Welcome back my friends to the flamboyance that never ends, as Fabulously Flamboyant Friday sashays up to the crease to deliver yet another groin-polished googly from the gasworks-end of musical magnificence.
I’m afraid, dear reader, it’s time once more to cower behind the sofa as we continue our examination of that most divisive, derided and ridiculed of musical genres – progressive rock: the musical equivalent of Marmite or buggery – because if you didn’t enjoy it as a child, you’re unlikely to do so as an adult. Sparkly capes, triple-necked guitars, inflatable dinosaurs, concerts on ice, off-the-scale levels of bombast, pretentiousness, pomposity and, of course, lashings of tea. So be afraid, dear reader. Be very afraid indeed…
In part one and part two of this series, we examined the faltering first steps of progressive rock through the prism of Britain’s rapidly shifting social and musical scenes of the mid-to-late 1960s. Our journey considered the early steps of symphonic and psychedelic rock, examined the crucial influence of the Canterbury scene, probed the early progressive rumblings in Europe, and concluded with what many consider to be the first genuine prog rock album: In The Court Of The Crimson King, the 1969 debut album by King Crimson.
If we jump forward to the other end of prog’s first iteration, conventional wisdom tells us punk rock was the cataclysmic impact that would eventually sweep away prog’s lumbering dinosaurs in a mid-70’s tsunami of safety pins, spittle and spite. This is, without doubt, a narrative with some merit, as can be amply illustrated by the following anecdote.
In early 1977, the legendary Whispering Bob Harris popped into a famous West End watering hole, The Speakeasy, for a swift nightcap or three after a hard day toiling in The Old Grey Whistle Test studios in White City. Unfortunately for Bob, A&M records were using the venue to celebrate their new record deal with The Sex Pistols and the place was packed to the gunnels with highly lubricated punks – many of whom appeared to view Harris as the very personification of the music establishment’s much-despised, middle-class, dinosaur brigade.
Trouble kicked off almost immediately and a very serious brawl broke out. Bob quickly found himself cornered by cadre of punks clutching broken bottles and glass. Bob’s mate, George Nicholson, attempted to intervene, but only succeeded in getting himself cut up a treat (including, unfortunately, well over a dozen stitches to his face and head, courtesy of a broken bottle allegedly wielded by Sid Vicious – this was a proper rumble!). Bob’s memoirs detail a very heated and serious situation, with genuine fears for both life and limb.
Happily, for the purposes of our narrative, the cavalry, in the form of Procul Harum’s horny-handed road crew, came riding over the hill and went steaming straight into the melee. They quickly rescued Bob from his sticky situation, then proceeded to robustly demonstrate to the young punks the error of their youthfully enthusiastic but deeply misguided ways. To their credit, A&M Records quickly dropped The Sex Pistols from the label, but, sadly, this experience soured Bob’s enthusiasm for presenting music on television and not long after he decided to leave Whistle Test.
The Bob Harris incident seemed to many in the music industry to be a clear herald of change; a changing of the guard, out with the old and in with the new. But in truth, although punk ensured that many a good band (and, it has to be said, a great deal of musical deadwood) would be cut down and cleared away, prog rock survived – just about. But only those who could adapt and evolve would live to fight another day – and tonight’s progmeisters did just that: they adapted, evolved, stood tall and completely re-invented themselves. They didn’t just survive, they positively flourished and eventually became bona fide international superstars.
So tonight, for one night only, Fabulously Flamboyant Friday proudly presents… er… nervously presents, one of the mightiest of mighty titans from the prog rock era: Laydees and gentlebodies, please welcome, the one, the only… *gulps, takes deep breath, prepares to run away* Genesis! Not arf!
The history of this band is generally viewed as two distinct periods: the Peter Gabriel years and the Phil Collins years. But in truth there were (IMHO) at least six or seven distinct periods in the complex musical history of this band, including a short introductory period when they first formed in 1967 at Charterhouse School in Surrey.
The original line up of (the then unnamed) Genesis was formed from the disintegration of two previous school bands: Anon and Garden Wall. They knocked up a demo tape at a friend’s home-made studio and lobbed it at the poptastic old Charthusian, Jonathan King, who undoubtedly seemed a natural choice as manager/mentor following his splendid chart success (UK top five) with Everyone’s Gone to the Moon.
King was apparently enthusiastic about the potential of his new group of young lads (at the time aged between 15 and 17), christened them Genesis and quickly got them signed-up on a one-year recording contract with Decca Records. A few singles and an album followed (From Genesis To Revelation – recorded in the boy’s school holidays), but neither the public nor the UK’s chart compliers seemed particularly interested.
This lack of commercial success led to a split with both King and Decca, and the lads headed back to school to address the mundane matters of end-of-term exams, quidditch finals and university applications. However, they eventually regrouped (in 1969) and decided to have another crack at this music malarkey. Accordingly, they recorded another demo tape, which was promptly rejected by every record label that clapped ears it.
Undaunted, our intrepid team hit the road and started gigging. Their first live performance as Genesis took place at a birthday party in the September or October (recollections vary) of 1969. An inauspicious start, perhaps, but by early 1970 they had landed a radio performance on the BBC’s Night Ride show and a residency at Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club in Soho. The residency put them in the shop window and eventually landed them a deal with Charisma Records on a massively lavish retainer of ten quid a week (not per person – ten quid a week for the whole band).
They set about recording their second album and produced Trespass, a huge step forward in terms of both composition and musicianship. Rolling Stone magazine hated it (which, back then, was always a very good sign) and it soared straight to No.1 – in Belgium. Sadly, in music industry terms, this didn’t count for very much at all. In the inevitable fallout from their second successive album failure, guitarist and founder member Anthony Phillips jumped ship, drummer John Mayhew was fired and vocalist Peter Gabriel signed on at the London School of Film Technique (although eventually, of course, he decided to stick with the band). Here endeth the second chapter of Genesis.
The lads licked their wounds, regrouped once more and decided to press on. They set about auditioning replacements for their departed members and history records they eventually settled on a guitarist called Steve Hackett and a drummer called Phil Collins. The stars aligned, the Earth trembled, the gods of music smiled and the musical monster that was Genesis finally took shape and slouched toward Bethlehem to be born.
This is of course deeply cynical and hugely unfair of me. This was the classic 1970’s line-up of Banks, Collins, Gabriel, Hackett and Rutherford; a line-up that would go on to produce a magnificent and seriously influential run of classic prog rock albums. The next four albums from Genesis would contain some genuinely innovative and influential material that has long stood the test of time: Nursery Crime (1971), Foxtrot (1972), Selling England by the Pound (1973) and The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway (1974). Magnificent albums, one and all, and no prog rock collection can possibly be considered complete without them. All four are absolute corkers and were central pillars in the development of progressive rock in the UK.
Happily, unlike many prog rock bands from the early ’70s, a few splendid live recordings of Genesis from that period have survived and been preserved for posterity. You can use the following two links to take a good look at live performances from Genesis in ’72 and Genesis in ’73.
Sadly however, the last of that run of four albums, The lamb Lies Down On Broadway, would prove to be the one that called time on this third and arguably most creative period of Genesis. Gabriel’s relationship with the rest of the group became increasingly strained, he was often absent from writing sessions (due to difficulties with his wife’s first birth), was sidetracked writing a screenplay and irritated his bandmates with his ever-more-elaborate stage costumes and theatrics – antics that had apparently started to detrimentally impact the quality of his live performances.
It was around this time I had my first opportunity to see Genesis perform live. I went to see them in Bristol at what I believe is now called The Beacon Theatre, but which in 1975 was still known as The Colston Hall (named of course for Edward Colston, Bristol’s best known philanthropist, slave trader and, one would imagine, the perfect example of the evils of wypipo). Bristol was chosen simply because tickets for the old Empire Pool in Wembley sold out faster than a politician sniffing a WEF cheque book, and we were all keen (well, some of us were) to see Genesis perform their concept album, meisterwerk and magnum opus (and no, that’s not a very large ice cream) The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway.
I must admit, my heart was full of trepidation. I really wanted to see Genesis perform, but I had already journeyed down the dark and treacherous path of the prog rock concept album. Personally (and unfairly, I know) I blame Pink Floyd and their epic Dark Side Of The Moon. Once that album became the planet-rodgering monster that it did, every prog-rock band on the planet seemed determined to produce a pretentious concept album to inflict upon their long-suffering fans. As a result, I had already been severely traumatised by seeing Yes perform their very own epic concept album, Tales From Topographic Oceans, and it had not been a particularly pleasant experience. I sat through two hours of turgid noodling that instilled in me a pathological aversion to concept albums that remained with me for many a year.
Sadly, my fears were entirely justified and Genesis were utterly dreadful. Another two progtastic hours of turgid self-indulgence, with Spinal Tap levels of pomposity thrown in for good measure. Peter Gabriel’s ludicrous costumes (complete, if I recall correctly, with inflatable genitals) did add a touch of unplanned levity to the occasion, but after waiting years to see the mighty Genesis perform, it was a bitter disappointment. They played all four sides of their new album, but as I and many others had not yet heard it (and I’m not certain it had even been released at this point), it was too dense, too unfamiliar and too incomprehensible for me to grasp or enjoy. As a result, I was bored rigid. Ironically, Tales From Topographic Oceans is now one of my favourite Yes albums and The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway is one of my favourite Genesis albums. Such is life.
Anyway, by the end of the Lamb tour Peter Gabriel had jumped ship (for what would prove to be a successful solo career) and Genesis were left facing yet another major upheaval. Tony Banks would later say of Gabriel’s departure, “Peter was getting too big for the group. He was being portrayed as if he was ‘the man’ and it really wasn’t like that. It was a very difficult thing to accommodate. So it [his departure] was actually a bit of a relief”.
And so the fourth chapter in our Genesis tale begins, with apparently well over 400 applicants for Peter Gabriel’s berth. Sadly, of course, no one passed muster. So the band eventually (and to the surprise of many) decided to go with Phil Collins as their new front man. And, it has to be said, when the following two albums (A Trick Of The Tale and Wind & Wuthering – both released in 1976) hit the shelves, fans were somewhat surprised and also rather relieved to discover that Genesis without Gabriel still sounded remarkably like classic Genesis. The transition to the Collins era of the band seemed to be a remarkably smooth and unflustered process.
And it wasn’t just in the studio that things were going well. I saw Genesis on the Trick Of The Tale tour (with the lavishly talented Bill Bruford on drums) and they were a revelation: hugely better than they had been on the Lamb tour, clearly having a great time and absolutely ripping it up on stage. Check out the magnificent performance of Supper’s Ready on their live album Seconds Out (the live album recorded during the Trick Of The Tale and Wind & Wuthering period) if you doubt the veracity of my assertion.
Sadly, this hugely enjoyable chapter of the band came to an end all too soon, with guitarist Steve Hackett jumping ship at the end of the Wind & Wuthering tour. Unhappy because not enough of his material was being used by the band, he left for a solo career that continues to this day. As much as the departure of Gabriel had not really altered the sound of Genesis, the departure of Hackett most certainly did. Take a listen to Hackett’s first solo album, Voyage Of The Acolyte, and you quickly realise just how much of the classic Genesis 70’s sound was being provided by Mr. Hackett.
The next Genesis album, the somewhat ruefully titled And Then There Were Three (1978), began the next chapter of the band’s career and sounded very different to their previous albums. It was sometimes prog, sometimes pop and sometimes, quite frankly, bloody naff. It felt like a transitional album, from a band rolling with the punches, still trying to re-find its feet. Nevertheless, it sold very well and produced a hit single (Follow You, Follow Me) that pulled in a whole new young fanbase for the band. In the summer of ’78 I travelled to the Knebworth festival to see Genesis headline the bill. They were OK… ish. But it was the first time I realised that Phil could be a bit, well, irritating.
This transitional template seemed to be followed for the next two albums, Duke and Abacab: sometimes prog, sometimes pop and sometimes naff (I’m looking at you, Misunderstanding). But as they continued to move away from their prog rock roots, moving in an ever more pop-oriented direction, their popularity, fan base, record sales and concert ticket receipts just kept growing and growing and growing – they were clearly on a roll.
The next phase of the Genesis story is of course the one that everyone knows – total world domination. The lad’s final three albums, Genesis, Invisible Touch and We Can’t Dance, turned them into genuine A-list global superstars, selling albums by the truckload, earning Platinum status in markets all around the world, spawning a frankly impressive string of international hit singles (Mama, That’s All, Invisible Touch, Throwing It All Away, Land Of Confusion, Tonight Tonight Tonight, In Too Deep, No Son Of Mine, I Can’t Dance).
Genesis, the first album of this massively successful trilogy, got some very mixed reviews on release. Kerrang! magazine, however, grasped it immediately and absolutely nailed it in their review. Genesis, they said, had replaced complexity with simplicity and made a Genesis album for people who hated Genesis. This, they declared, was music for the masses. How right they were. Genesis, Invisible Touch and We Can’t Dance were all monster hit albums.
During this period, Genesis’ world tours became huge events, drawing on the latest technology, filling vast stadia – often for several nights in a row – selling tickets as fast as they could be printed. Genesis were now bona fide poptastic superstars, one of the biggest bands on the planet and masters of all they surveyed. Of course it couldn’t last, and indeed it didn’t.
The seeds of destruction probably go back to 1981, the release of Face Value (Phil Collins’ first solo album) and In The Air Tonight (his first hit single). Both, of course, became massive international hits and suddenly everything changed for Phil. He didn’t immediately become Phil the Naff, but he most certainly became Phil the Ubiquitous. Suddenly he was everywhere, all the time: singer, songwriter, producer, actor, comedian. Phil became an international everyman; the ubiquitous cheeky, chirpy, chappie; darling of the chat show circuit, in the papers every day, on our screens every night, and in our lug’oles whether we wanted him or not. In short, Phil became a hugely successful international star and successfully maintained this status throughout the 1980s. But for me, he began to irritate almost immediately.
Familiarity can of course breed contempt, but his ubiquitous nature had absolutely no detrimental effect on the popularity of The Blessed Phil. In fact, his star remained very firmly in the ascendant. But in 1985, the first cracks began to appear. And at the centre of this first noticeable reversal in fortunes was the tedious Bob Geldof and his humongous transatlantic Live Aid extravaganza.
Unfortunately, as if Live Aid wasn’t already bad enough, some bright spark decided it would be a jolly good wheeze to turn the event into the Phil Collins show. In just one day we were treated to Phil performing at Wembley, Phil buzzing around in Noel Edmund’s helicopter, Phil flying on Concorde, Phil performing in Philadelphia and – catastrophically – Phil playing drums for Led Zeppelin.
Oh, my days – what an utter bloody shambles that Led Zep performance was. I watched the horror unfold through my fingers, gaping in disbelief at what I was witnessing, and I honestly can’t bring myself to post a video of that wretched performance here. History records that Jimmy Page was quick to very publicly (and very unfairly, IMHO) lay the blame for the shambolic Led Zep performance squarely upon the shoulders of one Phil Collins esq. At the time, it felt like the Collins backlash had been building a head of steam for quite some time, and all that was required was a suitable event for those feelings to crystallise. Live Aid was that perfect point in time and, sure enough, after the hideous Led Zep performance and the subsequent barbed comments of Mr. Page, the floodgates opened, the mockery began, and the music press and the music industry in general began to view The Blessed Phil with a somewhat jaundiced and cynical eye.
However, as far as the public were concerned, the good ship Collins sailed serenely on. Genesis could cheerfully sell out any stadium they wished, Phil picked up awards by the sackful (Gold & Platinum albums, Grammy Awards, Brits, Ivor Novellos, Golden Globes, honorary doctorates – even an Academy Award!) and even became an established star of stage and screen with projects such as his staring role in the movie Buster.
Then, in 1990, I witnessed peak Phil, and I finally understood the terrible depths of naffness to which the human soul can sink. Genesis performed at Knebworth (the third and final Knebworth gig of their illustrious career, I believe), at a charity shindig to raise funds for the Nordoff-Robbins Music Therapy Trust. Genesis, fronted by a self-indulgent Phil Collins, on a day that will live on in musical infamy, delivered one of the most toe-curlingly embarrassing, dad-dancing performances it has every been my misfortune to witness.
Some stared in disbelief, others laughed uncomfortably, some mocked, some walked away. I put my head in my hands and, once more, watched the horror unfold through my fingers. The crowd, of course, lapped it up, but it was the final nail in the coffin of Phil’s credibility. He was officially as naff as naff could be. For those of a strong disposition, a mercifully small portion of that performance can be viewed here. Viewer discretion is advised.
The following year, Bret Ellis, the best-selling author of American Psycho, wanted to communicate the appalling moral depravity of his vicious serial killer. To do this he simply made his deranged character a gushing Phil Collins fan. Collins had become a figure of fun, mocked by the music press, mocked in comedy sketches, mocked in cartoons (the creators of South Park were particularly vicious) and even David Bowie referenced a creatively unproductive period of his own career as his “Phil Collins years” – and to be called a Phil Collins fan became quite the insult. His fall was complete. From lovable scamp to toe-curling embarrassment; his albums filed away, quietly and discreetly, next to those of Barry Manilow and Kenny G.
Nevertheless, the good ship Genesis sailed serenely on. Their We Can’t Dance tour seemed to go on for years. They effortlessly sold out stadiums everywhere and they were still shifting albums in ridiculous quantities. But, in 1996, it all came to a shuddering halt when Phil Collins announced that he’d had enough and was leaving Genesis to focus on his solo career.
And that really should have been that for Genesis. However, to the surprise of many, Banks and Rutherford decided the old nag could be flogged a bit more, and so yet another chapter in our entangled tale was conceived. They recruited Ray Wilson, Nir Zidkyahu, Nick D’Virgilio and Anthony Drennan to record and subsequently tour the fifteenth and final Genesis studio album, Calling All Stations (it really should have been called And Then There were Two or possibly Three Down, Two To Go).
Calling All Stations (1997) wasn’t a bad album, but it was an almost entirely forgettable one. Every now and then I’ll give it a spin and the result is always the same: almost as soon as it finishes, I find I’ve forgotten almost everything it contained. It was a pretty decent commercial and critical success, reached No. 2 in the UK and allowed Genesis to successfully undertake a reasonably sized European tour. However, a planned tour of North American was quietly and discreetly cancelled due to a lack of ticket sales. This finally prompted Banks and Rutherford to throw in the towel and announce (in 2000) that Genesis was no longer a thing.
There has of course been one final chapter in the Genesis story, as Banks, Collins and Rutherford reunited to successfully re-animate the corpse of Genesis for some serious money-making legacy tours. In 2006, Banks, Rutherford and Collins announced the Turn It On Again Tour, their first outing with Collins for over a decade. There were apparently plans for a full reunion with Gabriel and Hackett, but that plan failed because Gabriel, hampered by various other commitments, was unable to fully commit to the project – an unfortunate missed opportunity, I feel. Happily, Steve Hackett is quite capable of reminding us just what might have been, if only those plans for a full reunion had come to fruition.
However, to say the Turn It On Again tour was a success is something of an understatement. The European leg alone sold the best part of half a million tickets in under 45 minutes and ended with a free concert at the Circus Maximus in Rome in front of around half a million punters – and that’s really not too shabby at all.
In 2019 they decided drag the old dog and pony act out for one last trot around the block, but I’m afraid it really did feel like a pension top-up exercise. Additionally, their timing was terrible. In the January of 2020, Banks, Collins and Rutherford announced their reformation for a farewell tour called The Last Domino? Tour. Unfortunately, covid-19 had other ideas and their tour dates, somewhat inevitably, were shuffled and rescheduled (twice, in fact) due to the foul shenanigans that beset us all during that dark and dismal period of international subterfuge and chicanery.
Their final tour did eventually get underway – with a visibly frail and ailing Collins – in September 2021, with Genesis performing the final concert of their long and distinguished career on the 26th of March, 2022, at the O2 Arena in London. Peter Gabriel was apparently in attendance, but did not join the band on stage.
So what do we make of Genesis? Well, from a prog rock perspective, they are undoubtedly central performers in the development of the genre. I’d rank their magnificent seven year run (1970 – ’76) of seven albums (Trespass to Wind & Wuthering) as prime prog and key recordings of the genre. Those seven releases are landmark albums that unquestionably belong in any self-respecting prog rock collection. But after that? Well, to be brutally honest, there’s not much there that interests me. All their subsequent albums certainly have their moments (particularly Duke) and the mahoosive popularity and global domination of their pop era simply cannot be ignored. However, When Dinosaurs Ruled The Earth is a series of prog rock articles, and viewed through that prism, for me at least, that period of Genesis probably ended with the 1976 departure of Steve Hackett.
Nevertheless, I think we’ll wrap things up for tonight with a live performance from a time when Genesis were at the absolute peak of their poptastic powers. A time when they were so staggeringly popular (entertaining more than a quarter of a million punters over the four nights they played at the venue in the video below) that even having a short-arsed balding bloke sporting a ludicrous mullet as their frontman couldn’t even begin to slow them down. Also, it has to be said, despite all his knockers – and indeed there were many – the Blessed Phil really did possess a truly magnificent set of pipes.
Anyway, I think that’s probably quite enough of my progy prattling for one evening. So I shall say TTFN, pop pickers. May all your pillows be tasty, your gardens inclined and your puddles well jumped.
Goodnight, and may your frog go with you – Not ‘arf
Featured Image: generated by Grok AI
© Ivory Cutlery 2026
