Genesis

In 1976, Genesis proved themselves a band capable of facing the worst adversities. At the same time, they set in motion what amounted to the beginning of a kind of “normalization”. A normalization that would still produce extraordinary albums (everything up to “Duke”), but without that particular something that until then had made them a truly out-of-the-ordinary band. Some will say: it's obvious, the magnetic presence of Peter Gabriel was gone — his voice, his flamboyance, his costumes. True, but not only that. Gabriel embodied a genuinely alien world that the remaining four had no access to. In sensibility, adventurous spirit and character, Peter represented the sick side of Genesis. He was the one who rummaged through the human soul to pull out both its worst and its best, who dug into fears, dreams, and the most fervid (and at times perverse) imagination. And that's what made the music tremendously interesting, unique.

Until the singer's departure, Genesis's output had been a jumble of disparate sensations: there was the fairy-tale element, certainly, but also the grotesque, the brutal, the surreal, the morbid, at times the downright unpleasant (need we mention the lecherous old man of “The Musical Box”?). All this and much more had made the albums of the Gabriel era symbols of a rock that broke free of its own stereotypes to embrace literary, gothic, dark and luminous universes. Gabriel gave Genesis physicality, stories, lyrics, theatricality. His magnetic, fearsome gaze, his irony, his gravity and his mysticism (“Supper's Ready”) had turned him into a rock star unlike any cliché, yet enormously seductive.

The culmination had been the saga of “The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway”, in which the singer had become the sole author of a story beyond any logic, ranging across ego problems, sexual mutations, castrations, beings wrapped in plastic, snake women and the whole delirious imagery. On “The Lamb” Peter's mind had exploded, aided by his exposure to the masterpieces of Alejandro Jodorowsky. A visionary, psychedelic filmmaker, and himself disturbed. Meanwhile Tony Banks, Mike Rutherford, Steve Hackett and Phil Collins played as only they could, and watched, without understanding the theatre their singer had staged. The keyboardist and bassist especially were not immune to a bit of snobbishness. They loved launching into grand sonic frescoes, but all that psychological digging, those ambiguities, that freak parade were beyond them.

Hackett and Collins stood somewhere in the middle. Phil at that moment was totally immersed in music, playing with anyone who came his way, keen on growing as a musician, which he was doing, at stellar levels. Steve was perhaps the closest to Gabriel in shared interests and greater empathy. But he was constantly overshadowed by Banks and Rutherford, who kept relegating him to the margins of the mix. He held on, up to the point where he couldn't take it anymore.

So we arrive at February 13, 1976, the release date of “A Trick Of The Tail”… Peter Gabriel had left, taking with him his whole baggage of idiosyncrasies. The Genesis ship found itself steered mainly by the usual Tony and Mike, for an album recorded in relatively quick time that conveys the image of a band that has rediscovered its cohesion, playing with pleasure, almost with relief. It's a record that no longer seeks to disturb, but to enchant and envelop. The magic no longer lies in excess, but in balance, in songwriting aimed at delivering pleasant emotions rather than leaving scars. You can tell just from the cover: gone are Rael's unsettling visions, replaced by a parade of characters (one for each song) that are, in turn, likeable, quirky, funny, tender. Never disturbing.

Mind you, “A Trick Of The Tail” is still an extraordinary record. Setting aside the oddities of “The Lamb” (which even featured hints of funk and ambient landscapes), the four of them feel free to return to the enchanted atmospheres of “Selling England By The Pound”. But that record still contained grand Gabriel-esque visions, especially in the wordplay of “Dancin’ With The Moonlit Knight” and in the epic blend of local news and Monty Python that is “The Battle Of Epping Forest”. Now, on the other hand, everything becomes more accessible, clearer, in some way more comfortable. The real novelties are the unprecedented — and thrilling — hints of jazz-rock (“Dance On A Volcano”, “Los Endos”) and “Squonk”, with its tough rhythm that Collins, by his own admission, borrowed from John Bonham.

For the rest, we return to the acoustic, enchanted atmospheres built on arpeggiated 12-strings (“Entangled”, “Ripples”), to the gallops in odd time signatures (the 13/8 keyboard solo of “Robbery, Assault & Battery”), and there's even a touch of fairy-tale, Beatles-esque irony (“A Trick Of The Tail”). Standing out as the crown jewel is a Banks-esque composition worthy of Olympus, “Mad Man Moon”, with a vocal melody and harmonic passages touched by divine grace. Tony himself seems to definitively take possession of the sonic space: Mellotron and ARP Pro Soloist are no longer merely evocative instruments, but true narrative engines, capable of carrying whole tracks and driving their emotional dynamics. On “Dance On A Volcano” and “Los Endos” the keyboards converse with the drums in a play of tensions that confirms a new rhythmic centrality within the band. Rutherford too builds elastic foundations that let the music move naturally through the tempo changes.

Generally speaking, beauty abounds, but it's a cleaner, glossier beauty, that of good boys of progressive rock. There's no more blood between the teeth, no more unhealthy sex, no visions of other worlds, no Jodorowsky, no Victorian macabre, no nightmarish nursery rhymes or apocalyptic visions. Freed from that baggage, the band even allows itself to shoot pleasantly trashy videos, especially the one for “Robbery, Assault & Battery”, with the four of them starring in a deliberately over-the-top, improbable cops-and-robbers story. An almost liberating, self-mocking game: as if Genesis could finally afford to laugh at themselves.

In all this, the great revolution: Collins made his debut as a singer. And here too, technically speaking, there's nothing to complain about — if anything, the drummer proves even more skilled than his predecessor. But something is missing: the roughness, the grit, the technically imperfect yet emotionally gripping quality. With “A Trick Of The Tail” Genesis give themselves a good scrubbing. They abandoned Gabriel's intuitions but gained instrumental fluency. The songs lost any experimental ambition and became more enjoyable, better suited to the mainstream audience of the time. Commercially speaking, in fact, “A Trick Of The Tail” would sell more than any previous Genesis album. A nice confidence boost for the four of them, and a big middle finger to those who thought they were finished once their frontman left. But that success would prove to be a double-edged sword. Emboldened by the results, Banks, Rutherford and Collins would increasingly put themselves at the service of the pop song, plain and simple. We all know the results, for better or worse.

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02/05/2026