Not Dead Yet

by Phil Collins

  Me (gasps): “Fuck! ‘In the Air’ is going to number 1 all over Europe!”

  Tony (sniffs): “Yeah. Still only got three chords in it.”

  Me (shouts): “FOUR, ACTUALLY.”

  And what does Andy think about me airing our dirty laundry for the edification of countless millions around the world? Well, she’s not the kind of person who buys Sounds or Rolling Stone, so she won’t necessarily have read anyone’s dissection of my lyrics. But I have no reservations telling interviewers/anyone who asks what this album is about.

  And then I’m on Top of the Pops with a tin of paint.

  About that tin of paint: “In the Air Tonight” comes out as a single in the U.K. on January 5, 1981. Within a week it’s number 36, and I’m at the BBC, appearing on their nation-uniting weekly chart show (times have changed). How am I going to perform the song? I’m still not comfortable standing there with a microphone, especially on TV. So I’ll play keyboards. And my engineer, roadie and factotum Steve “Pud” Jones says, “I’ll get a keyboard stand.”

  “Nah, looks a bit Duran Duran to me. Get a Black & Decker Workmate. That’ll do.”

  “OK. What’ll we put the drum machine on?”

  “Um…a tea-chest?”

  The tin of paint? That’s because we’re going for rehearsal after rehearsal, and the Top of the Pops producers are desperately trying to make this tea-chest look interesting. So Pud just keeps adding little bits.

  “A paint pot…?”

  So there is, indeed, a DIY theme to that (in)famous Top of the Pops appearance. But it has nothing to do with Andy going off with the decorator. That performance, and that paint pot, have come back to haunt me time and time again.

  While I’m kicking about the BBC studios, I chat to that week’s host, Radio 1 DJ Dave Lee Travis. He watches one of the rehearsals of “In the Air Tonight” and goes, “Cor, this is going to be massive.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yeah, this is going to be Top 3 next week.”

  And it is. Then it goes to number 2. It looks like it’s headed all the way to number 1. Then John Lennon gets shot and puts everything into perspective. Life will never be the same again. One of my heroes, gone.

  Or: the imperial years, and more hits, more tours and more collaborations than are probably advisable. Sorry about that

  Where were you when MTV began broadcasting, on August 1, 1981? What were you doing three days previously, when Prince Charles married Lady Diana Spencer at St. Paul’s Cathedral?

  Throughout the eighties, me and my videos, both solo and with Genesis, will become a fixture on this revolutionary new TV channel. I will somehow end up as Charles and Di’s go-to entertainer. No weddings or bar mitzvahs, but I’ll play a few royal birthday parties, at one point performing an unwittingly inappropriate divorce-heavy set around the time there were, infamously, three people in the heir to the throne’s marriage. Yet despite the prominent role in my life of both institutions—Establishment and anti-Establishment, if you like—I struggle to remember the precise details of my whereabouts and activities that summer of ’81…and at various points over the ensuing half-decade.

  I can’t blame encroaching senility—right now, six months after the release of Face Value, I’m a sprightly thirty years old—and nor can I blame rock’n’roll naughtiness. It’s simply, I think, that I’m too busy to remember it all years later. And I’m about to get busier still. So busy that I’m not even aware that I’m busy. I just know that pulling double duty as a solo performer and as singer with Genesis is, from out of nowhere, asking more of me than I’d ever anticipated. More than anyone anticipated, maybe. Few people before or since have enjoyed a hugely successful solo career concurrent with a hugely successful band career.

  As if that isn’t enough, I enthusiastically embrace a third career: record producer. Band success begets solo success begets lots of people wanting a bit of whatever perceived “magic” I’ve got. These aren’t any old people; these are offers I’d be stupid to turn down from artists I class as friends and/or heroes. Eric Clapton, John Martyn, Anni-Frid from ABBA, Philip Bailey—they all want me to produce their new albums or, in the case of Robert Plant, seek my recording studio counsel.

  In between, shoehorned into the bursting schedule, I’m becoming more and more involved with The Prince’s Trust. This commitment to the cause means nights out, playing for or socializing with various members of the House of Windsor. No hardship whatsoever, but it does paint me as a conservative, monarchy-loving, brown-nosing lackey. My good pal Charles tells me to ignore the naysayers—or to just say the word and he’ll happily instruct Mummy to decree: “Off with their heads!”

  Treasonous joking aside, I’m wholeheartedly committed to the work undertaken by The Prince’s Trust. The charity was formed by Charles in late 1976, his concerned response to inner-city riots that reflected the growing frustration among British youth. In its early days it was customary to use concerts and film premieres as fundraisers for the Trust. Aware of the power of a pop or rock show to connect with youth both young and old, Charles invited me to join as a trustee.

  One such concert is the Michael Jackson show at Wembley Stadium in 1988. Charles and various Trust bigwigs are in the royal box, and I’m sitting behind HRH with some other anointed commoners. Halfway through the show he turns to me: “I’d like something like this at my party. Could you arrange it?” Slightly stunned, I reply automatically, “Yes, sir, I’ll see what I can do.” Suddenly I’m organizing Prince Charles’s Jacko-inspired fortieth birthday party and in charge of booking the entertainment. Will he be expecting moonwalking and crotch-grabbing?

  I call one of the Genesis booking agents, Steve Hedges, and he sends me some cassettes of turns that might be appropriate. If they’re a covers band who do a decent version of “Beat It,” they’re instantly on the shortlist. I eventually choose an outfit called The Royal Blues. They sound good, can play all the hits of the day, and their name will give pleasure at the palace. I find out from them later that they’re the same band that played at Charles’s twenty-first birthday party. So far, so good.

  The party is to be held at Buckingham Palace and about a month beforehand I’m summoned to a pre-party walk-through of the schedule. I meet with Charles’s equerry and Nigel, the briefcase-toting leader of The Royal Blues.

  We discuss tactics. It seems I am to be the “surprise” entertainment come party night. I therefore won’t be in the receiving line, which is a bummer—no chance to doff my cap to the Queen Mother or the Queen, nor ask whether they preferred Genesis with Peter singing or me.

  Cometh the regal hour, cometh the surprise guest: emerging onto the party floor from my bolthole in a Buckingham Palace anteroom, I’m instantly struck by the presence of so many of pan-European royalty’s greatest hits. Every continental monarch worth their crown seems to be there. Diana is standing front and center, Elton and Fergie are sharing tiara tips at the side of the small stage, and Prince Charles is somewhere not entirely close to his wife.

  I’ve invited guitarist Daryl Stuermer to join me to make it sound a bit more professional, and we’ve rehearsed a set that includes all the songs I’m able to play with this reduced line-up. Unfortunately this means most of my saddest, most break-up-y songs. This doesn’t particularly get them dancing in the aisles. Even at this late stage in their married life, and despite being reasonably close to their inner circle, I’m probably the only person present at Buckingham Palace that night who doesn’t know Charles and Di are on the verge of splitting up.

  Before I leave for home, I commit two more cardinal sins. The first is to approach the Queen and introduce myself. One has to wait for the Queen to approach one. I also address her as “Your Highness” instead of “Your Majesty.” Neither faux pas seems to bother her, and she’s quite friendly, referring to me as her son’s “friend,” which tickles me no end. I’m just starting to glean her views on the use of the 9/8 time signature in “Supper’s Ready” when a beefeater interve
nes.

  As I finally exit, propelled forcefully in the direction of something called “the Tower,” I watch as the Queen and Prince Philip jive to “Rock Around the Clock.” Not an image I’ll ever forget.

  My crew, meanwhile, stay till breakfast is served with the traditional “carriages” at around 1:30 a.m. The guys are holding their plates full of sausages and beans, looking for a place to sit. They see three empty seats and go to sit down, only to find Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II sitting in the fourth seat. “Sit down, sit down,” she commands. And a good old full English fry-up was had by all.

  I have another encounter with Princess Di at her thirtieth birthday luncheon at the Savoy in July 1991. Again I’m booked as the entertainment, and again I play a set of completely inappropriate songs, notably “Doesn’t Anybody Stay Together Anymore.” I sit at her table and ask for her autograph, another no-no as far as royal protocol is concerned. But in this period we seem to meet quite regularly, at Prince’s Trust shows and related events.

  Just to be clear, I certainly wasn’t the fourth person in their marriage, but we’re familiar enough for Diana to reveal some intimacies. Around this time I’m at the dentist in Harley Street. I’m emerging with my longtime assistant Danny Gillen after some major tooth work when a BMW pulls up and the window slides down. It’s Diana and, sitting in the driver’s seat, an officer-class chap I recognize as James Hewitt.

  “What are you doing here, Phil?” she says, smiling. Then, light as you like, “I’ve just had a colonoscopy. It was great. You should try it.”

  Danny and I look at each other. “Did that really just happen?”

  —

  Back to 1981. A year that began with my unexpectedly successful first solo album now ends with Abacab, a chart-topping Genesis album that has mixed things up a bit—it features songs that are, generally, shorter, punchier and less synthesizer-heavy than what we’ve done before. I’ve entered my thirties, but my Tiggerish enthusiasm for change, and adventure, is undimmed. I won’t become Eeyore for some time yet.

  The beginning of 1982 brings more change, and more challenges. ABBA’s Anni-Frid Lyngstad, stunning in a huge fur coat, visits me at The Farm. She’s been going through a divorce, too, from Benny Andersson. With her personal life splintering, and with ABBA’s future looking equally rocky, she wants to make a solo album. I get the impression she’s lived under the oppressive weight of the ABBA phenomenon, and of songwriters/producers Benny and Björn Ulvaeus, for so long that she wants to stretch and be her own woman.

  She doesn’t reveal much of this during our meeting at The Farm, only that she has chosen me to help her realize her goal. She’s seemingly listened to Face Value incessantly, so she believes I understand and can relate to what she’s going through.

  I tell her I can, and also how much I love her fur coat.

  Easily flattered by her enthusiasm for my work, I agree to return once more to Stockholm’s Polar Studios to produce her first ABBA-era solo album. I’ve put together a crack team of musicians: Daryl on guitar, Mo Foster on bass, Peter Robinson on keyboards and The Phenix Horns from Earth, Wind & Fire. Jill will also come for several visits over the eight-week recording/mixing period, although declines the opportunity to stay. Sweden is lovely, but Stockholm isn’t the most exciting place to be for an extended length of time. Jill likes traveling with me, but not that much.

  Sitting together at the studio, Frida and I choose the songs, but she has certain pre-booked numbers that preclude any argument. ABBA’s management put out a worldwide call for compositions and, from the hundreds of responses, an eclectic selection has been assembled. I’ve thrown in one by my pal Stephen Bishop, and she’s chosen a Bryan Ferry number; a Giorgio Moroder co-write that appeared on a Donna Summer album the previous year; a Dorothy Parker poem set to music by the guy who would go on to found Roxette; a song that was the British entry for the 1980 Eurovision Song Contest; and a rework of my Face Value track “You Know What I Mean.” Talk about a smörgåsbord.

  One day while recording at Polar, Benny and Björn come to visit. It’s a little awkward, to say the least. They’re naturally rather possessive. Frida is somewhat fragile, the divorce is still reverberating, they’ve produced her all her adult career, and now, professionally speaking, she has a new man in her life. A man who’s producing, playing drums, singing with her and giving her a far rockier sound than ABBA ever had. And why is the album called Something’s Going On? No one knows at the time that ABBA won’t outlast the year, but the writing is on the wall.

  Maybe that’s why Stig Anderson, the band’s manager and owner of Polar Music, is such an arsehole. Once the album is finished, he invites us all to his house for dinner. When we arrive he’s completely drunk. We listen to Something’s Going On, and at the end he snorts, “Is that it?”

  Frida bursts into tears, and we all want to thump him. And I’m mob-handed—all the Genesis road crew are there, including beefy Geoff Banks, one of our boys with the telling nickname “Bison.” We’ve all come to love this fine lady, and we all feel protective. But cooler, more sober, less Scandinavian heads prevail and we leave, although Stig’s response has soured the whole evening for us.

  Something’s Going On will sell well, with the single “I Know There’s Something Going On” becoming a hit in multiple territories around the world (and a favorite source of samples for hip-hop artists). But I’m fast learning that the producing game comes with its own peculiarities. Maybe being a self-produced solo artist is the easier option after all.

  Back home at Old Croft in spring 1982, the phone rings. “Hi, Phil. It’s Robert Plant.” Despite my being a fan of Plant and Led Zeppelin from way back when, from their very first London gig at the Marquee, Robert and I have never met.

  Led Zeppelin split at the end of 1980, after the death of John Bonham. That tragedy came only two years after the death of another of my teenage drumming heroes, Keith Moon. Shortly after Moonie’s demise, I was working with Pete Townshend at Oceanic in Twickenham, helping on tracks for an artist from New York he was producing, Raphael Rudd, a brilliant pianist and harpist.

  At that time Pete was running around London clubs with New Romantic gadabout Steve Strange. He wasn’t in great shape, partying all night and recovering all day. Pete was still sleeping when I arrived at the studio for the session. But once he was up I grabbed him: “Who’s gonna play drums for The Who now? ’Cause I’d love to do it.”

  “Oh damn, we just asked Kenney Jones to do it.”

  It was a serious offer, and I was a little disappointed. I’d have left Genesis to join Pete, Roger Daltrey and John Entwistle. It’s The Who, man! I grew up with that band. I just loved the energy and I know I could have done it and made it work.

  Denied the chance to play with one set of childhood heroes, here’s Robert Plant offering me another. He wants me to guest on his first solo album. He sends me a bunch of demos with Jason Bonham playing, and he’s fantastic. It’s just like listening to his dad.

  Jason and I had bumped into each other at various Genesis gigs around the English Midlands. He was in his mid-teens, and he was a fan. Jason would later tell me that his dad made him listen to “Turn It On Again,” released just before he died, and made his son try to play it. I never would have thought that John was even aware of me as a drummer.

  I jump at the chance of following in the footsteps of one, if not two, Bonhams. I spend a couple of weeks at Rockfield Studios in Wales playing on six of eight tracks on the album Robert will call Pictures at Eleven. We have lots of laughs between recording. Here are a great bunch of guys, and I’m in a band again, albeit for a short while. Robert’s players are a group of Brummies, all good solid guys, and not in awe of the Zep thing at all. Robert is trying to reinvent himself, something I can understand.

  Home in Surrey again, I start on my second album. I don’t have much to work with—the previous year I’d gone from Face Value to recording Abacab to producing John Martyn’s Glorious Fool to the Abacab tour, and then i
nto the Frida album and the Robert album. There’s been no time for reflection or songwriting.

  Then I hit the proceedings for Andy’s divorce from me. Or they hit me. Legal letters seem to arrive with ponderous regularity. There are demands for a slice of this or that fortune—a fortune that doesn’t exist. Although Face Value has made big impressions and big sales, it will be a long time before the record and publishing companies, as is their business model, finally hand over the royalties.

  For a while Andy returns to London with Joely and Simon, and rents a house in Ealing. Her new Canadian boyfriend follows her. He and I get on OK (you have to live my life to believe it), certainly much better than Andy and I get on. Poor Simon and Joely, more often than not, seem to be almost pushed out the front door to greet me when I come to collect them.

  I’m trying to maintain an even keel, but I admit I’m on a short fuse, and there is lots of shouting. Shouting that will resound in the kids’ ears for many a year.

  It’s a frustrating, enraging situation—one that, alas, won’t be ending any time soon—but also an inspiring one. Soon I have songs like “I Don’t Care Anymore,” “I Cannot Believe It’s True,” “Why Can’t It Wait ’Til Morning” and “Do You Know, Do You Care?” The last thing I want to do is make a second “divorce album,” but being someone who writes from the heart and not the head, right now I have no option.

  The next emotion I have to deal with is my own fear: I have to follow a solo album that wasn’t meant to be an album, far less a hit. Writing another may not be a task I’m up to. I wasn’t expecting to make a second record.

  Neither, it seems, was the listening public. “Thru These Walls,” released in October 1982 as the first single from my second solo album, Hello, I Must Be Going!, limps into the U.K. charts at number 56. In America it fares even worse—my stalwart supporter Ahmet’s label doesn’t even deem it worthy of release. On my part there’s no panic but a little disappointment, and some resignation.