, he’s obviously not short of a few million- but with the exception of three comparatively poor-selling solo albums, two short-lived ‘spinoff’ bands and three even-lower profile classical recordings, he’s never enjoyed the fame or recognition of the others. OK, maybe he likes it that way: at least he can [probably] still walk around his home town without getting mobbed, and for many a celebrity, such privacy is very important. However, with Rutherford and Hackett both constantly on tour, Collins now permanently out of the picture and Gabriel off to Jibrovia on an expedition to teach Gumabnese pygmies tantric flotation duckhurdling [NB: this is a guess, not an actual description] I personally wouldn’t blame the keyboardist for feeling just a little redundant and frustrated.
Granted, he has a lovely wife and two adult children, a nice big house, and all the ever-replenishing money he could possibly wish for – so, unless his fortunes are subsiding for some other reason beknownst only unto himself [and if they are, that only makes my next point even more pertinent] he’s FAR from destitute. Yet he’s also a musician and a performer at heart, with a musician and performer’s desires: and at this late stage, when it’s effectively too late to start afresh with a new band, there’s really only one thing [barring retirement, obviously] that most artists in his position can do. Which is why, now that this Genesis has come to an end, it would make perfect sense, both financially and creatively, for the other Genesis – to whit, Banks, Rutherford, Hackett, Gabriel and ‘Mystery Drummer’ – to take one last turn around the floors of the world.
Oh, sure, you may scoff. Many already have. But I’m NOT the only one who thinks this- and right as we speak, would-they-wouldn’t-they debates are being held all over the net. Sure, undeniably, there’s the contention that it wouldn’t shift as many units as it did with Phil [which is utter ballcocks- it would most probably gross more than Gabriel, Hackett and Rutherford currently earn from their solo careers combined, ESPECIALLY as it hasn’t been done since 1982’s rain-logged ‘Six Of The Best’ event] and that Peter has always stated emphatically he has no further interest in that material. But equally, there’s also the school of thought that says [a] Steve obviously loves playing the stuff, otherwise he wouldn’t keep booking endless Seconds Out and Foxtrot tours: [b] Mike’s such a nice bloke he could easily be swayed into anything: [c] PG’s resistance would crumble now that PC’s gone, especially as it’s been years since he did anything of worth: and that [d] Tony, even if only on some subconscious emotional level, needs to do it.
Let’s be candid here, it’s his band, he formed it, he lived it, he composed over 60 percent of everything they ever did- so why not revel in the extraordinary music created by its earlier configuration [s] one last time? Plus, most importantly, the players concerned are all still ALIVE. That always helps [look at the Quo’s Frantic Four shows, although tragically two of them have passed since] and to be frank, it’s not something one can say anymore about many of their peers. In fact, as I write this, I’m struggling to think [with the exception of Floyd] of another stadium-level act of that age to whom it could apply.
As for who the ‘mystery drummer’ would be, several names spring to mind, but right now only one seems logical: while Thompson could return, he was never in the band in Pete’s day anyway, and though ex-Dream Theater/Neal Morse skinsman Mike Portnoy would probably cite it as the gig he’s dreamed of all his life, I have the distinct suspicion that he might already be too busy lining up to play with Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson [which, frankly, IS a job only he could do now] to get involved. And, likewise, Gavin Harrison will be far too preoccupied with the reformed Porcupine Tree. Which therefore leaves Nic Collins- seeing as he’s his father’s son and already technically in the band- as the prime candidate.
But at this point, that’s the least of my considerations: I would just be happy to hear that the other four were in a studio talking [let alone jamming] and that at some stage, I might hear some of the songs I didn’t hear this evening [and a few I did] sung by their original vocalist. And I don’t mean just a ‘Lamb’ show either. Quite frankly, it’s time- and to let that time go by would be a greater crime than all those committed by Liquid Len, The Reverend, Mick The Prick and Harold Demure combined.
However, as things currently stand, all of the above is merely conjecture, nothing more- and a story to be counted out in another time, with Father Tiresias and his carved oak table. It might well not happen at all: the whole idea could prove to be just a pipe dream for optimistic progheads everywhere, with both I, my fellow columnist Mr Rowland and all others of similar inclination ultimately revealed to have been talking complete cobblers. But if we are, and this really IS the end, then at least tonight [and this tour in general] has been more than majestic enough to make it a befitting one. From this lineup, one could not have possibly wished for more: to paraphrase something an old Northern comedian once said to me [I forget what he was actually referring to, but the comparison still holds] “even t’crap bits were great” And they were.
Moreover, as a critic, I think I’m going to have some difficulty topping this: who knows, I may soon start to once more plan – though not at least until the end of 2022 – my own retirement, and look forward to the day when I unleash my last domino upon the printed page. If I do, the fact that tonight, I saw Genesis for [quite possibly] the very last time means it will have not all been in vain.
DARIUS DREWE
midlandmania.wordpress.com 