HELLO/ WE MUST BE SELLING

HELLO/ WE MUST BE SELLING

GENESIS

Genesis

(Atlantic)

by

Roy Trakin

It's the band that just won't go away, the thing that wouldn't die, no matter how many limbs are cut off. or obstacles put in the way. Genesis has survived the double loss of both guitarist Steve Hackett and lead vocalist Peter Gabriel much like the Dallas Cowboys, rebuilding by grooming from within, with Phil Collins emerging as the home-grown star, stepping out from behind his drum kit and second-string status to reveal a distinctively plaintive, soulful croon. In a minimalist pop era where many of the old style, gothic artrockers like ELO, King Crimson, Moody Blues, and even Asia are experiencing sales drop-offs, Genesis still goes Top Ten, and without the real benefit of a hit single (yet another anomaly in these Days After AOR).

So what makes Genesis succeed where their contemporaries have fallen by the wayside? Certainly not the non-sex appeal of bald-and-short Collins, graduate of the Robert Fripp School of Manners. Nor can it be the faceless craftsmanship of keyboard player Tony Banks or Guitarist Mike Rutherford, whose individual solo albums have sold to immediate relatives and scant few others. And it just can't be the group's cultivated psuedo-intelligence—in which Collins pronounces "either," "I-ther" and "aunt" with a decidedly broad "a".

Perhaps it's because, over their last few albums (beginning with 1980's Duke and '81's Abacab), Genesis has been successfully simplifying matters—cutting out the baroque dross, getting down to basics, surviving by evolving into a self-contained trio. And, of course, it hasn't hurt to have Phil Collins whacking away at his drum set, cutting a big, thick, modern Police-like (thanks to producer/engineer Hugh Padgham?) swath to cloak whatever noodling excesses either Banks or Rutherford had to offer.

Genesis opens up with just those slabs of percussion, propelling a Lennonesque primal scream/tribal drum ditty about somebody's "Mama." But Genesis can get away with this version of "Biko" because they come right back with their McCartneyesqe side on the spritely mock-countryrock twang of "That's All," the unabashed sentimental swill of "Taking It All Too Hard," and the ersatz Argent-ine hippy sloganeering of "It's Gonna Get Better." Genesis gives the people what they want after all.

But not all the time. Sure, there's a pretty banal ode to a "Hum By The Sea" which includes a 10-minute prototypically progressive instrumental excursion, but there's also an amazingly wrong-headed lament about illegal aliens as well, filled with the delightfully absurd steel drums and the sound of a Tijuana traffic jam. (The whole surreal conceit is much like director Tony Richardson's equally stylized film on the same subject, The Border.) Or how about the moment in "It's Gonria Get Better" when Collins waxes falsetto in search of Smokey Robinson and ends up closer to A1 Green on helium?

If Genesis can do all that and still churn out a solid FMetal anthem — "Just A Job To Do"—well, you just gotta tip your noggin to these heady blokes. They may not be Heavy Hitters, but this versatile trio can play any number of positions and sure seems to get on base a lot. Maybe, overall, they're just super utility players—but Genesis's sales figures certainly prove that, if nothing else, it's not necessarily the starting lineup that gets the job done.