Not Dead Yet

by Phil Collins

  We give each other a hug, wish each other well and say goodbye. We know that we’ll see each other again, but not in the same light.

  On March 28, 1996, the official announcement is made via a press release issued by our management: “Genesis end twenty-year experiment, decide to replace Peter Gabriel as vocalist…For the past twenty years, drummer Phil Collins has been temping as singer, to great acclaim…”

  Funny, pithy, affectionate. It’s the perfect goodbye. Cheers. And now that the news is finally out there, I enjoy a feeling I haven’t felt in years.

  Freedom.

  Or: I’m the king of the swingers…

  Having unshackled myself from a big band and all the heaviness that went with it, I decide to do the obvious: form a Big Band.

  Genesis played the Montreux Jazz Festival in 1987, during the Invisible Touch tour, and I also played there the year before, with Clapton, as part of the four-piece line-up he put together to tour his August album that I’d produced. So I already know the lovely Claude Nobs, founder of this fantastic annual event. He’s also Warners’ man in Switzerland, which makes him my label guy in my freshly adopted homeland.

  On top of all this, as a new resident, it seems only right that I should perform at Switzerland’s—the world’s—premier jazz festival. In fact, knowing the punctilious, jazz-loving Swiss, a gig at Montreux might have been part of the contractual small print that finally allowed me the right to buy the home at Begnins. No matter; when jazz calls, you don’t say no.

  Jazz, and particularly big-band jazz, has always spoken to me. In my youth, alongside The Beatles stood Buddy Rich and Count Basie, specifically Basie because I loved his drummer Sonny Payne—he was a huge influence. I listened to Sinatra at the Sands, with Quincy Jones conducting, as much as I listened to With The Beatles. Growing older, my ears roamed far and wide, and I fell hard for John Coltrane, Weather Report and Miles Davis.

  In that light, Genesis, diverse as we were in our writing, never satisfied the entire musical “me.” Even though we were working a great deal in the seventies and early eighties, musically there was something missing. This explains the long stint I had in that period with Brand X.

  Now, a decade and a half after Brand X stopped marking the spot where I could get my jazz kicks, here in Switzerland in the mid-nineties an old muscle is twitching. Happily, the Montreux Jazz Festival makes me an offer I can’t refuse. Monsieur Nobs invites me to pick a day and do anything that I want.

  “Well, Claude, I’ve always wanted to play in a big band.”

  He’s instantly enthused, and just as instantly decides to involve Ahmet Ertegun in the planning. I’m only too happy to reconnect creatively with the man who was so pivotally enthusiastic at the start of my solo career. Ahmet’s passion wasn’t just professional or musical. If he loved you, he loved the whole you. You felt you were his long-lost, never-had son. This was a lovely feeling he engendered in a whole host of artists—something of which I became fully aware when I joined Eric, Wynton Marsalis, Dr. John, Solomon Burke, Ben E. King and a host of others to perform at a New York memorial concert after Ahmet’s death in 2006. All I know is that he said it to me once: “Phil, you’re the son I never had.”

  Ahmet flies in, and he, Claude, Tony Smith and I meet at the Beau-Rivage Hotel in Geneva. We discuss the nuts and bolts of what I’m already calling The Phil Collins Big Band: who are the wish-list participants, what will be the repertoire, where and how we’ll perform, whether we’ll do an album.

  I say that I’d like to get Quincy Jones involved as conductor. I loved the records he made with his own big band in the sixties, and while on tour in Barcelona I’d sent him what he always refers to as a “love fax” after I’d checked out his Listen Up album. When I contact him and explain my plans, he understands that I’m serious and immediately offers his services. Handily, Quincy comes with some great players: in Europe he works regularly with a big band attached to a German radio station, WDR in Cologne, so we decide to use them as the core musicians.

  But who’s going to sing? While it will carry my name, this is definitely a big band, no one-man show. Partly through a deep-seated musical hankering, partly because of my recent personal bruising, I want to return to the back, to the safety of the drummer’s stool. Equally, I also want it to be as authentic as possible, as true a tribute to the jazz heritage as we can muster. I don’t want to be up front.

  On the Both Sides tour, Tony Bennett and I started to come into each other’s orbit. This was the beginning of the legendary crooner’s new career as a hip, MTV-generation artist, a transformation savvily steered by his son Danny after he took over management of his father’s career. At one point I saw him on TV, saying, “There are some great songwriters today, Phil Collins being one of them.”

  I remember thinking, “Blimey, Tony Bennett’s heard of me.”

  As this idea gains momentum, I imagine a dream billing on the front of a concert hall: “The Phil Collins Big Band, conducted by Quincy Jones, with guest vocalist Tony Bennett.”

  One of the times our paths crossed was in Australia, when we were staying at the same hotel, and I left Mr. Bennett a note. I said I was thinking about forming my own big band, and should that ever come to pass, I’d be honored if he would consider singing with us. Word came back that Tony would be very interested in such a project.

  Now that the idea has some flesh on its bones, we contact Bennett Sr. and Jr. And again, word comes back that Tony is keen. So, much to my amazement and honor, it seems that we have our headline artists, although Tony’s son won’t 100 percent confirm his dad’s participation until the eleventh hour.

  Now, what are we going to perform? Harry Kim, my trumpet player, has the foresight to hit the nail on the head: if we attempt the songs that Count Basie et al. had done, there is, frankly, a significant chance we’ll fall well short. Those were some of the best players and vocalists in history. I know every note on Buddy Rich’s Swingin’ New Big Band album, having listened to it constantly since first hearing it in 1966. It was my gateway drug to a wonderful new world, and it set me on a path of discovery that would lead to Count Basie, Sonny Payne, Harold Jones, Jo Jones, Duke Ellington and so many more. I’m not about to trample on that sacred ground.

  So, Harry suggests, let’s do something that no one else can do: rearrange instrumental versions of my stuff, both solo material and Genesis songs.

  Harry meets me in Hermance. He has lots of serious musical contacts who can help with the arrangements, and he and I discuss the choice of material. We decide that he will farm out the chosen songs to his contacts and see what comes back.

  I round out the skilled line-up that will enable The Phil Collins Big Band to play Phil Collins material in a big-band style: joining Quincy and Tony as a special guest is David Sanborn on lead saxophone. The others in the band are Harry on trumpet, Dan Fornero (also trumpet), Luis Conte (percussion), Daryl Stuermer (guitar), Nathan East (bass), Brad Cole (piano), Arturo Velasco (trombone), Andrew Woolfolk (saxophone), and the rest will be made up by the WDR Big Band. That’s around twenty players altogether.

  With that number of musicians sharing a stage, I should have anticipated there might be some inter-personnel issues. I probably wouldn’t have anticipated they’d come from the top of the tree.

  We book eight shows, the first of them at London’s Royal Albert Hall on July 11, 1996, as part of a concert being held to honor South African President Nelson Mandela’s first official visit to the U.K. He had declared that he didn’t want a state dinner—he wanted a party.

  President Mandela will be in attendance, as will the Queen, Prince Philip, Prince Charles and the President’s daughter Zenani Mandela-Dlamini. The evening will also raise funds for the Nations Trust, a charity set up to raise money to help disadvantaged South African youth. I might have picked a more low-key, less pressurized moment to unveil my new direction.

  In early July the band gather in Montreux for rehearsals. We rehearse till we drop. We take this v
ery seriously. It’s a very serious business, this musical freedom. Tony Bennett joins us on the last day to run through his songs.

  The plan is he’ll come onstage in the middle of the show and sing a handful of his standards. I have no intention of asking Mr. Bennett to have a crack at “In the Air Tonight” or “Sussudio,” no matter how jazzily artful the new arrangements.

  During rehearsals, Tony is singing like a bird and dressed as sharp as a tack. To play drums behind him, singing his songs, is a dream come true for me. Quincy is as I’d expected he would be: unflappable and totally into the idea. He’s a talismanic figure.

  Claude is there, too, so it feels like a star chamber of jazz greats. Between run-throughs there are conversations around the grand piano, a swapping of personal anecdotes featuring walk-ons from some of my all-time musical heroes. “I remember the time Sinatra…Basie said to me…” I’m thrilled beyond belief. I feel like I’ve really grown up, a musician accepted at the top table, and also that I’m as far away from faxes, taxes and tabloid headlines as it’s possible to get right now. It’s a blessed relief.

  After a few songs with Tony on solo vocals—including “Over the Rainbow,” “Old Devil Moon” and “The Lady’s in Love with You”—he suggests we do a song together.

  “No, no, sorry, Tony, I’m not singing on this tour.”

  Tony persists, suggesting we do Duke Ellington’s “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” as a duet.

  “Ah, all right,” I say reluctantly. “How does it go?” I’m not sure it really works, but maybe it gives Tony an idea of how it might work—fifteen years later he records it as a duet with Canadian crooner Michael Bublé, then again the following year with Panamanian actor/singer Miguel Bosé.

  We fly to London and the soundcheck for the Mandela gig at the Royal Albert Hall. I’m confident we’re on top of our game and, despite the pressure, the show is great. Legendary South African trumpeter Hugh Masekela joins us for a version of “Two Hearts,” and Quincy has a ball at what is, in fact, his first-ever appearance on a British stage.

  Afterward there’s a meet and greet with President Mandela and the royal family. It’s been a groundbreaking evening, a great gig, an auspicious debut and a privileged encounter with a true political giant.

  Our second and third shows are at the suitably swish Sporting Club in Monte Carlo. Unfortunately the front of the venue only announces the appearance of “The Phil Collins Big Band.” No Quincy, no Tony. I panic. Neither will be impressed at their sudden lack of a billing. Some quick thinking is in order, and so is a rummage in the tool cupboard. Before the jazzers and nabobs of Monte Carlo begin to arrive for that evening’s show, the correct billing has been mounted above the entrance: “The Phil Collins Big Band, with Quincy Jones and Tony Bennett.” Their name isn’t quite up there in lights, it’s in black gaffer tape, but you’d never know it from the pavement.

  Then another problem: post-show, one of Tony’s team sidles up with a concerned look on his face. It seems that onstage I haven’t been giving Mr. Bennett enough of an introduction. I need to ramp it up a bit, make more of a song and dance. OK, got it.

  Then another problem. After the second show in Monte Carlo, Ralph Sharon, Tony’s piano player for forty years, visits me in the dressing room.

  “Phil, I got good news and bad news. It sounds fantastic…but it’s a bit loud for Tony.”

  In rehearsals we were even louder, and Tony was happily singing his socks off. The first two shows were also conducted at a decent volume and, again, Tony seemed perfectly at ease. So I can’t understand why and how this problem has arisen.

  Then I’m tipped the wink: someone’s told Tony that I’m a huge fan of Buddy Rich. In the great Frank vs. Tony rivalry, Buddy was always firmly in the Sinatra camp, as you’d expect from Ol’ Blue Eyes’ regular drummer. But apparently one time Buddy played with Tony, and at the end of Tony’s four or five songs Buddy, being the (shall we say) provocateur that he was, shouted to Tony as he went offstage: “Nice try, Tony!”

  So from then on, Tony hated Buddy, and here I am, seemingly trying to be Buddy. Which means that, by extension, Tony’s now a bit unsure about my bona fides. I’d suggest it’s a bit of a stretch to tar me with Buddy’s brush, but I’m coming to understand that this new musical world I’ve entered has its own special rules. Among the big beasts of the genre, old memories and enmities die hard. All is fair in love and jazz. Rock’n’roll politics have nothing on this.

  So we turn it down, night after night, on each of his remaining six shows. “Yeah, Phil, it’s still a bit loud…,” says Ralph. We get so quiet we’re barely playing. You could hear a tiepin drop.

  In Perugia, Italy, there’s just time for one more kerfuffle. Because Danny Bennett didn’t confirm Tony’s involvement until very late in the day, the Italian promoters had to go ahead and commission the concert posters without knowing fully who would be appearing. So, hedging their bets, they’ve printed them up using just my name.

  Tony arrives at the venue, sees the poster bearing only the legend “The Phil Collins Big Band” and states to me in no uncertain terms, “I could walk right now.”

  “What’s the matter, Tony?”

  “My contract says 50 percent billing, but I’m not on any of these posters—and I haven’t been the whole tour!”

  “It’s because your son didn’t commit till the last minute!”

  I’m out of my comfort zone here, not to mention thoroughly tired of all this pussyfooting. So I call in a professional. Tony Smith, skilled negotiator extraordinaire, sits Tony Bennett down, they discuss it, and they resolve it.

  Mr. Bennett, though, old hand that he is, has the last laugh. As we’re getting to the end of Tony’s shows with us, I ask him for a picture and an autograph. He obliges, signing it: “To Phil, my ‘buddy,’ ” the “buddy” pointedly in inverted quotes.

  —

  Meanwhile, home life with Orianne is blissful. For sure, the distant guns of my impending divorce from Jill can be heard booming on the horizon. In certain sections of the U.K. press, I’m still public enemy number one. But I’m head over heels in love, and I feel spiritually energized, nimbly creative and, in all the right ways, loose. Twenty-five non-stop years have, well, stopped. This new beginning in Switzerland is delivering everything I hoped it would.

  Not least on the musical front. One morning I receive a call from Sir George Martin. As part of him winding down his career he wants to make an album, In My Life, featuring new versions of some of his favorite Beatles songs. We’ve known each other for years but never worked together, so I’m thrilled to be asked. He and his son Giles fly over to France to a house I’ve rented to use as a studio to record my next album.

  It’s decided that I’ll take on “Carry That Weight/Golden Slumbers” from Abbey Road. First I play the drum parts, including the famous Ringo solo. We double the length of it, which George loves. Then we go about the vocal parts, full of close, three-part harmonies, with George saying, “This is what Paul sang…this is what John sang…” Working with this genuine musical legend and thoroughly lovely man is a treasured memory of mine.

  My sixth solo album, Dance into the Light, is released later that year, in October 1996. The title and the sound are symbolic: this is an optimistic album, full of brightness and colors. I’m listening to a lot of Youssou N’Dour, and I’m also aware that guitar bands are back. This is the era of Britpop and, while I’m as far as it’s possible to get from Cool Britannia and the new swinging London set—although I do feel close to Oasis’s Noel Gallagher, insofar as he loves slagging me off—I’m inspired to experiment with guitar sounds on my keyboards. So I write a few “guitar songs”; that is, songs that are not of the type that Phil Collins would usually write. Now that I’m a full-time solo artist, I’m determined to fly that freedom flag as high as possible and mix it up a bit.

  Shortly after the album’s release I happen to meet Noel on Mustique. He’s there on holiday with his first wife; I’m there with O
rianne. Orianne and I frequent a small bar called The Firefly and befriend the owners, Stan and Liz. In conversation one night I suggest to Stan that the place could do with a bit of live music. He replies, “I’ll get the musicians if you’ll play the drums.” Sounds fun, so I say OK.

  I arrive on the proposed night to find a saxophonist and her piano-playing husband; they’ve boated over from a neighboring island. And sitting in the corner of this tiny bar are Noel, his wife, Johnny Depp, Kate Moss and a Labour MP (I don’t know which one).

  I introduce myself and ask Noel if he’d be interested in having a knockabout with us.

  Noel’s wife pipes up that she’s seen the video for “It’s in Your Eyes,” the second single from Dance into the Light, in which I’d “played” guitar (one borrowed from Paul McCartney, a fellow left-hander). She airily informs me that she knows I’m not a guitarist and that I’m not fooling anyone. “That wasn’t my intention,” I reply, “it just felt good.”

  Now Noel speaks, dismissively declining the invitation. I retire to the bar, feeling not a little embarrassed. Credit to Kate Moss, though—she comes over and apologizes for the odd encounter. Our small trio starts playing regardless, and the Gallagher party up and leave soon after.

  While Dance into the Light is a bit of a damp squid, the tour is a bit of a rocket. A Trip into the Light starts at the Ice Palace in Tampa, Florida, on February 28, 1997, and runs through North America till the end of April. After a five-month gap it resumes for a three-month run in Europe that takes me up to the end of the year.

  These first couple of years post-Genesis bring another project with its share of struggles. But what’s opportunity without struggle? If it’s easy, it’s not worth it. And knowing as I did their work and working methods, I wouldn’t have expected any different from getting into bed with Walt Disney.

  —

  In the summer of 1995, a team from Disney HQ in Burbank, Los Angeles, fly to Switzerland. They’re a heavyweight bunch: Tom Schumacher, president of Walt Disney Animation Studios; Chris Montan, the company’s executive music producer; Kevin Lima, part of the story team on Aladdin and The Lion King; and Chris Buck, an animator/character designer who worked on Who Framed Roger Rabbit and The Little Mermaid (and who would eventually co-direct 2013’s Frozen, the highest-grossing animated film of all time). These guys will become close friends of mine by the time the project is finished in 1999.