Phil Collins Quotes

In learning you will teach, and in teaching you will learn.

Asleep by the Smiths Vapour Trail by Ride Scarborough Fair by Simon & Garfunkel A Whiter Shade of Pale by Procol Harum Dear Prudence by the Beatles Gypsy by Suzanne Vega Nights in White Satin by the Moody Blues Daydream by Smashing Pumpkins Dusk by Genesis (before Phil Collins was even in the band!) MLK by U2 Blackbird by the Beatles Landslide by Fleetwood Mac Asleep by the Smiths (again!) -Charlie's mixtape

Tonight’s erection is brought to you by the music of Phil Collins. If you’ll put on your gloves, I’ll go fetch it from the freezer.

There was a DJ who stayed up for eleven days straight, the longest recorded period of time anyone has ever gone without sleep, and he started playing nothing by Phil Collins, and that's how they knew it was time to call the ambulance.

By the power of Phil Collins, I rebuke you!” she said. “By the power of Phil Collins, who knows that you coming back to me is against all odds, in his name I command you to leave this servant of Genesis alone... By the power of The Thorn Birds - she cried - by the sacred strength of My Sweet Audrina and Forever... By the power of lost retainers and Jamaica and bad cornrows and fireflies and Madonna, by all these things I rebuke you

Put your faith in what you most believe in.

Love can make you do things that you never thought possible.

Beyond a certain point, the music isn't mine anymore. It's yours.

Creationists, the right-wing Christians, creationists believe every word Genesis says. I don't even think Phil Collins is a good drummer.

Love can make you do things that you never thought possible

In learning we teach and in teaching we learn.

The world is in your hands, now use it.

I'll be there for you always Always and always Just look over your shoulder I'll be there, always.

Just because you sell lots of records it doesn't mean to say you're any good. Look at Phil Collins.

Why can't they understand the way we feel? They just don't trust what they can't explain. I know we're different, but deep inside us we're not that different at all.

Out of raw emotion emerges instinctive truth.

It’s almost an audible thing, really, the way my heart punches against the bones in my chest. It’s like the drum solo in that fucking Phil Collins song, it becomes so all-consuming.

Just look over your shoulder...I'll be there always.

not being able to read music is absolutely liberating for me. It gives me a wider musical vocabulary. There

People hate a break-up, but they love a break-up song.

I'll be there for you, always Always and always Just look over your shoulder I'll be there, always.

Mick Jagger does it and, well, of course he does—he’s Mick. Phil Collins does it and what an arsehole.

I also think that Phil Collins works better within the confines of the group than as a solo artist—and I stress the word artist. In fact it applies to all three of the guys, because Genesis is still the best, most exciting band to come out of England in the 1980s.

The telephone company is urging people not to use the telephone unless it is absolutely necessary, in order to keep the lines open for emergency calls. We'll be right back after this break to give away a pair of Phil Collins concert tickets to caller number 95. -unidentified radio disc jockey after the 1990 Los Angeles earthquake

I wanna know, can you show me I wanna know 'bout these Strangers Like Me Tell me more, please show me Something's familiar 'bout these Strangers Like Me

by Tim O'Brien Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi & Phil Falco e-ISBN: 978-0-545-22993-7 All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of

Well, shall we play Phil the song first?” No one says that.

And now I realize: I was fired. They didn’t disappear to watch football, or do drugs. They were getting rid of me.

It takes some going to live next door to Keith Richards and be classed as the rowdy neighbor. No, I’m not proud.

In the Air Tonight” is 99.9 percent sung spontaneously, the words dreamt up from out of nowhere

It was Duke (Atlantic; 1980), where Phil Collins’ presence became more apparent, and the music got more modern, the drum machine became more prevalent and the lyrics started getting less mystical and more specific (maybe because of Peter Gabriel’s departure), and complex, ambiguous studies of loss became, instead, smashing first-rate pop songs that I gratefully embraced.

When he isn’t drumming with The Who, Moonie seems to like playing barman in La Chasse. I buy a round from him one night, and he gives me back more money than I’d handed over. Another reason to love him.

Because he has a flatmate, I have no option but to share Trevor’s bed. Terrified, I try to sleep, fitfully and fully dressed on top of the blankets. Presently, the fidgeting begins, and soon a hand is creeping over. I’m out of there quicker than you can say “paradiddle.

Do you like Phil Collins? I've been a big Genesis fan ever since the release of their 1980 album, Duke. Before that, I really didn't understand any of their work. Too artsy, too intellectual. It was on Duke where Phil Collins' presence became more apparent. I think Invisible Touch was the group's undisputed masterpiece. It's an epic meditation on intangibility. At the same time, it deepens and enriches the meaning of the preceding three albums. Christy, take off your robe. Listen to the brilliant ensemble playing of Banks, Collins and Rutherford. You can practically hear every nuance of every instrument. Sabrina, remove your dress. In terms of lyrical craftsmanship, the sheer songwriting, this album hits a new peak of professionalism. Sabrina, why don't you, uh, dance a little. Take the lyrics to Land of Confusion. In this song, Phil Collins addresses the problems of abusive political authority. In Too Deep is the most moving pop song of the 1980s, about monogamy and commitment. The song is extremely uplifting. Their lyrics are as positive and affirmative as anything I've heard in rock. Christy, get down on your knees so Sabrina can see your asshole. Phil Collins' solo career seems to be more commercial and therefore more satisfying, in a narrower way. Especially songs like In the Air Tonight and Against All Odds. Sabrina, don't just stare at it, eat it. But I also think Phil Collins works best within the confines of the group, than as a solo artist, and I stress the word artist. This is Sussudio, a great, great song, a personal favorite.

The perfect girl what can I say; to be so close yet, feel miles away. I want to run to her, but have to walk out the door going the other way. The only words spoken to her are- ‘Have a nice day.’ I think about her and the summer, and what it could have been with her. It reminds me of- sixteen, you are on my mind all the time. I think about you. It is like a vision of the stars shining, ribbon wearing, bracelet making, and holding hands forever. All the sunflowers in the hayfields and kissing in the rain, no more brick walls, no more falling teardrops of pain, and no more jigsaw puzzle pieces would remain. True love should not be such a game; does she feel the same. She is everything that I cannot have, and everything I lack. What if every day could be like this- Diamond rings, football games, and movies on the weekends? It is easy to see she belongs to me; she is everything that reminds me of ‘sixteen’ everything that is in my dreams. Everything she does is amazing, but then again, I am just speculating, and fantasizing about Nevaeh Natalie, who just turned the age of sixteen! Nevaeh- I recall my first boy kiss was not at all, what I thought it was going to be like. I was wearing a light pink dress, and flip-flops that were also pink with white daisy flowers printed on them. I loosened my ponytail and flipped out my hair until my hair dropped down my back, and around my shoulders. That gets A guy going every time, so I have read online. He was wearing ripped-up jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. He said that- ‘My eyes sparkled in blue amazement, which was breathtaking, that he never saw before.’ Tell me another line… I was thinking, while Phil Collins ‘Take Me Home’ was playing in the background. I smiled at him, he began to slowly lean into me, until our lips locked. So, enjoy, he kissed me, and my heart was all aflutter. When it happened, I felt like I was floating, and my stomach had butterflies. My eyes fastened shut with no intentions of me doing so during the whole thing. When my eyes unfastened my feelings of touch engaged, and I realized that his hands are on my hips. His hands slowly moved up my waist, and my body. I was trembling from the exhilaration. Plus, one thing led to another. It was sort of my first time, kissing and playing with him you know a boy, oh yet not really, I had gotten to do some things with Chiaz before like, in class as he sat next to me. I would rub my hand on it under the desks- yeah, he liked that, and he would be. Oh, how could I forget this… there was this one time in the front seat of his Ford pickup truck, we snuck off… and this was my first true time gulping down on him, for a lack of a better term. As I had my head in his lap and was about to move up for him to go in me down there, I was about to get on top and let him in me. When we both heard her this odd, yet remarkably loud scream of bloody murder! Ava was saying- ‘You too were going to fuck! What the fuck is going on here? Anyways, Ava spotted us before he got to ‘Take me!

I see your true colours And that's why I love you So don't be afraid to let them show Your true colours

That night, they sat around the hotel room with a bottle of tequila and some salt and limes and talked about names for the new real estate company. A few ideas sprang up right away but got rejected just as fast. A half bottle of tequila later, the name "Real Estate Maximums Incorporated" was tossed around as a possibility. Nobody spoke for a moment because everyone liked it. Maximums meant that everyone would get the most out of the relationship-real estate agents and customers alike. The name did a good job of communicating the everybody wins principle at the heart of the endeavor. But after a few more minutes, they realized it didn't quite work. It wasn't snappy enough for a good brand name, and it was too long to fit on a real estate sign. More tequila got poured. No one could come up with another name that felt as on-target as Real Estate Maximums. Someone suggested shortening it to R. E. Max. That made it snappier and appealing in a brand name sense; but when you wrote it out, it looked too much like a real person's name. You could imagine junk mail arriving at the office in care of Mr. and Mrs. R. E. Max. Collins pointed out that Exxon had formed only a few years before, and the X with a slash through it looked very smart. So Liniger took out the dots and tried a slash through the middle of the word and then capitalized all the letters. They looked at the pad of paper and saw: RE/MAX. A silence came over them, followed by a few backslaps and cheers. Everything about the word looked exactly right, as though they were talking about an established global company. Now, what about colors? They were on a roll. Now was no time to stop. A few more shots of tequila went around while they debated the right look for the new RE/MAX. It didn't take long to figure it out: Everyone in the room was a Vietnam vet and patriotic to the core. The colors, of course, had to be red, white, and blue. When they considered the whole package, they knew they had it. And that's how the idea for the distinctive RE/MAX brand was hatched. Considering the time and resources that get poured into brand development today, their methods might seem unorthodox if admirably effective. No money was spent on advertising agencies, market research, or trademark protection. The only investment was a decent bottle of tequila; the only focus group, a bunch of guys sitting around a room having a good laugh.

Today’s Children, The Woman in White, and The Guiding Light crossed over and interchanged in respective storylines.) June 2, 1947–June 29, 1956, CBS. 15m weekdays at 1:45. Procter & Gamble’s Duz Detergent. CAST: 1937 to mid-1940s: Arthur Peterson as the Rev. John Ruthledge of Five Points, the serial’s first protagonist. Mercedes McCambridge as Mary Ruthledge, his daughter; Sarajane Wells later as Mary. Ed Prentiss as Ned Holden, who was abandoned by his mother as a child and taken in by the Ruthledges; Ned LeFevre and John Hodiak also as Ned. Ruth Bailey as Rose Kransky; Charlotte Manson also as Rose. Mignon Schrieber as Mrs. Kransky. Seymour Young as Jacob Kransky, Rose’s brother. Sam Wanamaker as Ellis Smith, the enigmatic “Nobody from Nowhere”; Phil Dakin and Raymond Edward Johnson also as Ellis. Henrietta Tedro as Ellen, the housekeeper. Margaret Fuller and Muriel Bremner as Fredrika Lang. Gladys Heen as Torchy Reynolds. Bill Bouchey as Charles Cunningham. Lesley Woods and Carolyn McKay as Celeste, his wife. Laurette Fillbrandt as Nancy Stewart. Frank Behrens as the Rev. Tom Bannion, Ruthledge’s assistant. The Greenman family, early characters: Eloise Kummer as Norma; Reese Taylor and Ken Griffin as Ed; Norma Jean Ross as Ronnie, their daughter. Transition from clergy to medical background, mid-1940s: John Barclay as Dr. Richard Gaylord. Jane Webb as Peggy Gaylord. Hugh Studebaker as Dr. Charles Matthews. Willard Waterman as Roger Barton (alias Ray Brandon). Betty Lou Gerson as Charlotte Wilson. Ned LeFevre as Ned Holden. Tom Holland as Eddie Bingham. Mary Lansing as Julie Collins. 1950s: Jone Allison as Meta Bauer. Lyle Sudrow as Bill Bauer. Charita Bauer as Bert, Bill’s wife, a role she would carry into television and play for three decades. Laurette Fillbrandt as Trudy Bauer. Glenn Walken as little Michael. Theo Goetz as Papa Bauer. James Lipton as Dr. Dick Grant. Lynn Rogers as Marie Wallace, the artist.

David Bowie: By 1985, I was something I never wanted to be: I was a well-accepted artist. I had started appealing to people who bought Phil Collins records. I suddenly didn’t know my audience and, worse, I didn’t care about them. I always looked OK in clothes – I was kind of a target for designers, always. They sort of made a beeline for me and tried to get me to wear their things. But I guess it was up to me to choose which ones I would wear.

That night, I went to the dance at McLaurrin. It was pretty amazing. The girls put their hands on our shoulders, and we put our hands on their hips, and we rocked slowly to Phil Collins's 'A Groovy Kind of Love,' each couple like a pair of metronomes with giant baby heads.

The Alamo is a story we've learned to tell ourselves to justify violence, both real and imagined, first against Mexicans, then Tejanos, then Mexican-Americans, and eventually the Vietcong and al-Qaeda. "Remember the Alamo" was the battle cry that we recycle long past the fight's utility. How Mexican-Americans were shamed in Texas History classes, how politicians and bureaucrats have changed that history over the years, and any number of other episodes that make up the back half of this book tell us more about who we are now than what we thought we knew about what happened over thirteen days in 1836. That is the history that we need to learn, because we are repeating it ceaselessly. Maybe it's time to forget the Alamo, or at least the whitewashed story, and start telling the history that includes everyone. Problems arise when there's an official version of events. Texas is big enough to tell an expansive, inclusive story about the Alamo, what really happened before, how it really went down, how we wrestled over who had the right to tell the story, and why we're still fighting about it today. We do not and will not agree completely on the events. It'd be a strange place if we did and one we're sure we wouldn't like. From a practical perspective, we must do something with Alamo Plaza. It desperately needs a refresh. But spending $450 million to build a monument to white supremacy as personified by Bowie, Travis, and Crockett would be a grave injustice to a city that desperately needs better schools, jobs, and services. If Phil Collins wants to "Remember the Alamo," he is welcom to do so in the privacy of this own home. The rest of us need to forget what we learned about the Alamo, embrace the truth, and celebrate all Texans.

When you listen to the music of Phil Collins, heaven and earth enter into a morganatic marriage, with you as a grand witness to this splicing of eternal abodes for the homeward union of heart and soul. His songs, ever so soothing, circulate through your body like blood pumped from a dancing heart.

Does Phil Collins write songs about anything else?” “He doesn’t have to. He’s so good at writing good songs about bad relationships, to do anything else would be a waste of talent!

You'll find your place beside the ones you love

If you like biking or running, food or movies, bare-naked horseback riding while listening to Phil Collins (questionable, but I knew someone who knew someone),

A groovy kind of Love, we had, singer Phil Collins.

Getting their priorities right. "The telephone company is urging people to please not use the telephone unless it is absolutely necessary in order to keep the lines open for emergency personnel. We'll be right back after this break to give away a pair of Phil Collins concert tickets to caller #95." -- A Los Angeles radio DJ, shortly after the February 1990 earthquake.

She calls out to the man on the street "Sir, can you help me? It's cold and I've nowhere to sleep Is there somewhere you can tell me?" He walks on, doesn't look back He pretends he can't hear her Starts to whistle as he crosses the street Seems embarrassed to be there Oh, think twice, 'cause it's another day for you and me in paradise Oh, think twice, 'cause it's another day for you You and me in paradise Think about it She calls out to the man on the street He can see she's been crying She's got blisters on the soles of her feet She can't walk but she's trying Oh, think twice, 'cause it's another day for you and me in paradise Oh, think twice, it's just another day for you You and me in paradise Just think about it Oh Lord, is there nothing more anybody can do? Oh Lord, there must be something you can say You can tell from the lines on her face You can see that she's been there Probably been moved on from every place 'Cause she didn't fit in there Oh, think twice, 'cause it's another day for you and me in paradise Oh, think twice, it's just another day for you You and me in paradise

Singer Phil Collins is an example of the long term health effects that may be seen in people that regularly flew on the supersonic Concord plane at an altitude of 60,000 feet and a speed of mach 2.

It's just another day for you and me in paradise.

People keep telling me to read the Bible this year for some reason. REAAAAAD the Bible. Alright. Well. Let's start with Genesis. What's that about? What strikes Me about Genesis, is One man, one woman. They disobey God. then they have to work. Now what do we have in the real world? What do we have? Well we have lots of slutty chicks, usually. Then some fools chasing that used up pussy. And you STILL have to work, huh? Well, you should know that you'll have to pay me a lot of money for me to buy enough pussy to compensate for all this anxiety and stress caused by uhh... shall we call it FREEDOM? Perhaps the greatest words I found recently are by G. Hardin - Natural Selection Favors the Forces of Psychological denial. Boom. Read that guy instead. that does explain a lot, doesn't it?

There's too many men too many people Making too many problems And not much love to go round

So why the Covenant of Genesis?’ ‘Maybe they were big fans of Phil Collins,’ Chase suggested. Nina managed a small laugh, then shook her head in puzzlement. ‘I don’t get it.

By the power of Phil Collins, I rebuke you!" she said. "By the power of Phil Collins, who knows that you coming back to me is against all odds, in his name I command you to leave this servant of Genesis alone.

The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway tour will become mythologized, not least in This Is Spinal Tap. This tour would be perfect fodder for the scriptwriters and actors. When that pod doesn’t open? I’ve been there, stuck on a stage with malfunctioning props and an irate guitarist. Is it perhaps no coincidence that Derek Smalls, Spinal Tap’s bass player, is a ringer for Steve Hackett at this time?

During the mixing sessions at Basing Street a schism develops, between daytime Genesis and night-time Genesis. Peter and I sometimes mix till two in the morning, then Tony comes in the next day, hates it and scrubs it. Sometimes we’re still recording when we’re supposed to be mixing. Time is short, the mood is tense and everyone is tired. There’s too much music, there are too many lyrics, we’re rushing to get finished, the narrative nuances of this double-vinyl concept album are a mystery to all of us (including, we suspect, Peter)—and any minute now we’re due to go on tour. A tour on which we’ve decided to play this entire album. A tour with a big production attached.

And The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, now? It’s one of the few Genesis albums I can put on and be surprised by, not that I can ever remember having listened to it in its entirety. But it’s a high-water mark for the band in some respects, and even the Spinal Tap reference is a compliment, backhanded or otherwise. To quote Peter’s final lines onstage with Genesis: “It’s only rock’n’roll, but I like it.

Out front, we occasionally play to half-full houses. In the back, Peter has his own dressing room, with make-up and a mirror, and the four of us are welcome visitors. He’s no prima donna, but there are a lot of record company guys coming into the dressing room afterward, huffing and puffing, “Great show, Pete!” Their blowing dry ice up his arse also gets up Tony’s nose, and mine too. Peter is being viewed as the glorious architect. Genesis are in danger of being overshadowed by him. That said, I don’t remember Peter ever taking the bait of stardom. Backstage, despite his separate dressing room, he remained one of us.

For once, however, we are all in firm agreement about something (maybe because there are now fewer of us to disagree with): Genesis are not being played enough on American radio.

What does “In the Air Tonight” mean? It means I’m getting on with my life, or trying to.

songwriting for the band’s seventh album, our first as a four-piece, though Steve is missing initially while he adds the finishing touches to his first solo album, Voyage of the Acolyte. My sense is that he wanted more of a shout as a songwriter—Tony, Mike and Peter monopolized the writing of the material for the band, and frankly they wrote better stuff than Steve. Better stuff than me, for sure. But up until The Lamb, I’ve barely been writing at all, so I have no issues. Steve, though, wants an outlet, so, without any grumbles or dissension from us, he plows a solo furrow. Mike and I even play on Voyage of the Acolyte, and I obligingly sing lead vocal on “Star of Sirius.” It’s all quite amicable.

Even working without Steve at first, to our huge relief it’s clear quite quickly that we’re going to be OK without Peter. The songs are coming like the old days, and it’s good stuff. We have “Dance on a Volcano” even before Steve rejoins us. “Squonk” and “Los Endos” follow, a strong opening salvo for the album we will title A Trick of the Tail. Then, disaster: another Peter front page in Melody Maker—“Gabriel Quits Genesis.” News has leaked before we’ve had time to regroup.

in October 1975, before we’ve had a chance to even start recording A Trick of the Tail, Steve’s album comes out. Also not helping matters is the fact that I choose this period to start seeing another band. My on/off affair with Brand X begins in late 1974 when

In a relationship it’s vital for each partner to complete the other. This isn’t happening in our marriage. I’m not one for suspicions or, dare I say it, paranoia. Andy, though, picks up on a strange look, or something someone said, and it goes under the magnifying glass for careful, endless, tiring scrutiny. I don’t cope with this very well, and the drawbridge comes up. Indeed, neither of us is coping very well. I’m pulled this way, I’m pulled that way. I’ve gone from drummer to rock star, but I’m still a family man at heart, and a dad to my core. I look into Simon’s cot and think, “You have no idea what’s happening.” When I think about it, neither do I. I want my son and daughter to have a father and a normal family life. But the way it’s looking, we’re all going to be disappointed. Genesis’ success is conspiring against us.

In these post-Andy dog days of ’79, robbed of any Genesis distractions, I visit Hurtwood Edge most days, often staying into the night. I befriend all of Eric’s Ripley pals, friends from his teenage years. We often travel en masse up to London to see football matches at Tottenham and West Ham, though Eric is a diehard West Brom fan.

One day, from out of the ether, I get together a nice chord sequence. It’s the opposite end of the scale to “The Battle of Epping Forest.” As I feel my way around my new studio, fiddle about with the sounds emerging in my head, the memories of early Genesis songs like that, and like those on The Lamb, are bleating in my head—music that was written with no idea of what would go on top, so it was all a bit busy. There was never too much “space” in Genesis music. Whereas I covet space. For sure the songs I might eventually record will have room to breathe. This embryonic number, built round this nice chord sequence, is the perfect example of the space I’m looking for. Without even thinking about it, I soon have a working title based on the lyrics I’ve sung: “In the Air Tonight.

Presently the Marquee installs a proper bar, which cuts the capacity nearly in half, but not the excitement. These are the days when someone will join a band in the afternoon and be playing with them that night. Jeff Beck joins The Yardbirds one afternoon, Jimmy Page another. I’m in the crowd for both their debuts. I’m a Yardbirds fan, and when they become The New Yardbirds, I’m also a fan of their drummer, John Bonham. Alongside Roger from The Action, he’s my drumming hero.

Peter, Mike and Tony’s background is a world away from mine. Our schooling, class, family—on paper, we couldn’t be farther apart. For all of early Genesis’ gigging and recording experience, they’ve been somewhat cloistered. I’ve been schooled in the rough and tumble of the life of a gigging performer and musician. I’ve been on the stage in London’s West End, a regular down the front at the Marquee, the drummer for an almost comically diverse array of groups, bands and combos. I have ducked and dived through swinging sixties Soho, and I have the energy, momentum and enthusiasm to prove it. I can apply all of that to the rather more conservative, rather less worldly Genesis. I’m also quick with a joke, a mood-lightening attribute that will come in very handy when Peter, Mike and Tony revert to school playground bickering. When they start arguing about who stole whose protractor, I can always step in with some distracting bonhomie. My personality, and my ability to break the ice, is exactly what these buttoned-up public schoolboys need, even if they don’t know it. English reserve will only take you so far. In the same way that my very limited experience as a songwriter means I will end up being the band’s musical arranger in these early days, I can also rearrange the mood.

Nursery Cryme—recorded at Soho’s Trident with John Anthony, who produced Trespass—comes out in November 1971. It reaches number 4 in Italy, making it the second European nation to embrace Genesis.

Foxtrot features “Supper’s Ready,” the 23-minute song suite that will, for much of the seventies, contribute to the public perception of the band. A lot of Genesis “heads” regard it as our magnum opus, and I’d go along with that. It’s greater than the sum of its parts, though some of those parts are brilliant, notably “Apocalypse in 9/8 (Co-Starring the Delicious Talents of Gabble Ratchet)” and “As Sure As Eggs Is Eggs (Aching Men’s Feet).

Generally speaking, over the U.S. as a whole, in the likes of Ypsilanti, Evanston, Fort Wayne and Toledo, we play to quizzical faces. We are, in short, swimming against the musical tide. They’ve never really heard something like us before. We’re not as noodly as Yes. We’re not as virtuoso-driven as Emerson, Lake & Palmer. We’re far quirkier than anybody else out there, and we pay the price.

Eno and I hit it off. He’s a very interesting character, not in the normal mold of a “pop” person, which is perhaps one of the reasons he left Roxy Music, and I’m drawn to his way of working. I end up playing on his albums Another Green World, Before and After Science and Music for Films.

He thinks maybe Peter can collaborate. We all went to see The Exorcist on the Selling England tour and loved it, so we know Friedkin is someone to be reckoned with. For Pete it’s a dream come true: the chance to collaborate with a visionary artist at the top of his field in another medium, to work from home, and also be there for his wife. He asks, “Can we put the album on hold? Give me time to do this, then I’ll be back.” He doesn’t say he’s leaving. We all say, “Sorry, Peter, ’fraid not. You’re in or you’re out.” From my point of view, if it comes to it, Peter leaving needn’t be the end of the world. My stoutly practical solution is that we reconfigure Genesis into an instrumental four-piece. At least that way the music can finally be fully heard. To this suggestion, the other three’s reaction can be summed up thus: “Don’t be so fucking stupid. Us, without singing, without lyrics? Get back in your box, Phil.” And of course they’re right.

He thinks maybe Peter can collaborate. We all went to see The Exorcist on the Selling England tour and loved it, so we know Friedkin is someone to be reckoned with. For Pete it’s a dream come true: the chance to collaborate with a visionary artist at the top of his field in another medium, to work from home, and also be there for his wife. He asks, “Can we put the album on hold? Give me time to do this, then I’ll be back.” He doesn’t say he’s leaving. We all say, “Sorry, Peter, ’fraid not. You’re in or you’re out.” From my point of view, if it comes to it, Peter leaving needn’t be the end of the world.

Bill Bruford opted out after the Trick of the Tail tour to form his own band, U.K., so we’re a band in flux again. I call the great American drummer Chester Thompson. I’ve seen him with Weather Report and heard him with Frank Zappa on his live album Roxy and Elsewhere, where he was joined by a second drummer, Ralph Humphrey. They play a fantastic double drum riff in Zappa’s song “More Trouble Every Day”—I want some of that in our band. I call Chester, he says yes, never having met us, we do some rehearsals, and that’s it, he’s in. Chester will stay with us until the end of our reunion tour in 2007.

But performing with just a microphone stand instead of a row of cymbals between me and the audience—that’s the thing to overcome. If you’re not predisposed toward bat-wing headgear and flying in the air, what do you do when there’s no singing? There are other practical concerns. I’ve already made it very clear that I’m not going to be able to do what Peter did. I will not be sporting Andy’s camisole or a badger pelt. But what will I wear? The workman’s overalls that did the job when I was just the drummer? Or is that too, well, workmanlike? I can wear a flat cap and Edwardian coat for “Robbery, Assault and Battery,” but that’s as theatrical as I’m prepared to go.

Still, my hands stay jammed in my pockets for long periods when I’m singing. It will be some time before I touch the microphone, remove it from its holder and actually walk around with it. Only when that happens do I feel it’s official: I, Phil Collins, am a singer.

And I’m not up for double duty—that looks crap. Don Henley did OK for a song or two, Levon Helm did great for a song or two. But neither would have been able to sustain contact with an audience throughout a two-hour set. The lead singer singing from behind the drums is alienating for an audience. There’s a whacking great kit getting in the way of any connection between vocalist and crowd.

Bill Bruford, late of Yes, is a good friend who’s turned me on to a lot of jazz drummers. He comes down to one of Brand X’s rehearsal sessions—we’re writing Unorthodox Behaviour—and he asks, “How’s things in Genesis? Found a singer yet?” “Not really. I’ve done the album, and they want me to try out as the singer. But to do that we need to find a drummer.” “Well, why don’t you ask me?” “You wouldn’t want to do that. A bit too Yes-y for you, surely?” “Yes I would.” And suddenly Genesis have a new drummer. Now I’ve no excuse.

Equally, I’m still ready to pull out my joker: I’d rather be in an instrumental band than take over the microphone. Unfortunately that idea is, again, quickly shot down. Tony and Mike have long had aspirations to be songwriters—that is, songs with lyrics, lyrics that need to be sung. More than that: they want to write hit songs, singles that will reach the pop charts. They’ve always wanted that; always wanted to write like The Kinks and The Beatles. You can’t do that if your band doesn’t have a singer, or lyrics, or choruses.

But “Squonk” is new and it’s a groove I like. More pertinently, right now we’ve no other option, nothing left to lose, and there are studio hours racking up. So I say, “How about I have a go?” And the rest of the guys shrug: “Might as well.

I go home and report back to Andy. “Darling, great news—Genesis have a fantastic chance to make some serious inroads in America…” To me, the professional logic of touring our arses off for the best part of a year is impeccable. The emotional, personal, matrimonial logic? Let’s say I am perhaps less clear on that front. Andy’s response can be paraphrased thus: “Well, if you do that, we’re not going to be together this time next year.

Later in 1979 we continue the reunion at London’s Townhouse Studios, where I play drums on four tracks on his third solo album, which is being produced by Steve Lilywhite and engineered by Hugh Padgham. Notably I play on “Intruder,” the song on which we develop the so-called “gated” drum sound. More of which anon.

But Tony, Mike and Smith ask me to hold my horses. If I need some compassionate leave, I can take it. So I set off for the Canadian west coast. And none of it—the expat-living, the house-buying, the wife-wooing—makes any difference. After four months, nothing changes. My marriage is over.

I’m rattling about in this house, just me and the cardboard boxes. I would have jumped straight back into Genesis, but Mike and Tony have taken advantage of my emotional sabbatical to begin making the solo albums after which they’ve long hankered. In the course of 1979 both spend time in Stockholm, recording at ABBA’s Polar Studios. They hadn’t considered that my love-dash to Vancouver would be so abortively short. Nor had I. Lest I go completely off the rails, I start channeling my energies into whatever musical distraction I can find. Someone recommends me to English singer-songwriter John Martyn, he of the seminal 1973 folk jazz album Solid Air. John asks me to drum on the album that will become Grace & Danger. As we become close, he discovers I can sing a bit, and I add background vocals on the beautiful “Sweet Little Mystery.” I fall in love with John and his

At a loose end, having stopped managing the toyshop, Mum starts working with her, launching the school’s theatrical agency from our house. June Collins supplies all-singing, all-dancing children to London’s West End, and to the blossoming commercial TV and film world.

Unfortunately, I don’t have enough detailed memories of my dad, happy or otherwise. What images I have, I later put in a song, “All of My Life,” on my 1989 album …But Seriously: Dad coming home from work, changing out of his suit, sitting down to dinner, and then an evening watching TV with just his pipe for company. Mum’s gone out; I’m upstairs playing records. Recalling that scenario now, I’m overwhelmed with sadness. There are so many things I could have asked my dad; if only I’d known I’d be just twenty-one when he died. Simply, there wasn’t much intimacy or dialogue between us. Maybe I’ve blotted out the memories. Maybe they don’t exist.

Then: the Beatle dumps me off his album, and nobody tells me. First they cut me from A Hard Day’s Night, and now this. What have I ever done to the Fab Four?

It is 1963, and the sixties are in full flow. The Beatles have landed and the future can begin. Their first single, “Love Me Do,” came out the previous October and already Beatlemania has me firmly in its grasp.

hit the ground running in Oliver!, because I have to: this is a huge, ongoing and usually sold-out show. There’s no time for first-night nerves, even for a thirteen-year-old. On top of that, this is a big part. The entrance of The Artful Dodger is the moment when the show lifts. This tale of Victorian workhouses and grinding poverty is pretty much doom and despair till the chirpy, light-fingered urchin comes on and sings “Consider Yourself.” Then the Dickensian East End of Lionel Bart’s picaresque, exuberant imagination bursts into glorious life. Consider, too, that the Dodger also sings wonderful, now-timeless songs like “I’d Do Anything” and “Be Back Soon” with his gang. They’re my first lead vocals, and I relish performing them eight times a week, night after night (with matinees on Wednesdays and Saturdays).

I start taking piano lessons with my Great-Auntie Daisy at her musty Edwardian house in Netheravon Road, Chiswick. She’s charming, patient and helpful and, to the surprise of both of us, it comes to me easily. Once I hear something, I never have to look at the page again. I have what they call “big ears,” which is great for learning songs, less good for learning to read music. This frustrates Auntie Daisy, but she doesn’t hold it against me. On her death, I inherit her 1820 straight-strung Collard & Collard. I will record all of Face Value, my first solo album, using that piano. I never do learn to read music, and still can’t to this day. If I had, things might have been very different. When I form the Phil Collins Big Band in 1996, to communicate with the brilliant, seasoned jazz players in that combo I have to invent my own phonetic way of doing the charts.

But at the same time, not being able to read music is absolutely liberating for me. It gives me a wider musical vocabulary. There are learned, technically accomplished players who sound regimented, taught and clinical. Maybe a more traditionally schooled player couldn’t have come up with an unorthodox song like “In the Air Tonight.” If you don’t know the rules, you don’t know what rules you’re breaking.

Cue that Melody Maker advert in July 1970—by which time Tony, Mike and Peter have been through a lot in their seven years of friendship and music-making.

It will take me awhile to understand these dynamics. Tony and Peter, for example, are the best of friends, and the worst of enemies. Tony is prone to losing his temper, but this only makes itself apparent later, with Peter and Tony taking it in turns to storm out of studios in a huff. Mike keeps a delicate balance between the two. But all three of them are what they are: ex–public school boys, with all the privilege and baggage that comes with that kind of background. Immaculately bred as officers and gentlemen for a bygone age—perhaps less obvious fodder for a rock group emerging from the tumult of the swinging sixties.

These three, I later learn, are old school friends. Their alma mater is Charterhouse in Surrey, a grand and exclusive—not to mention expensive—400-year-old Church of England private boarding school of significant educational repute. It’s a boys-only establishment that, by definition, prizes tradition, heritage, discipline, sporting and academic achievement, and much arcane phraseology and terminology. Former pupils like Mike, Peter and Tony are known as Old Carthusians.

In December 1972 we play our first two American shows. Our landfall in the new world is not incredibly auspicious. We arrive to discover that our U.S. manager, Ed Goodgold, also manager of Woodstock heroes Sha Na Na, has booked us a show at Brandeis University near Boston, Massachusetts. At lunchtime. So our first show on American soil is an unceremonious, crashing disappointment. New England students are less keen on English rock bands than we’d assumed, and seem more interested in their studying or their sandwiches. This does not bode well for Genesis’ fortunes in the United States of America.

Resuming normal service: at Barbara Speake’s I meet two girls who will play significant and ongoing roles in my life, personal and professional, for a long time hereafter. Over the span of my teenage years either I’m going out with Lavinia Lang or I’m going out with Andrea Bertorelli. The three of us seem to date on heavy rotation, and that back-and-forth will reverberate down the decades.

Genesis have their first hit. Top of the Pops here we come. Except we don’t. We decline an offer from the BBC’s weekly institution because we think our fans will object to us appearing on such a mainstream show. Fundamentally, we object, too. We’re forging our own path and, for the same reason we don’t trust festivals (we can’t control the staging, it’s not our audience), we don’t trust television. Plus, by now we pride ourselves on our presentation, and “I Know What I Like” doesn’t readily lend itself to much in the way of presentation.

It’s around this time that Adrian Selby’s poor bookkeeping catches up with us and we discover that Genesis are in debt to the tune of £150,000. A fortune in those days, around £2 million in today’s money. But we still say no to the biggest bit of TV promotion in the land. This is where Tony Smith enters the picture. Just to clarify: he’s not to be confused with Tony Stratton-Smith. Strat was our manager, and also boss of our label, Charisma. He’d kick-started things and kept Genesis rolling for a good while, but inevitably that created a conflict of interest when it came to negotiations between manager and record company. So although we all love and trust him, we have to be businesslike and consider our future. Especially when there are eye-watering debts to consider.

That summer, we’re in London, mixing Seconds Out, a live album recorded during our four-night stand at Paris’s Palais des Sports in June. I’m driving from Queen Anne’s Grove to Trident, and I see Steve in the street in Notting Hill. “Want a lift to the studio, Steve?” “Ah, no, I’ll call you later.” I arrive at the studio and relay this odd encounter. “Oh, didn’t he tell you? He’s left,” says Mike. I think Steve was too embarrassed to tell me. But also, I later learn, he feared that I might have been the one person who could have persuaded him to reconsider.