by Phil Collins
We check into a conference room at the Metropole Hotel in Geneva. The men from Disney come with a proposal. They want me to write the music for the company’s thirty-seventh animated feature, which will be an adaptation of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Tarzan of the Apes novels. As they used to say in Hollywood, this will be a major motion picture event. I later find out how major: with a budget of $130 million, when it’s released Tarzan will be the most expensive animated feature ever made. But in a way, it needs to be: The Lion King, released in 1994, was a huge success, at the time the fifth most popular film in American box office history. Schumacher and his guys are gunning for similar levels of success.
On the blaringly obvious level, what an offer. At this point neither the Disney team nor the rest of the world are aware that I’ve left Genesis, so relatively speaking, my schedule is pretty clear. Equally importantly, I grew up with Disney; it’s in my DNA. I’ve watched all the films with all my kids. I’ve even watched them without my kids: I remember being in LA with Tony Banks and going to see Beauty and the Beast as soon as it was released.
As a child, my brother Clive’s future career as a cartoonist loomed large in my consciousness: the work of Disney’s legendary animators, the Nine Old Men, was pinned to the walls on his side of our shared bedroom. Courtesy of my professional ice-skater sister Carole, the Collins family went to see the annual Christmas ice show at Wembley, which, more often than not, was based on the current Disney film. It became second nature to see the Fairy Queen (Carole) pal about with the rest of the Disney menagerie, including all of the Seven Dwarfs the year she was in Snow White. In fact, I got to know Dopey best of all—he came to live with us for the duration of the show’s winter run at Wembley.
His name was Kenny Baker, and he also played in a musical comedy group called The Mini Tones. But he became best known via another gig: Kenny was R2-D2 in the Star Wars films. He had a six-foot girlfriend, Annette, who also stayed with us. Modesty prevents me from thinking what they got up to. I grew used to seeing them around our house, but our mongrel, Buddy, took a bit longer. Kenny would ring the doorbell, I’d open the door, and Buddy would find himself nose-to-nose with this human.
It wasn’t just the cartoons and the characters that spoke to me. Like anyone who grew up after the war, Disney songs are part of my life. One example: as noted earlier, I remember my dad singing “Hi-Diddle-Dee-Dee” from Pinocchio the first time he let go of my saddle when I learnt to ride my bike. Much later, Aladdin was the soundtrack to those bittersweet marking-time interludes in the car with Lily after Jill and I split.
The memories are that specific, that totemic. These songs are in my blood. And that’s before my mind zooms forward to the here and now, to 1995—this is the year Elton John, my near peer, has won an Oscar, a Grammy and a Golden Globe for his work on the soundtrack for The Lion King.
So when, as a songwriter, you get a phone call saying Disney want you to write for them, you think, “My God, I’m being asked to join a club I never thought I’d become a member of.”
Then, immediately after that, you think, “My God, they’re asking me to do something I don’t think I can do.”
The Disney quartet pitch me the story. It’s Tarzan, and it makes sense to ask me: drums, jungle rhythms, percussion. On paper, it’s a great fit. But still, I’m not sure. This would be a huge undertaking. And I’m not sure they’re sure. Don’t Disney know that my last release was Both Sides, not my first but my second rather bleak “divorce album”? And haven’t they heard of Faxgate, not to mention Taxgate?
But these guys are American, so to a large extent they’ve been insulated from the charms of British tabloids. Also, they’re Disney. They know what they’re doing. It was the bright idea of Chris Montan, in charge of music production, to commission Elton for The Lion King, so he’s clearly no fool. Plus, not many listeners caught on to the lyrical detail of Both Sides, and its perceived failure still amounted to around 7 million sales globally. I infer that Chris’s key thoughts are: “This guy’s hot, has been for a long while now, and we need someone reliably hot to do our film.”
Nevertheless, ever the worrier, I find myself saying, “I don’t know if I can write a song like ‘Be My Guest’ from Beauty and the Beast. I don’t know if I can ‘be’ the candelabra singing to all the pots and pans. I can’t do the show songs, and I’m not sure I can write the funny songs either.”
Team Disney reply: “If we’d wanted that, we’d have asked Alan Menken [the pre-eminent American musical theater and film composer]. We want you to be you.”
The mist clears. “Oh well, if you want me to be me, I can probably do that.”
Then another realization: I don’t have to leave home to do this. I can write Tarzan in my shed, in the garden, in my new Swiss home.
What’s more, I’m being asked to do this as a writer. They want me for my ability to create songs with a distinctive voice. Best of all, they only want me to write the songs, not sing them. Which means I can continue with my plan to remain in the background of this or any other scenario.
The clincher comes when Disney tell me that there’s no rush and that it’s a long-term project. And they’re not kidding: it will be four years before Tarzan hits the cinemas.
It’s an offer I can’t refuse.
Signed up to the Mouse House, I apply all of myself to Tarzan, approaching it with the seriousness and single-mindedness I applied to any of the band or solo albums. To me, this is not a children’s thing. I’m being asked to do something that will last forever. That’s the thing with Disney films: they move from generation to generation, usually (in the case of the great ones) becoming more popular as they go. You can’t say that about many rock bands. I’m not suggesting that Tarzan will have the longevity of Snow White. But if we do it right—and, of course, the animators and storyboarders and scriptwriters are all equally on the hook—then this one could run and run. As is the multi-platform modern way of things, it could even become a stage musical.
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. In Switzerland in the autumn of 1995, once I’m over my initial crisis of confidence, I start to write. I keep writing. I write an awful lot of music. I write “You’ll Be in My Heart” and “Son of Man” and “Strangers Like Me.” The Disney team are over the moon at my enthusiasm, and at the depth and quality of the material. It’s amazing what you can do when you’re terrified.
This is a top-to-bottom, head-to-heart, deeply personal commitment for me. The lullaby “You’ll Be in My Heart” began life as a melody I imagined singing to a baby Lily. And my engagement doesn’t end with the initial songwriting. I’ve heard Elton’s demos for The Lion King, and it was just him, a piano and a drum machine. But I really want to be part of the mechanism of how the entire soundtrack comes together. So I make the demos more than just simple home recordings, building them up into approximations of finished songs. Disney loves these. And when Disney loves you, you feel really loved.
Still, it’s very much a creative back-and-forth. The making of a Disney film involves a cast of hundreds, which can mean a lot of “notes” on your particular patch of creativity. There is no such thing as a script, just pages. These can change, and they will, so a song needs to change. A character can be cut, so a song has to go. The narrative turns left, so your lyrics need to turn left. I don’t have a problem with it. I was in a band for years; I’m used to writing-by-committee.
I’ve taken on this project on the assumption that the actor who plays Tarzan, and all the other voice cast, will be the ones singing the songs. This has always been the Disney way. The songs move the narrative along, so therefore you have to have the characters lead the songs. Even cartoons with talking animals have to possess an internal logic.
The next common-sense step is that I’ll be present in the studio to help oversee the recording. Cut to a studio in New York as the process starts. I’ve sent the team demos throughout the writing. Unbeknown to me, they’ve grown very attached to these. So much so that it’s bec
oming very difficult for them to see any other voice singing the songs. However, they’re going to give it a try. Glenn Close, who’s playing Tarzan’s gorilla foster-mother Kala, is coming in to sing “You’ll Be in My Heart,” and Rosie O’Donnell (Tarzan’s foster-sister Terk) is coming in to sing “Trashin’ the Camp.” Before we begin recording, I’m sent out to teach Glenn the song.
Before now I’ve never had occasion to consider this, but with “In the Air Tonight,” for example, the drum machine does nothing on the down beat. So someone who’s not a drummer would struggle to know where “one” is—that is, they’ll struggle to know when to come in. Now I’m realizing that “You’ll Be in My Heart” follows the same pattern. And Glenn just can’t get it. She’s singing on the down beat. She’s a Broadway singer, and she can sing. But there’s a basic rhythmic disconnect happening here.
Over the studio microphone I try to help, saying gently (I hope), “No, no, no, Glenn, it’s like this…” But after a dispiriting number of failed takes, this group of Disney brass start looking at each other, telepathically screaming, “What the fuck are we gonna do?”
Glenn’s frustration is also mounting. She’s a lovely lady, no diva by any stretch of the imagination, but I can see through the studio glass that she’s reaching the point of no return.
We record a duet version for the benefit of the cameras who are in here too (just to add to the pressure), filming for the press kit. It’s very funny, and helps break the ice. But soon the ice refreezes.
A break is called and a quick discussion ensues. “Let’s have Glenn sing-speak the first verse, then Phil will sing the rest.” I nod, while thinking, “Yeah, but I’m not in the movie.”
We record Glenn, almost a cappella; then I come in, with my drummer’s timing. Finally, it sounds decent. But I’m still thinking, “What’s really going to happen on the film soundtrack?”
Eventually, the Disney brass reach a decision: “Well, Phil, you’re going to sing it.” Moreover, once we’ve done “You’ll Be in My Heart,” it’s decided that I’ll sing four out of the five songs. The idea of characters singing goes out of the window, which is the first time this has happened on a Disney movie.
Most of the songs still work, and I breathe out. Now I’m singing more like the narrator of the story, albeit a narrator with no spoken lines of dialogue. We eventually manage to cajole Rosie into doing the scat, jazzy thing on “Trashin’ the Camp,” and she carries it off. But that’s the only song in the movie that the character sings.
I won’t lie: I’m thrilled at this outcome. Not only will my songs be in a Disney movie, my voice will too. On top of that, the songs will be performed as I wrote them. That has been my big fear—you write it and suddenly it’s being sung by another singer in another style. Possibly a bugling Broadway musical style. This is, I learn, the art of writing for a musical, whether animated or on Broadway.
What I don’t realize yet is that my singing the songs will mean singing them in a host of different languages. As the songs in the films are normally sung by the characters, usually the different voice talent in each territory sings the translated versions. But Tarzan isn’t singing these songs in English, so he isn’t singing them in Japanese either. As Disney is an entertainment force that knows no national boundaries, popular from Burbank to Bangkok to Beijing, that nameless narrator had better get his multilingual skates on. Tarzan is being dubbed into thirty-five languages, a record for a Disney film.
We compromise: I re-record the entire soundtrack in Italian, Spanish, Castilian Spanish, French and German.
The Tarzan commission has given me a feeling I’ve long hankered after, and long pursued: in being entrusted with the songs for an entire Disney film, I’m being taken seriously as a songwriter. For all my commercial success, the absence of this feeling is something I’ve always had a chip on my shoulder about.
On June 16, 1999, two days before the film’s U.S. release, I’m awarded a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, outside Disney’s own El Capitan Theatre. Not something an end-of-the-line boy from Hounslow could ever have imagined in a million years.
Tarzan is a hit, critically and commercially, grossing almost $500 million worldwide and becoming the fifth biggest film of the year. “You’ll Be in My Heart” is nominated for an Oscar and wins the Golden Globe for Best Original Song–Motion Picture. At the Grammys, composer Mark Mancina and I win the award for Best Soundtrack Album.
Before the Academy Awards there is a small salute by MusiCares, the music industry charity, to Elton John in LA. Several previous honorees—including Stevie Wonder, Tony Bennett and Sting—perform a selection of his songs. I sing “Burn Down the Mission.” Afterward, in the Elton receiving area, he and I discuss the upcoming Oscars, and what he felt when he won for “Can You Feel the Love Tonight,” and what I will feel if I’m lucky enough to win. He tells me he felt “fucking great.”
Come Oscar night 2000, I am, this time, deemed good enough to perform my song. Cher is presenting the music category. When she opens that envelope and says my name—I’ve won the Academy Award for Best Original Song—I stand there in disbelief.
All told, I count the four years I spent working on Tarzan as a brilliant adventure. I worked hard, stretched myself, met some great people, and I learnt a huge amount about working in a new medium.
As the nineties draw to a close, I feel like I can go anywhere. I’ve done a Disney film. I’ve made a colorful, optimistic solo album. I’ve done the big band—in fact, I’ve done it twice: in 1998 The Phil Collins Big Band goes out on tour again, this time for longer, and in America as well. In 1999 we release a live album, A Hot Night in Paris.
I also draw a line under my story so far. In 1998 I release…Hits, and in 1999 Genesis release Turn It On Again: The Hits, both of which do what they say on the tin. That was then, this is now.
I’m moving onward, growing outward, growing up. I’ve been invigorated by my new love with Orianne. I’m learning French. I’m firmly, happily, settled in Switzerland. And, all these years after the halcyon days of the Converted Cruiser Club, I’ve finally got a boat. Shimmering blue Lac Léman isn’t the muddy Thames, but it’ll do. Je suis vivant le rêve.
Just before the new millennium dawns, on July 24, 1999, I make a commitment to the future. Orianne and I are married—twice, just to make sure, firstly in our home town of Begnins, and secondly in Lausanne, where we met. The bride wears white, the groom, a dark suit. We have a beautiful reception at the Beau-Rivage in Lausanne, with all our friends in attendance. I believe they’re still talking about it.
That’s it. I’m settled, I’m done, I’m happy.
Or: earache, heartache and a final farewell
What do you call someone who hangs around with musicians? A drummer.
Did you hear about the drummer who finished high school? Me neither.
What’s the last thing a drummer says in a band? “Hey, guys, how about we try one of my songs?”
It’s not easy being a drummer. I’ve heard all the jokes. I know that it takes five of us to change a lightbulb—one to screw it in, four to talk about how much better Steve Gadd would have done it. I’ve yucked along to the one about the drummer who died, went to heaven, was surprised to hear some phenomenal drumming coming from behind the Pearly Gates, and rushed to St. Peter to ask if that was really Buddy Rich playing. “No, that’s God. He just thinks he’s Buddy Rich.” I should have told that one to Tony Bennett.
I became used to the cracks early on. Us drummers have to develop a thick skin, especially on our fingers. We’re the most physical guys on a stage, and we have to keep up. Post-show, the drummer is the one who’s shattered, drenched in sweat in the dressing room, panting. I don’t mind. That’s our gig. Keeping the beat, feeling beat.
By the time I’ve completed the very physical A Trip into the Light tour—a busy, in-the-round show—in 1997, and marshaled the troops on the second Big Band tour in 1998, I’ve kept the show on the road for almost thirty years. Although
I have long since given over the drumming heavy lifting to either Chester Thompson or Ricky Lawson, both fantastic drummers, I still keep my hand in, making sure that at some point in every show on every tour, I play drums enough to keep my chops up. I always return to the warm embrace of the drum stool. She’s my first love, the seat of all my power.
In three decades out there performing, I have barely ever faltered in brute physical terms. Blisters are generally as bad as it’s got. After any length of time at home, you’d have softened up. A few weeks of bathing the kids, or washing up after dinner, and your hands that did dishes would feel as soft as your face. All of a sudden you’d have to go on tour again and your fingers would need to be gig-ready and hardened.
I remember the first time I went on tour with Eric, in 1986. We’d just started and I was complaining about blood blisters. He told me his ritual: a few weeks ahead of a tour he’d start filing the ends of his fingers. He’d literally scrape off the pads on his fingertips, they’d scab, then he’d scrape them off again. Eventually they’d be nicely calloused and EC would be ready for another run of blistering solos.
Being in pain and getting blisters is just an occupational hazard. The first few years of Genesis were physically arduous, especially when I was pulling double duty. Some singers physically switch off when there’s an instrumental section in a song. Me? I would rush back to the drums and play. Things naturally eased up when the singing started to take over from the drumming. But when I reverted to pure drumming gigs with Eric and Robert Plant, that’s when it was tough: non-stop playing, backing up frontmen who knew a thing or two about working with great drummers like Ginger Baker and John Bonham.