"OK son, you're in!"
From Q Magazine, September 1997

Written by Stuart Maconie
Photographs by Andy Earl

"Is it 'Raymond' or 'Ray'?" Tony Banks (left) and Mike Rutherford (right) meet the new intake, Chiddingford, Surrey, July 3, 1997.

Once the Other Two in Genesis, last year Mike Rutherford and Tony Banks became the Only Two when Phil Collins quit. As former Stiltskin singer Ray Wilson takes up the well-worn warbling reins, Stuart Maconie wonders why they didn't just pack it in.

Chiddingford is, as visiting American tourists undoubtedly say, "to die for". As grimy London gives way to leafy Surrey, so time begins to slow. It is a part of England that is forever 1936 - village green, cycling spinsters, two ladies of a certain age sketching the parish church from their collapsible lawn chairs each with accompanying Thermos and small dog. Even the somewhat incongruous Spar supermarket cannot dispel the fond notion that the church clock will stand at ten to three and there will be honey for tea and, in the King's Head, the beer will be flat and warm.

But, as Joanna Trollope has made a fortune from asking us, who knows what passions, what intrigues, what dramas are being enacted here, in vicarage and outhouse, in conservatory and barn? Take this barn here, for instance. Between the lily pond and the tennis court, just by the charming farmhouse, what is afoot here? Who are these men bundling equipment into vans? And who is this "Phil Collins" whose stencilled and Biro-ed name adorns every trunk, whose belongings are being spirited away? Hush, hush, whisper who dares, for we are intruding on a very English divorce.

Peter Gabriel dresses down for a performance at Drury Lane Theatre, October 1973.

After 30 years and 100 million albums sold (look at that figure again and then try to comprehend it: their fans comprise a nation roughly equal to the population of Japan), Genesis have parted company with their singer and erstwhile drummer, Phil Collins. There has been nary an unkind word and not a whiff of unpleasantness - indeed, after an hour in Tony Banks and Mike Rutherford's company it is impossible to imagine it could be otherwise - but it is still a seismic shock that would have torn many a lesser band asunder. Indeed, by any normal rock convention, Genesis ought to have split up four times by now; on the occasions of the departures of guitarist Anthony Phillips (1970), vocalist Peter Gabriel (1975), Phillips's replacement, Steve Hackett (1977) and now the blokeish, nay geezeresque anti-Gabriel, Collins. In fact, why haven't they?

"Sheer bloodymindedness," says Tony Banks with a smile.

And then there were two? Not quite. For, rather than soldier on as an instrumental duo (or, heaven forfend, recruit a vocalist from within the remaining ranks (as they did with Collins) Genesis have recruited a new singer. Ray Wilson is an affable 28-year-old-Scot - previously owner of three Genesis albums but "more of a Gabriel fan" - whom most newspapers have described as an "unknown club singer" despite the fact that as vocalist with Stiltskin he has enjoyed a UK Number 1 - albeit with the Levi's ad endorsed, grunge-lite Inside - and sold shedloads of their one and only album, 1994's The Mind's Eye, on the Continent.

"I understand why people are going for this unknown-singer-joins-Genesis angle because it's a good story," reasons Wilson, reasonably.

"I've done the pubs and clubs and I've made a living at it. I've put out records round the east of Scotland, I've taken them around the radio stations and put the barcodes on myself. But I also sold half a million albums in Europe."

Stiltskin, a contrivance of wealthy composer and musical entrepreneur Peter Lawler, folded when Wilson's love of rock'n'roll could no longer be reconciled with Lawler's understandable commitment to a career in lucrative soundtracks and advertising. Wilson formed his own band, Cut, who secured a deal with Virgin Germany the day before, apropos of nothing, longtime Genesis manager Tony Stratton Smith [sic] got in touch.

"Somehow, Tony and Mike had heard a tape of the Stiltskin album," marvels the singer. "Phil had left and they knew Stiltskin was finished and they also thought that my voice had some of the qualities of Peter Gabriel's, so they sought me out."

Phil Collins undresses for a rehearsal at Shepperton Studios, September 1981.

By now, the hunt for Collins's replacement had narrowed from an initial trawl of literally hundreds of tapes down to two: a school-teacher fan and Wilson. Having learned seven songs of different Genesis vintage from the albums, the latter was summoned to their studio base in rural Surrey.

"I got here and I expected Tony to sit and play the keyboards but, no, out came the original masters. The tapes just had the lead vocal erased so I was singing Land of Confusion with Phil Collins singing harmonies in my ears. You could say it was nerve-wrecking, yes."

But within days the brown envelope had plopped, metaphorically, onto the mat and Ray Wilson, not even born when Genesis convened in 1967, was the brand-new singer in one of the most successful rock acts of the last three decades.

"You can't not feel trepidation when you're working with guys who've sold a hundred million albums," avers Wilson, "but there's never been an occasion when their wealth or success has been thrown at me. Look at this organisation," he says, indicating a crew of amiable hairies shifting gear and watching Greg Rusedski crumple on centre court. "They've all been here ten or fifteen years. It speaks volumes for how these people are treated."

And the guvners, so to speak, are now Michael Rutherford and Tony Banks. Of the two, Rutherford is calmer, more urbane, while Banks, if not quite sharing the bluffness of his Sports Minister namesake, is edgier, seemingly younger than Rutherford, when in fact he is seven months the elder. Rutherford describes his colleague as, "strong- willed and opinionated." Banks offers more acute self-analysis: "Violent. Up and down. I'm a bit more rough-edged and awkward. I'm not instantly attractive. I have the kind of face that if I'm not doing anything else looks grumpy. People think I'm aloof and superior. Mike? I'd describe him as tall and balding. I'm greying. It's a race to see who gets their first."

Probably the only successful rock group ever to form at public school, Genesis assembled in the mid-to-late '60s at Charterhouse, near Godalming. "It's interesting," remembers Banks, "that when we started Mike and I were on the extremes of the group. Pete was my friend. Mike had this songwriting thing going with Ant Phillips. It's very odd that we ended up together."

The thought occurs, then, that in a parallel universe somewhere - a place where England lost the 1966 World Cup, won in 1990 and Derek Hatton is Prime Minister - Genesis today could have been Steve Hackett and Peter Gabriel.

"No, I don't think so," reflects Rutherford. "Not those two. But it could have been Peter and Tony, because it's been about writing combinations. Steve was always a bit less involved with the writing."

Wilson in Stiltskin days: "I've done the pubs and clubs, but I also sold half a million albums in Europe."

Banks agrees. "Pete was the one who actually said that no-one in Genesis was indispensable and I think he was right. If I'd left, the group could have carried on. It would have been different, but you can see it to some extent with what people do independently of the group. There's a Genesis quality to what Phil and Pete and Steve do."

Unlike their contemporaries - Pink Floyd and Yes spring luridly to mind - Genesis have endured these rifts utterly without acrimony. There have been no wranglins over the "brand name" and therefore no unwieldy compound appelations of the Anderson, Bruford, Wakeman, Howe variety touring the world. And such have been the still-evident reserves of goodwill that Genesis once re-formed around their original vocalist for a 1982 benefit concert to help the singer's then-ailing WOMAD venture. Again, a uniquely English decency appears to have been the reason.

"I think it's because we get on," mulls Rutherford. "We've never had an argument over money. With our manager maybe, but never with each other. There's never been any ill-feeling when someone leaves. I feel very supportive towards Phil and Peter and Steve. I feel we're all on the same side. I don't see pop as competitive. Also, we've always done well. And you don't argue when it's going well."

"No-one's been kicked out, so why should they want to take the group name with them?" argues Banks. "Acrimony is down to ego and there isn't much of it in this group. Just one person or one wife in a group can cause all the problems."

Certainly, the most recent departure from the ranks appears to have been effected with the minimum of heartache. Rutherford admits, "I'm surprised Phil stayed so long with his solo career being so strong. It was no surprise, really."

Contents page: New Genesis singer required. No breadheads, timewasters, or singing boogies (actually it's Peter Gabriel in 1975).

Banks is similarly sanguine. "I was sad when it finally happened because Phil's a good friend and we've had a good time together. I think there was a degree of loyalty and I think he got something from Genesis. But there came a point where he no longer wanted to make a compromise. He'd become almost bigger than the band, in a way, like Peter had, and it's a challenge for everyone."

Not the least challenge is to go some way towards clarifying public perceptions of the band grotesquely distorted by Collins's stupendous solo success. In start contrast, Banks's solo career, as he ruefully concedes, has never caught fire and while Rutherford has shipped rather more units under his characteristically deflationary Mike And The Mechanics imprimatur, neither has complicated matters for the band overmuch. And yet, just as with Orwell's pigs and men, it's increasingly difficult to look from Collins to Genesis and tell one from the other.

"It has distorted the public perception, absolutely," Rutherford confirms. "Probably because in the last ten years singles have become so high-profile they dwarf an album. And with Phil singing a bit like he does on his solo stuff ... well, where does one start and the other end?"

Banks, too, opines that "over the last couple of albums people must have seen Genesis as an extension of Phil, which hasn't been entirely comfortable for anyone."

"When Phil left we thought we should call it a day" admits Rutherford. "You don't want to go on past your sell-by date and I didn't want to be sitting in the studio looking at the marks on the carpet where Phil used to stand. It's crossed our mind to call it a day every time someone has left. But then you get together and start writing and all those worries disappear."

"It is," declaims Banks, "sheer bloodymindedness. When Peter left we felt we had something to prove. It was a difficult time for me because we'd been really close friends since school. But we felt we really wanted it to work. And then Trick Of The Tail came out and it seemed that some sections of the audience preferred it. That was very satisfying."

Up until now, every Genesis album has sold more than its predecessor, a statistic surely unequalled for a band of their vintage ("Yes, the graph looks good," says Rutherford shyly). Cynics might argue that this is because they've never had a "signature" album of the likes of Tubular Bells, say, or Dark Side Of The Moon. And yet, the new album, Calling All Stations, marks a sure-footed return to a grittier, more individual terrain after the lush, dull undulations of their last few albums.

"We've never had a Number 1 in The States," says Banks brightly. "We've never had a Number 1 single in Britain. So we've never reached saturation point, never been the band of the moment. We've carried on regardless. We had a really big album just as punk was the biggest thing in the world. We were less muso than Yes and E.L.P. We were often closer to 10cc, crafted pop, although we took it further. But this is a period of transition and maybe we can't expect to maintain that level of sales. Who knows?"

Later, in the band's local, The King's Head, Banks is desperately trying to recall the title of a song that has been circumnavigating his inner ear since hearing it yesterday on a video shoot in Malta. "You know the one: 'Some girls like to run around but de daah de daah de de daah daah ...'" He turns to Ray Wilson and asks, "Isn't it the Turtles?"

"Bit before my time, Tony," replies the new boy.

There is much genteel laughter and a call for toasted sandwiches and more flat, warm beer.

Mr and, er, Mr
To celebrate Messrs Rutherford and Banks's pearl anniversary, Q dons the Derek Batey blazer for a variation of TV's famous matrimonial quiz.

"We met at nine..."

"...we met at eight."

What's your favourite and least favourite Genesis album?

Mike: My favourite's probably The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway. I just heard it again as part of a remastering project and it sounded really good. My least favourite - and Tony won't agree as it's probably in his top three or four - is Wind And Wuthering.

Tony: I've never really liked Selling England By The Pound, but I heard it the other day and thought it sounded really good. Duke is the same. It's got tracks on it I don't think are very good but I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. Similarly, I love the first side of Mama (he means Genesis) but not side two, which I think is the weakest thing we've ever done.

What rates as the group's very lowest ebb?

Mike: Probably the times when I've had writer's block. Selling England By The Pound was a very difficult album.

Tony: The early days when we struggled. And when Ant Phillips left, that was probably the toughest time because we were schoolfriends and we really did wonder if we could carry on. And later there was a moment when Phil was having trouble with his first marriage when things were shaky. Mike and I took time to do solo things and it all worked out.

Do you know each other's birthdays?

Mike: I'm terrible at birthdays but we were arguing about this the other day. I was telling him that he's the oldest member of the band. Early 1950, is it? (it's actually March 27, 1950)

Tony: October 2, 1950. (On the money)

And where?

Mike: I think it was Battle near Hastings wasn't it? (Nearly, East Hoathly)

Tony: Farnham ... somewhere like that. (Somewhere indeed like that: Guildford)

What is the first track on the third side of the original vinyl version of The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway?

Mike: Back in New York City. No, that's side 2. Erm, it's either that little instrumental or The Lamia.

Tony: Is it Colony Of Slippermen? No, hang on, side three, that would be, er, Lilywhite Lilith. God, I had to work that one out. (The correct answer!)

When did Steve Hackett leave?

Mike: Ah, I remember this. I'd say 1978 or '77. I remember walking down Wardour Street and he was walking the other way and he never came back. He rang us from the phone box and told us he was leaving.

Tony: He left while we were putting Seconds Out together. So, 1978 ... No, '77. May? (May 1977 it is)

What was the B-side of 1974 single I Know What I Like?

Mike: Not a clue.

Tony: Ah, that would be Twilight Alehouse (Twilight Alehouse it is)

What would the other be most likely to complain about in a hotel?

Mike: Probably the windows not opening. That or the drilling that starts at five thirty in the morning.

Tony: (Chuckles) Before mobile phones it would have been whether he could speak to his wife. He spends an awful lot of time on the phone. He's right, I do worry about ventilation. In the old days I used to take the window panes out with a screwdriver but that was me being obstinate rather than any need for air.