Not Dead Yet

by Phil Collins

  After a few last-minute discussions, Sting and I go onstage around 2 p.m. As we walk on there’s a huge roar. Compere Noel Edmonds mentions that as soon as I finish here, I’m taking Concorde to Philadelphia to play there as well. More cheering.

  I’m biting down on my nerves. There’s the logistics—are we actually going to make this flight? And there’s the immediate challenge of not ballsing it up in front of this global telly audience of 1 billion.

  Just before we go on, casual as you like, Sting says, “By the way, sometimes I mess around with the words…” Next thing I know, I’m standing at the piano, singing, and he’s off on a tangent on the other side of the Wembley stage, singing, “Every breath…every move…every bond…” I’m singing the correct words, but the flash sod is, metaphorically speaking, once again improvising in his underpants. Meanwhile, the viewing millions are howling, “Shut up, Collins! You’re singing the fucking wrong words! You should have rehearsed!”

  If only that was the last of my problems that day.

  The stage is white, and it’s a very sunny day, so it’s blisteringly hot up there. I’m so sweaty that my finger slips off the piano key on “Against All Odds.” It’s a real clanger, and I can almost hear 80,000 people in Wembley wincing. It’s the bum note that’s heard around the world. With that, and the “Every Breath” lyrical “confusion,” I’m already looking a bit of an amateur.

  But I’m offstage before I know it. Then some hurry-up-and-wait—we might have to get across the Atlantic sharpish, but I still have to wait an hour or so for Noel Edmonds and his chopper to pick me up and get me to Heathrow. Even Geldof can’t tell air traffic controllers to pull their fucking fingers out.

  I had been reassured I wasn’t the only one making the trip to Philadelphia—I definitely didn’t want to give the impression that I was the solo show-off playing both concerts. I’d been told not to worry—Duran Duran would be going as well.

  But for some reason Duran Duran are now only playing in America. So all of a sudden, I’m the only one, and the vibe changes. In the Live Aid rock and pop aristocracy, everyone is equal, but some are more equal than others. So, off Jill and I go in a car to Edmonds’ chopper, which is lurking in a field nearby. Of course there’s television coverage of every step of this journey. “And here’s grinning Phil Collins, still in his stage clothes, still sweating, and already he’s on his way to Philadelphia. What a guy!”

  Into the chopper, up in the air, a quick hop to Heathrow, where we land right next to Concorde—all of this still on camera.

  It’s a scheduled Concorde flight, so there’s a planeload of passengers waiting to take off, when suddenly this sweaty rabble pile on. Most are aware of what’s going on because it’s been in all the papers, and a few are nudging each other, whispering, “He’s a lot shorter than I thought he’d be.”

  But not all of them, it turns out, know what’s going on. Halfway along the aisle, on the way to my seat, I see Cher. She clearly hasn’t the slightest idea what the fuss is about. She’s in her civvies. She doesn’t look like “Cher.” She clocks me, trailed by this posse of journalists and photographers.

  I’m a bit star-struck. Wow, Cher. I don’t care if she isn’t wearing her battle make-up. But plainly she cares. So, as I’m getting out my chunky eighties Walkman, and my cassettes of the Zeppelin albums, she’s making her way to the bathroom. And before we’ve taken off, she’s coming back again, having made herself look like “Cher,” bless her heart.

  During the flight she comes back to see me.

  “Hi, Phil, what’s happening?”

  “Um, you don’t know about this big Live Aid concert? Global jukebox thing, Wembley, Philadelphia, one billion viewers around the world…? We’re just on our way to play the American show.”

  “Oh,” says Cher. “Can you get me on it?”

  I’m thinking, “Again? What am I, a fucking talent agent?”

  So, like I said to Robert, I tell her she doesn’t need me. She’s Cher! I’m sure it’s not a problem.

  Now, there are rumors about this Concorde flight. Notably that I was out of my brain on cocaine, my own version of the mile-high club. I would never have been able to do everything I had to do at Live Aid if I was off my head. But I can see where the myth might have come from. It’s high-flying rock stars! It’s the eighties! It’s the decade for that. But I’m working all the time, and the reason I’m working all the time is not because I’m speeding out of my box.

  I keep my hands very clean when it comes to my responsibilities. Especially on July 13, 1985, this day of all days. I don’t even have my free glass of Concorde champagne. Maybe Cher nabbed it.

  Halfway through the flight, it’s been arranged that I’ll do a broadcast from Concorde using the pilots’ communication systems. So I head to the cockpit. These pilots are at the top of their tree, and they’re saying to me, “We’re not supposed to do this, so don’t tell anyone…” I’m thinking, “We’re about to do a live broadcast around the world!” Clearly the captain hadn’t thought through the practical mechanics of this global jukebox either.

  Back in the TV studio in London, the BBC presenters are stoking the excitement. “And now we’re going over live to Phil Collins in the cockpit of Concorde! How’s it going, Phil? What’s it like?”

  “It’s all right, we’re halfway there…”

  There’s puzzlement from the studio guests, Billy Connolly, Andrew Ridgeley from Wham! and Pamela Stephenson. All they can hear is this muffled squawk and static. Connolly is skeptical. “It could be fucking anybody! He could be anywhere!”

  Before I know it, we’re landing. Straight off Concorde at JFK Airport in New York, no Customs, straight on to another chopper, and off we go to JFK Stadium in Philadelphia. It takes almost as long to get from New York to Philly as it took to get across the Atlantic.

  We drive in, and backstage I meet my old mate and right-hand man Steve “Pud” Jones. He tells me everything’s OK with the drum kit. I pop round to Eric’s dressing room and sense that even his band are all muttering, “Fucking show-off…” But I find out what we’re playing, and it’s a breeze. I’m buzzing on adrenaline and it’s all forward momentum. It’s too late to stop now.

  Then I’m buttonholed by Kenny Kragen, Lionel Richie’s manager. He’s in charge of the finale performance of the USA for Africa song “We Are the World,” which Lionel wrote.

  “Phil, would you sing a line in the song?”

  “Ah, well, what time is it gonna be?”

  “It’s just one line, no big deal.”

  “OK, yeah, I’ll do it.”

  Then I start making my way to the Led Zeppelin caravan. There’s no goat’s head over the door, but I can see the black clouds gathering before I get there.

  Here’s how it is. Robert on his own: a lovely bloke. Robert and anything to do with Zeppelin: a strange chemistry happens. It’s like a nasty strain of alchemy. Everything becomes very dark—sulfurous even. It’s immediately obvious that Jimmy is, shall we say, edgy. Jumpy. It’s only later when I watch the clip that I see him dribbling onstage—actual saliva. And he can barely stand up as he’s playing, which I believe is possibly his “thing.” Keith Richards does that, and it’s beautiful to behold. But Jimmy just looks like a baby giraffe.

  But that fun is all in front of us. Right now I’m introduced to John Paul Jones, who’s quieter than a church mouse. Then I’m introduced to Tony Thompson. He’s very cool with me. But not in a cool way. I believe the term is froideur. I mention to him the pitfalls of playing with two drummers. I’ve done it for years with Genesis and my own band, and know full well how badly it can go awry. The secret, I’ve learnt through hard experience, is to keep it simple.

  But the look from Tony suggests he’s not interested in “tips” from any ocean-hopping carpetbagger who’s just swanned in off Concorde.

  It slowly dawns on me: these guys have been working pretty hard in preparation for Live Aid, and Tony’s been rehearsing with them for at least a w
eek. It’s a big deal for all parties, except this party who, perhaps naively, has not quite grasped how much is riding on this performance.

  Then Jimmy looks at me. “So,” he says, part drawl, part growl, “you know what we’re playing?”

  “Ah. Yeah. The only bit I’m still a bit green with is the flamenco guitar part before the solo on ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ ”

  “Well, what is it then?”

  “I think it’s this…”

  “No, it’s not!” smirks Mr. Page.

  I’m thinking, “OK! Be helpful. Don’t tell me what it isn’t. Tell me what it is!”

  I feel like I’ve failed a test. What I think Jimmy’s actually saying is: “Do we really need this guy? Do we really need him to be playing with us?” I’m made to feel like the guy who’s gate-crashed the party.

  I’m looking at Robert and wondering, “Have you told him? Have you told anyone why I’m here? I’m here because you asked me to get you on this fucking gig, and then you said, ‘Maybe you, me and Jimmy can do something?’ That’s why I’m here! I didn’t come here to play with Led Zeppelin. I came here to play with a friend of mine who’s morphed back into the lead singer of Led Zeppelin, a very different animal from the one who invited me.”

  With regards to Robert’s vocals, you have to be match-fit, especially if you’re doing what he’s doing, all this high-range stuff. But it’s clear to me that he is not match-fit. Then there’s this other undercurrent from Page. Yes, I was Robert’s drummer, and I’ve played with him on the road. But this isn’t the same. This is Zeppelin. You don’t fuck with Zeppelin.

  Now I’m caught up in the ceaselessly toxic, dysfunctional web of Led Zeppelin interpersonal relationships, ongoing to this day. But I have no option but to shrug off the doubts and get on with it.

  The set with Eric is great fun and problem-free. His drummer Jamie and I keep out of each other’s way, and the result is a beautiful thing. Then, before the Led-Zep-not-Led-Zep show, I have to reprise my two-song set from Wembley. This I manage, and with only a hint of a sweaty finger/clunky note.

  And then: the fateful reunion.

  I know the wheels are falling off from early on in the set. I can’t hear Robert clearly from where I’m sat, but I can hear enough to know that he’s not on top of his game. Ditto Jimmy. I don’t remember playing “Rock and Roll,” but obviously I did. But I do remember an awful lot of time where I can hear what Robert decries as “knitting”: fancy drumming. And if you can find the footage (the Zeppelin camp have done their best to scrub it from the history books), you can see me miming, playing the air, getting out of the way lest there be a trainwreck. If I’d known it was to be a two-drummer band, I would have removed myself from proceedings long before I got anywhere near Philadelphia.

  Onstage I don’t take my eyes off Tony Thompson. I’m glued to him. I’m having to follow—he’s taking the heavy-handed lead and has opted to ignore all my advice. Putting myself in his shoes, he’s probably thinking, “This is the beginning of a new career. John Bonham isn’t around anymore. They’re gonna want someone. This could be the start of a Led Zeppelin reunion. And I don’t need this English fuck in my way.”

  I’m not judging him, God rest his soul. Thompson was a fantastic drummer. But it was very uncomfortable, and if I could have left that stage, I would have left, halfway through “Stairway…,” if not earlier. But imagine the coverage of that? Walking off during The Second Coming? Who the fuck does Collins think he is? Geldof really would have had something to swear about.

  After what seems like an eternity, we finish. I’m thinking, “My God, that was awful. The sooner this is over, the better.”

  There’s one more moment of horror. Backstage, MTV VJ Alan Hunter is waiting to interview Led Zeppelin. The sweat still damp on our brows, the bad taste still ripe in my mouth, we gather outside the caravan of doom. Back in the studio, he’s teed up the interview with the words: “On a day for reunions, probably the most anticipated is the Led Zeppelin reunion. Now right here, an interview with the reunited members…”

  Hunter starts asking questions, and it’s quickly obvious that nobody is taking him seriously. Robert and Jimmy are being difficult, giving vague, cocky answers to straight questions; John Paul Jones is still quieter than a church mouse.

  I feel sorry for Hunter. He’s live on air, a worldwide audience is waiting with bated breath, and these guys are making him look like an idiot. So I try to come to the rescue by steaming in with answers. Answers to some questions I’m not really qualified to answer.

  Hunter’s probably getting urgent instructions off-camera: “We don’t want to talk to Collins!” But I’m thinking, “What the fuck? Why are Robert and Jimmy being like this? The guy is just asking questions. If that onstage debacle wasn’t bad enough, this interview footage is going to be even worse.”

  In a shutting stable door after the horse has bolted style, Led Zeppelin won’t let the performance be included on the official Live Aid DVD. Because, of course, they were ashamed of it. And I find that I am usually the one blamed for it. It couldn’t possibly be the holy Led Zep who were at fault. It was that geezer who came over on Concorde who wasn’t rehearsed. He was the culprit. That show-off.

  Backstage again, I start planning to scarper. Eric is now holed up in Bob Dylan’s caravan with Ronnie Wood and Keith Richards—that other lot who didn’t do very well that day. Lucky I didn’t see that shambles (although it might have made me feel a bit better). I’m tired and thinking, “What the fuck was all that about?” I’ve played with an awful lot of musicians, and a lot of awful musicians, but I’ve never experienced anything like that.

  Then, shattered, and utterly deflated, like the plug has been pulled, I suddenly remember: “Oh, man, I’ve got to sing ‘We Are the Fucking World’ with Lionel Richie and Harry Belafonte.”

  I tell Kenny Kragen I can’t do it. Certainly from where I’m sitting, amid the wreckage of a crashed Led Zeppelin, we are very much not the world. I need to get out of here, and get the last helicopter back to New York.

  Tony Smith, Jill and I clamber wearily aboard. We land at the heliport on Manhattan’s West Side and tip out onto this riverside wasteland. After everything that’s happened today—Wembley, Heathrow, Concorde, JFK Airport, JFK Stadium, four performances, one of them the gig from hell, helicopter back to the city—we get out, and it’s tumbleweed: no car. Someone has forgotten to book a driver to meet us. No cabs either. Not round this part of town at this time of night. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse…

  Eventually we manage to flag down a cab and we make it to the hotel. I turn on the TV. It’s the death throes of the Philadelphia show. Who do I see onstage?

  Cher.

  It’s the mad end to the whole mad day. Not only did she get in, she got a microphone. And she’s singing “We Are the World.” Maybe she’s singing my line.

  The next day, we get Concorde back and collect the kids—they’ve just about finished sticking pins in my effigy. Back home in West Sussex on Sunday, July 14, 1985, it’s just Jill, Joely, Simon and I, and the beginning of the school summer holidays. “What do you want to do? Shall we get the Lego out?”

  Now the really challenging stuff begins.

  Or: trying to maintain domestic bliss while filling stadiums (collectively), becoming a leading-man film star (briefly) and embarrassing the heir to the throne (inadvertently)

  Daddy’s home! The post–Live Aid summer of 1985, I try as best I can to go back to being a family man. I usually have Simon and Joely for the long school holidays, and given that they live the rest of the year in Vancouver, and that I’m always busy somewhere, these summer months when we can reunite are sacrosanct. Even though Joely, Simon and I speak regularly, every visit is a surprise. They both have bigger personalities, become more fashion-conscious, more aware of their hairstyles and, of course, taller.

  I have many home videos from that era, and it’s fascinating to listen to their evolving accents. Joely in parti
cular gradually goes from prim and English to more mid-Atlantic. They are both turning into lovely young people with fine manners, although, of course, with these changes come problems—problems I wish I’d been there to share. For me and my geographically distant children, there are growing pains on both sides.

  “Home” now is Lakers Lodge in Loxwood, West Sussex. We decided to move from Old Croft while I was recording No Jacket Required in London. Jill took on the major task of finding us a new base while I was otherwise detained in the studio. It wasn’t quite the same as my mum buying a new house and moving the family into it in the course of one of my dad’s nine-to-five days, but, well, it is a bit.

  Lakers Lodge dates from the early eighteenth century, when it was called Beggars Bush. Grade II listed, it’s a big old Georgian house, sturdily built, with twelve acres of land and a formal walled garden. We later dig a lake, enabling me to do with my children what my dad did with me—mess about in a boat. This house was the local nerve center during the Second World War—I have pictures of the Home Guard detachment doing rifle drill on the lawn.

  The property comes with a small staff, a middle-aged couple called Len and Joyce Buck, who’ve lived in the grounds for twenty-five years. Len is a quiet and justifiably proud gardener of the old school who knows exactly when to reap and when to sow. Joyce is the housekeeper and the boss.

  The previous owner had told them they would not be wanted after the sale, but I didn’t want this house unless they came with it. They’re as loyal as could be, and help Jill and I settle in. Over the ensuing years we become happy members of the community. We host big Christmas parties to which we invite the whole village; we become regulars at the lovely pub, the Cricketers; and I join the “celebrity” team who play cricket on the green on occasional Sundays. All the locals become good friends, and years later they come en masse to my fiftieth birthday party in Zermatt, Switzerland.