It’s like taking acid for the first time, only better, the girl in L.A. sighed. Her boyfriend disagreed. Bullshit, he snarled, pretentious rubbish. I saw God just now, their androgynous companion stuttered.

The girl continued. It’s his hair, it’s so sexy, so artistic. Tve never seen a cut like that! What, the boy gawked, you go in for that hatchet job? His hair looks like a scalp with crabs.

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C-C-Cosmic^the^ companion volunteered.

Yes, yes, yes, the girl repeated excitedly. It’s definitely cosmic. And that stage show ... she stopped short, overcome with emotion. Stage show my ass, said her disillusioned young man. Visuals, he scoffed, is that what you’d call a dayglo box, that ridiculous flower, those bumps and jerks? I saw God, the companion repeated in drone-like fashion.

Genesis is an incongruous bunch in a world where Tubular Bells is the muzak of the future. Some think it’s avant garde nonsense; others say it’s the only excitement happening in rock. There’s no 12 bar boogie for Genesis. The group spins musical movies while this weird dude dresses up in funny clothes. Onstage they resemble a Zap Comix page more than ELP.

If you’ve only seen the photos, the one with the funny hair doesn’t put flowers on his head and sing “Whole Lotta Love.” Musically, they rip off their predecessors far more than Yes or Alice Cooper ever did. People murmur about theater rock, fantasy world, bloody faggots, and brilliant — all in the same breath.

Back in ‘69, during that post-flower electric hippie revolution, Genesis was your average bunch of struggling songwriters. Bubblegum guru Jonathan King produced their first album, but it sounds more like a Moody Blues/Procol Harum synthesis than it does the Ohio Express. The songs got better, the musicianship tighter, but the audience remained small. In a last ditch attempt for recognition Peter Gabriel started miming to the more story-like lyrics. The rest is show biz history: audiences decided he had STAR quality, and success in Europe rapidly followed.

Although he’s only one-fifth of Genesis, Gabriel is the guythat gets all the press. He likes Monty Python and art museums, and talks in a delivery not unlike Stan Laurel. A natural exhibitionist performer onstage, he’s made edgy by a room full of people offstage. Right now we’re sitting in a Holiday Inn room while Peter talks in mumble-jumble fashion and fidgets nervously:

“As far as other bands go, I think we’re in a puddle all by ourselves. We’re closer to cartoons than the conventional rock band. I’d like to get that cartoon feel across more, but the visuals are just a means to an end. What we are is songwriters who play at being musicians and then play at being performers.

“Still, I don’t enjoy performing. It’s a bit like training an animal, except the animal is me. At best it’s a world where my spine shows, at worst it’s like maybe I should be doing sortie thing else. We’re thought of as a visual act, but to us it’s the music.”

The other guys in Genesis don’t particularly relish being thought of as “those other guys.” Mike Rutherford and Tony Banks are founding members, while drummer Phil “Boogie” Collins and guitarist Steve Hackett were duly initiated three years back.

“Sure, all of Peter’s press bothers us, because we’re an equally spread band. And it brings us down when people can’t see beyond that superficial thing of Peter wearing funny clothes and masks,” laments Collins. “They seem to forget that we all write music and lyrics. What * annoys us intensely is when people come backstage after a gig, ignore everyone else, go right up to Peter, and say, ‘Amazing show, man, really dug it," your music is fantastic.’ The visuals bounce off the music. Peter wears a stocking over his head in ‘Battle of Epping Forest’ because he’s imitating a rogue, not because he’s got sexual fantasies.”

Image can make or break a band, and with Genesis the image is so hazy, so off the wall, that it gets confusing. People come to shows expecting to see a half-assed circus act; they wait at the stage door to glimpse robed occultists. So obtuse is the Genesis image that audiences actually express disappointment when the stage show isn’t more bizarre. Kids sit in wide-eyed anticipation waiting for Gabriel to walk over hot coals in bare feet. Backstage you see looks of disbelief when fans discover that all five members don’t have to be wheeled onstage iri a drugged euphoria.

“There is something good about seeing rock people offstage,” Gabriel says. “They’re so arrogant, brash and forceful with their knives glaring and their Che Guevera belts. I like that whole routine even though we’re nothing like that.We’re just regular guys.” He smiles wryly. “I mean, the other night I was talking to someone that was convinced I was the angel of enunciation. I gently lowered myself in his esteem. There’s nothing like a good nose pick for removing immortality,” he says in his best Stan Laurel manner.

“One thing comes after another; it’s very bizarre. I did this radio talk show in England. When the host heard someone from Genesis was coming he said: ‘Oh no, man, I can’t handle those freaked-out acid heads.’ When I arrived perfectly sane and able to talk, they were knocked out,” Phil laughs.

Offstage the band seems almost innocent, in the context of the macho/ decadent world of rock. The fantasy runs so deep that Genesis members prefer living in their own little world. Living in a fantasy world keeps things real.

“I really like to be protected,” Mike says seriously. “It’s a bit like a scientist whose study is pure. Scientists work out problems; they don’t concern them-* selves with what happens to the idea after it’s created. Sometimes I see music like that. What’s done after the music is recorded is something I’d like to leave to people I trust.”

The most choreographed number Genesis does is “Supper’s Ready,” a futuristic opus featuring the apocalypse in 9/8. This is the one you’ve heard about, the Busby Berkeley musical of the Seventies, complete with dancing girls and costume changes. Gabriel delivers one of his bizarre monologue intros:

“Old Michael walked past the pet shop which was never open into the park which was never closed,” Gabriel will somberly tell the crowd. “The park was full of very smooth, very clean grass. Michael took off all his clothes and began rubbing his pink, flabby flesh into the wet, clean grass. Beneath the ground the dirty brown worms interpreted the pitter-patter as rainfall. In worm world it means two things: bathtime because worms like to keep cjean, and mating time because worms like to keep dirty. Within seconds the entire park was covered with dirty, soggy, writhing brown worms. Old Michael was quite pleased humming a little tune. Jerusalem boogie to us perhaps, but to the worms it meant that supper was ready.”

By 1984, no one will care much about the height of David JoHansen’s high heels, yet chances are good that Genesis offsprings will be as common as boogie bands. Their present flirtation with multi media lights/slides/visuals/ music is only the beginning. If we get the space program together, don’t be surprised to see Mike Oldfield and Genesis headlining at the Outer Space Tropicabana.

“The time will come when something evolves that will replace the cinema,” Gabriel claims. “People used to come out of their homes and into the cinema when there was little television. But now television has castrated the cinema. Yet with a rock music basis, lots of things could be created. The Red Buddha Theatre was only the beginning. In this building that will replace the cinema I hope there’s more audience participation. It’s too easy to be passive.”

I almost cried during that scene when the old man died, another girl was telling another boyfriend. I’ve never seen anything so fake and contrived, cried the boy. It’s out of this world, their zombie-eyed friend muttered.

Naw, said the cynical kid, the band are great musicians, but that singer is a twit. A twit, said the girl, hitting him where it hurt, I bet he’s better than you! Everything is not what it seems, said the zombie.