By 1975, Peter Gabriel had become a dress-wearing, oddly coiffured escaped mental patient. He subsequently flounced out of Genesis due to “creative differences” and, voila, they developed into a good band. Not overnight, of course, because there was still plenty of self-regarding public schoolboy cringe left in the tank, and another half-decade of 15-minute long “cinemascapes” inspired by Fearsome Creatures of the Lumberwoods lay ahead. But once affable cockney garden gnome Phil Collins took the reins, the writing was well and truly on the wall, there was no turning back, and it was only a matter of time before the drumstick-wielding slaphead unexpectedly and sensationally steered the not-very-good ship Genesis away from the chill waters of autistic guitar wankery and into the lush tides of glitzy, bouncy, cocaine-fuelled, obscenely profitable yuppie pop.
There’s a very good reason that an entire chapter of American Psycho is dedicated to Genesis, after all. And yet, 1980’s Duke is a bit of a halfway house between the unapologetic Dungeons and Dragons-invoking naffness of the Gabriel years, and the unalloyed radioslop of Invisible Touch or, indeed, Collins’ own gleefully commercial solo albums. Duke definitely sounds like an 80s record; cleanly produced, swirling keyboards, dramatic choruses, and lyrics concerned with the bread and butter of romantic mishaps and failing popstars rather than, say, whatever “The Battle of Epping Forest” was about. On the other hand, it’s not as tight as the later Genesis albums; it has a grandiose, meandering, rock opera-style structure; and many of its standout moments were surely too long-winded and maybe even too “challenging” for Contemporary Hit Radio.
At times, Duke sounds unsettlingly redolent of Marillion, the most unfashionable band in rock history, with the sole and instructive exception of the odious Genesis offshoot Mike + the Mechanics, the macabre brainchild of freakishly tall village pastor-turned-guitar-strumming scarecrow Mick Rutherford – further proof, if it were needed, that this entire musical movement was comprised of a bunch of trainspotters. Collins alone brought some East End razzmatazz to the table, supplying a sense of thrusting cockney urgency amidst the luxuriating over-educated toffs alongside whom he was compelled to share a recording studio. His laudable desire for commercial success was surely resisted at every turn by these J.R. Tolkien-quoting tits, but despite their asexual influence, there is simply no overlooking the basic pop architecture of Duke’s finest moments.
And these are indeed legion. The scything synths and crashing chorus of “Man of Our Times” sounds like the Human League, but with earnest 70s vocals rather than Phil Oakley’s ironic art school detachment; “Misunderstanding” is swingy Motown meets rock, complete with gloopy emo lyrics that Peter Gabriel would surely have buried in a ten-minute three-act operetta about love and betrayal in the Carolingian Empire; “Heathaze” is the most Marillionish song here in its otherworldly pomposity, but it’s also irresistibly melodious; while “Alone Tonight” is the kind of lighters-aloft gig-closer that Genesis would have been constitutionally incapable of writing under the previous regime. Several tracks deal with that tried and tested rock’n’roll chestnut, the corrosive effects of fame; “Turn It On Again” is a plea from a desperate and washed up performer, concealed beneath preposterous proto-hair metal; and “Duchess”, the album’s standout moment, is a confrontational, cataclysmic, authentically unsettling meditation on ageing, tiring, and burgeoning irrelevance.
In fact, fame, fame, fatal fame was intended to be the principal leitmotif of Duke, and the album was, apparently, initially conceived as a fully-fledged progressive epic about how celebrity drives people mad, a kind of Ziggy Stardust for Philip K. Dick enthusiasts. Genesis wisely abandoned this grotesquely overblown notion in favour of something more accessible, and it’s telling that, with the exception of “Duchess”, the so-called “Duke Suite” that provides the spine of the album actually comprises its weakest and most forgettable moments – including, unfortunately, the opening track “Behind the Lines”, which sounds like the intro to an episode of Blockbusters.
In the end, it may have been artistically du jour to complain about the the myriad human rights violations and indignities of being a millionaire rockstar with “your face on the cover of every magazine”, blah blah blah, but the inescapable fact is that Genesis were suited to being massive. Duke is ultimately the sound of wannabe auteurs belatedly accepting that they are in fact a pop band, all while stubbornly endeavouring to retain some of the eye-rolling artistic self-seriousness of their previous incarnation. Thank god they fucked off that nonsense, though, because even weirdo shaman Peter Gabriel ultimately accepted that it’s all about shifting units.
Overall rating: * * * *
Standout track: “Duchess”