Christopher Rush

Those Eggs are Now Scrambled

Fresh from the success of the greatness of “Supper’s Ready” and Foxtrot, Genesis was poised to create their most successful album (according to certain systems of measurement) with the nonpareil Selling England By the Pound: at once a culmination of the pastoral motifs and ideas as far back as Trespass and a full maturation of the band’s musical abilities.  I have admitted already Selling England By the Pound is my favorite Genesis album; hopefully that does not hamper your desire to listen to it or any other Genesis albums.  Some of the nostalgia factor may be in evidence here, not only in the compositions by the band, but also in the universal recognition of the quality of the album, since this is the last typical Gabriel-era Genesis album, considering the unusual nature of his last effort, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway.  Though it seems they did not know at the time this was to be their last such classic album, enough heart and soul are poured into every song on this album to make their lack of prescience irrelevant.  Much more politically satirical than they’ve been before, Selling England By the Pound is truly Genesis at its best.

“Dancing with the Moonlit Knight”

Though this is the last “typical” Gabriel-Genesis album (by which I mean the last album driven by epic narrative songs of radio-unfriendly length), it begins differently than all the others: with the voice of Peter Gabriel, a capella, singing/calling “‘Can you tell me where my country lies?’ / said the unifaun to his true love’s eyes.”  From the first we are brought into a midsummer-night’s dream-like world of political satire, mythical beasts, and economic uncertainty.  “‘It lies with me!’ cried the Queen of Maybe /— for her merchandise, he traded in his prize.”  England is resting with the Queen of Maybe, uncertain where it is going, perhaps forgotten what it is and has been.  The Wordsworthian assault on trading one’s prize for the merchandise of Maybe echoes the poet’s searing line “We have given our hearts away — a sordid boon” too much to be ignored (except by those Gabriel is satirizing).  Despite the Elizabethan/idyllic music that begins to accompany Gabriel here, before the end of the first stanza of the album we are confronted with a pessimism even sadder (despite its much smaller scope) than the overpowering sorrow of “Watcher of the Skies” — perhaps because the music is so simple and soft the pathos is even more palpable.  Sic transit exordium.

Immediately the scene shifts to another Genesis prototypical British scene: “‘Paper late!’ cried a voice in the crowd. / ‘Old man dies!’  The note he left was signed / ‘Old Father Thames’ — it seems he’s drowned; / selling England by the pound.”  Newsies hawk their papes, youth and age continue their cycles, the water flows, and England fades into the twilight — if nothing is done to stop the acceptance of life just existing, sacrificing the important, the beautiful, on the altars of productivity, technology, and utility.  It’s not right to make money off stories of people in unfortunate circumstances — by doing so, we are selling our own dignity.  A culture with too much license start to consider themselves “Citizens of Hope and Glory,” and as “Time goes by” they think “it’s ‘the time of your life.’”  This sort of overly-simplistic thinking meets with appropriate caution: “Easy now, sit you down. / Chewing through your Wimpy dreams, / they eat without a sound; / digesting England by the pound.”  Life is not about having enough to get by, enough to enjoy for the day — enough food for today cannot be the standard for “the time of your life,” in part because it is too self-centered a perspective to be genuinely good.  The “Wimpy dreams” is an allusion both to the Wimpy fast-food chain in the United Kingdom as well as the George Wimpey housing company for dream homes.

The change of tune at this point makes for a good bridge between the early musical motifs and the clangorous (but in a good way) chorus to come.  In this bridge, Gabriel expresses the conflicting (and both erroneous) perspectives on what makes “the time of your life.”  “Young man says ‘you are what you eat’ — eat well. / Old man says ‘you are what you wear’ — wear well.”  Again the point is made that immaturity believes the only thing important in life is to enjoy the physical sensations of the moment; if bodily desires are satiated, nothing else is important for life is transitory and ephemeral — so says invincible youth.  Old age, conversely, believes the good life is about one’s status in society, evidenced a great deal by one’s appearance, particularly by the name-brand apparel one wears.  The mediating voice neither rejects nor approbates either point: instead, Gabriel simply enjoins the audience to do both: eat well and wear well — neither is “the right answer,” but neither are they bad advice as component parts of “the time of your life” as it truly is in relation to others and the well-being of society as a whole.  Beyond intake and appearance, a more crucial factor is knowing who you are or “what you are,” not placing as much importance on what others think or say, “bursting your belt that is your homemade sham.”

The chorus is a rousing return to the multi-layered aspect of this opening song, back to the metaphorical characters framing the counter-point of typical British life: “The Captain leads his dance right on through the night — join the dance… / Follow on!  Till the Grail sun sets in the mold. / Follow on!  Till the Grail is cold. / Dancing out with the Moonlit Knight, / Knights of the Green Shield stamp and shout.”  Britannia, the Moonlit Knight takes us on a cosmic turn to the past and present of merry old England.  The Green Shield stamp is a subtle allusion to the Green Shield Trading Stamp Company designed to encourage consumerism by enabling the purchase of gifts through the stamp system (a kind of precursor to the credit card rewards programs so popular today).

Speaking of credit cards, after the fast-paced musical interlude, Gabriel uses a different voice for the slightly menacing carnival-barker bridge: “There’s a fat old lady outside the saloon; / laying out the credit cards she plays Fortune. / The deck is uneven right from the start; / and all of their hands are playing a part.”  The juxtaposition of tarot cards and credit cards is even more applicable today than it was forty years ago, as we are ever-increasingly saturated with the farcical notions of credit.  The best credit score is actually 0, since it means you don’t owe anyone anything and thus are not a servant to the lender.  Perhaps the sub-zero prime mortgage crisis could have been averted had more people heeded Genesis’s warning that Fortune is not based on credit any more than a crystal ball can tell your future: the deck of credit cards is uneven, not in your favor.  Paying with money that does not exist is not a sign of wealth — it is a sign of folly.  The multiple meanings of “hands” after that is another example of Gabriel’s fully-mature lyrical skill.  In few words he has brought several layers of meaning through his symbols.

From that mystical scene we return to the chorus, blending, like a merry-go-round, clanging band music and medieval/pastoral animal imagery: “You play the hobbyhorse, / I’ll play the fool.  We’ll tease the bull / ringing round and loud, loud and round.”  The album is now a game, lightening the mood while subverting our attention away from the political and social satire that will undoubtedly continue.  “Follow on!  With a twist of the world we go. / Follow on!  Till the gold is cold. / Dancing out with the Moonlit Knight, / Knights of the Green Shield stamp and shout.”  Intentionally our views of the world will be twisted and the gold will cool (so much currency talk in this song) and no more coinage to go in the pay slots.  The music then mirrors this predicted winding down; after another rousing and different musical break, the momentum fades and decrescendos into another musical box-like cadence, like stars twinkling out in the ending night.

“I Know What I Like (In Your Wardrobe)”

The fading guitar sprinkles meld into Tony Banks’s Mellotron hum imitating a lawnmower.  “I Know What I Like” is Genesis’s first commercial single success, essentially the only one of Gabriel’s career as their front man.  Though Phil Collins’s turn in the years ahead would see the band’s shift to a more radio- and commercial-friendly incarnation with many single hits, “I Know What I Like” helped form the nascence of that forthcoming mutation, so those who “blame” Genesis’s transformation on Phil Collins ignore the earlier evidences of that progression.  This song remained popular in the band’s live concert repertoire, eventually becoming the framework to the enjoyable lengthy medley of tunes from the Gabriel and early Collins years later in the band’s career.

Like so many others in their early canon, this song is a frame story.  The lawn mower lies down for a lunchtime nap, recalling the conversations he overhears both during his lunch break and, most likely, throughout his workday as a whole.  The song is based on the cover painting The Dream by Betty Swanwick (the band had her add the lawn mower machine to it; it was not in the original version of the painting).

The chorus, preceded by the utilitarian motto of the lawn mower “Keep them mowing blades sharp…” is the most recognizable couplet to the passive Genesis fan from the Gabriel era: “I know what I like, and I like what I know; / getting better in your wardrobe, stepping one beyond your show.”  It’s a rather occluded couplet: why the lawn mower knows what it is in the wardrobe of the people whose lawns he mows is never explained.  If he’s spending so much time observing their outfits, can he really be that good of a lawn mower, ever distracted by his customers’ speech and apparel?  Being unfamiliar with colloquial British expressions, I am incapable of sussing out what “stepping one beyond your show” truly means; I suspect it has something to do with the ever-increasing appearance of affluence of the members in the neighborhood, but I am completely open to correction.

Further in the lawn mower’s lunchtime reflections, he recalls segments of a previous phone conversation with Mr. Farmer: “Listen, son, you’re wasting time; there’s a future for you / in the fire escape trade.  Come up to town!”  That the lawn mower overhears so many different snippets of conversation throughout his workday indicates he is a popular lawn mower (despite the contradictions indicated above).  This is further demonstrated by the phone call asking him to make a better life for himself in what is suggested to be a more lucrative, and thus better, position in what only the British would call “the fire escape trade.”  Despite the seeming advantages in such a movement, the anonymous lawn mower rejects such an offer, after recalling an even older memory of advice he had received in his youth: “Gambling only pays when you’re winning.”  Though he may consider himself “a failure,” and should logically jump at the chance for a better job, he considers the fire escape trade a gamble that will not pay off, so he resigns himself to his present position.  His life as a lawn mower will forever be recognized, failure or not, by the way he walks.  The unusual Eastern beat and melody fades out of this unusual, quirky song slightly reminiscent of “Harold the Barrel” but much more humorous and lighthearted.

“Firth of Fifth”

A play on the common name of the River Forth in Scotland (the “Firth of Forth”), “Firth of Fifth” is about as quintessential “Genesis sound” as any one of their numbers in the Gabriel era gets.  Here, the full maturity of the band’s musical skills is in evidence from the downbeat.  Tony Banks’s introduction surpasses even “Watcher of the Skies” in proficiency and downright impressiveness.  The mixture of 2/4, 13/16, and 15/16 time signatures reminds us piano dilettantes what the instrument is capable of in expert hands.  Additionally, Steve Hackett’s guitar work and Peter Gabriel’s flute work complement the complex and driving melodic lines throughout all nine minutes of this mighty piece.

Lyrically, the song has not aged as well as others in the Gabriel era, but it is better than most seem to recall.  It is a return to the over-ambiguous lyrics of the very early days, admittedly, but it still has enough coherent connotations to make its mythical subtext enjoyable and believable.  Deeper assessment of the words discovers that it can be read as a mixture of Psalm 23, Isaiah 53, and John 10 (with a sprinkling of Romans 1): the people of the world are sheep, who, despite the obvious signs and demarcations in place from the foundations of the universe, refuse to travel the path to freedom.  The sheep are overcome by many dangers in nature and myth (Sirens, Neptune), until the great Shepherd returns to save them fully.  The most coherent aspects of the lyrics are the beginning and end of the words, true.  The middle sections are rather opaque and should probably be taken as furtive aspects of the impressive (if not rationally comprehensible) creative accomplishments of the Shepherd Himself.  As a whole, this song can be one of the most enjoyable of Genesis’s entire output, despite the elusive lyrics at times — their progressive rock skills musically overpower any confusion about the words.  The words that do make sense are Biblically sound and encouraging, despite the seemingly pessimistic final couplet: “The sands of time were eroded by / The river of constant change.”  Consider it another grouping of words going more for the aural effect than the rational cohesion of their denotative meaning, especially with the rest of the song.  By themselves, they are akin to the apocalyptic language of “Watcher of the Sky,” but almost don’t seem to fit fully in this song, which may account in part why Banks doesn’t consider this lyric with much fondness.  They are still comparatively young lads at the apex of their initial popularity, after all, and the song, as mentioned above, as a whole is great.

“More Fool Me”

The second Genesis song led by Phil Collins (the first, as you recall, was “For Absent Friends” from Nursery Cryme), “More Fool Me” is the sparsest number on the album with only Collins’s vocals and Mike Rutherford’s acoustic guitar.  It is a highly enjoyable change of pace on the album (not that the other songs aren’t enjoyable), especially coming before the lengthy British satire “The Battle of Epping Forest.”  It is a relaxing, folk-like ballad about an optimistic young man who, with a self-effacing humor, believes that everything with his girlfriend who has just walked out on him will end up all right.  It’s probably the quietest of the quiet Gabriel-era songs, especially at the beginning.  It needs no further comment: listen and enjoy.

“The Battle of Epping Forest”

“Taken from a news story concerning two rival gangs fighting over East-End Protection rights,” according to the liner notes, “Epping Forest” is a mixture of “Giant Hogweed” and “Harold the Barrel,” with the medieval-modern British satirical tone pervasive throughout the present album.  The album as a whole oscillates between border-line cynicism and tongue-in-cheek optimism.  “Epping Forest” leans more toward the latter, until the climax of the song.  The song is overtly self-explanatory, even for social criticism.  It certainly doesn’t need the extensive footnoting that T.S. Eliot or even Jonathan Swift requires.  It’s a lengthy song and some may justifiably conjecture that it is too lengthy — a lot of words are sung by Gabriel in these almost twelve minutes.  The quirkiness of the song allows Gabriel to use a variety of personas during the different combat scenes, as well as the neighborhood episodes.  The comedic tensions of gangs fighting to “protect” the poor, with the multiple meanings of “protection” throughout the song, are among the highlights of the lengthy number.  The diverse musical motifs and tempos also provide good variety, without which the song would become tedious (some may say “even more tedious,” but that’s unnecessarily harsh).

The various scenes display the album’s blending of modern and antique England.  The “Robin Hood” scene is the cleverest lyrically; the Reverend looking for used furniture following the “Beautiful Chest” sign leads to near Benny Hill-like comedy, though Gabriel rescues it (to a degree) from sheer objectification.  The musical breaks during the different vocal sections are further signs of the band’s musical skill.  Were “Epping Forest” not on the same album as “Firth of Fifth” and “Cinema Show,” it would probably have achieved more notoriety.  The ending is a lyrical pyrrhic victory matched by the music: the story is unsure who wins the fight (since both sides essentially wipe each other out), and the ambiguous and uncertain melodic irresolution demonstrates that well.  This is one of the better unities of the lyrics and music during the song; it isn’t always so appropriately blended.  Altogether, it’s a clever song that occasionally (and only then briefly) suffers from the weight of its own vast and sundry intentions.

“After the Ordeal”

I do not understand why Tony Banks and Peter Gabriel were against including this song on the album; I can understand why Steve Hackett would eventually quit, since the other band mates seemed to consider his compositions (such as this one) so poor.  Did they forget about “Horizons”?  This is a great song, doubly so since it is a completely believable transition from the end of “Epping Forest” to “Cinema Show.”  Without this, the transition would be fine, but with it, the album has another lyric-free achievement celebrating their musical greatness.  Gabriel even gets some keen moments of flute solo work in.  Regardless of the band’s derisive assessment of it, “After the Ordeal” is an enjoyable, cathartic musical number.

“The Cinema Show”

With a harpsichord-like introduction recalling to mind strains of “The Musical Box,” Genesis begins the last (and arguably best) of its Gabriel-era epic numbers.  The sweet, dulcet tones supporting the gentle lyrics at the start of the song may even surpass the beginning of “Supper’s Ready” (nothing surpasses its ending, of course).  The satire here is devoid of cynicism, which is a bit of a relief after the lengthy “Epping Forest.”  The clever multi-layered diction is here in full, and the names of the characters evoke both Shakespeare and e.e. cummings: Juliet and Romeo are prototypical Britishers.  Gabriel’s impressive but all-too rare synesthesia ability returns as well: “Home from work our Juliet / Clears her morning meal. / She dabs her skin with pretty smells / Concealing to appeal.”  Gabriel couples both his sensory word play (skin is usually about touch, but here it’s about the source of her perfume) with his clever paradoxes as seen with the battle to preserve peace in “Epping Forest” (“concealing to appeal,” certainly one of the most intelligent lines in all of Gabriel’s tenure with the band).  “‘I will make my bed,’ / She said, but turned to go. / Can she be late for her Cinema show? / Cinema show?”  Juliet, despite being a lovely, typical girl (in no derogatory way), has enough procrastination in her to make her even more appealing.  Who wouldn’t want to hang with a girl more concerned with enjoying genuine leisure than incessant cleanliness, willing to put the bed making off until after a movie?

The Romeo of “Cinema Show” is like Shakespeare’s Romeo, once he has seen Juliet at the Capulet party at the end of act 1.  This song, in fact, could easily be a musical version of an understood scene between acts one and two, with modern accoutrement.  The contrast of Juliet waiting to make her bed (as in, put the sheets back in order) because she’ll just get back in it by herself after the movie, with Romeo’s desire to make his bed with Juliet (as in, have Juliet in it, too), is yet another great example of Gabriel’s subtle lyrical skill (though Banks and Rutherford wrote the song, admittedly).  Describing Romeo as a “weekend millionaire” is a trenchant commentary on the dating scene.  Yes, Juliet is a part of it with her “concealing to appeal” perfume, but we have no reason to believe she is looking to spend her post-motion-picture evening with anyone or anywhere but her yet-to-be-made bed.  Gabriel’s final observatory question, “Can he fail, armed with his chocolate surprise?” is a fitting end to the gentle send-up of this aspect of contemporary British life (a scene still relevant today, even in America, much more so than “Epping Forest”).  How could a typical lothario possibly not succeed by offering a woman chocolates, a completely original idea!

The music picks up speed and motion, and Gabriel changes the scope of the exploration of modern love (in Elizabethan garb — or the other way around, if you prefer).  From Shakespeare we travel further back to Ovid.  Much has been said of the influence of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land — no doubt Banks and Rutherford (and the others) read it in school growing up in 1950s-60s England, in addition to the classics they must have read in public school, perhaps good old Charterhouse School, where Genesis was formed.  Even so, the lyrics are not intended to be as obfuscatory as Modern Eliot was.  Ovid’s Tiresias is helpful enough to understand the gist of what Gabriel is saying.  (If you have not read either The Waste Land or Metamorphoses, you should do so after finishing this journal.)

Father Tiresias, we are told by all sources, spent time as both a man and a woman: “‘I have crossed between the poles, for me there’s no mystery.’”  For this experiential perspective on the differences between the genders he lost his eyesight, according to some.  What is not so clear in this song, we are told by some critical sources, is the meaning of Tiresias’ encoded language next.  “Once a man, like the sea I raged. / Once a woman, like the earth I gave. / And there is in fact more earth than sea.”  At first hearing it may seem Tiresias is commenting on the sheer population difference between men and women in the world: women outnumber men on the earth.  (Not even Tiresias would literally think the globe consisted of more land than sea, would he?)  However, the meaning, we are told, is something different: “there is in fact more earth than sea” means that women enjoy making love more than men do, on a physical level at least.  If that’s true (the right interpretation of Tiresias’ words, not necessarily the authenticity of the interpretation), the fact Juliet is not interested in any physical conclusion to the cinema date with Romeo who is very much looking forward to such an encounter, makes the tale full of humorous and unexpected twists and turns.

The other great aspect of this final epic number from Gabriel’s tenure as Genesis’s front man and flautist begins at the seven-minute mark.  The final four instrumental minutes of the number begin with one of Banks’s finest melodic/solo lines.  Without trying to sound too effusive, the line is soaring, evocative, and uplifting.  The rhythm section soon buttresses Banks’s work with a catchy, driving, syncopated support.  Eventually, the motif works its way through enough variations to everyone’s satisfaction, winding down as so many of Genesis’s lengthy numbers do, returning from its 7/8 beat to its original 4/4 time.  The melodic line returns to a variation of “Dancing with the Moonlit Knight,” bookending the album brilliantly and blending into the final epilogue number.  Since “Aisle of Plenty” was not played on tour, the live concert version of “Cinema Show” received a new, self-contained ending, just as good in its own way.

“Aisle of Plenty”

As a reprise of “Moonlit Knight,” “Aisle of Plenty” is clearly a coda for Selling England By the Pound, uniting the album as one of the best concept albums of the progressive rock genre.  In fewer than one hundred seconds, Gabriel demonstrates his uncanny lyrical ability to pun and satirize in rapid fashion.  It’s doubtful Tess is the Queen of Maybe, thus making the connection to the first song musical and thematic, not directly lyrical/character-driven.  The idea of being lost away from home is clearly a thematic premise throughout the album.

“‘I don’t belong here,’ said old Tessa out loud. / ‘Easy, love, there’s the Safe Way Home.’ / — thankful for her Fine Fair discount, Tess Co-operates / Still alone in o-hell-o / — see the deadly nightshade grow.”  Gabriel sings of three different grocery store chains (Safeway, Fine Fair, and Tesco) as well as the large Co-op (The Co-operative Group) that dominates British retail life.  Though Safeway and Fine Fare do not exist anymore, Tesco is the second-largest profitable grocery chain in the world (after Wal-Mart).  I can attest to the reasonable prices and fine quality of their goods (the last time I had some shepherd’s pie from Tesco, it was quite tasty and filling and cost only 69p, VAT).  The title of the song is another example of Gabriel’s multi-layered diction, though this time the pun is more overt.  The “sceptered isle” of England, having traded in its prize for the merchandise of the Queen of Maybe has become the grocery store “aisle” of cloying affluence.  The seeming pessimism is furthered by the final lines, “Still alone in o-hell-o / — see the deadly nightshade grow.”  The nightshade, kin to the essential foodstuffs of British living (potatoes, tomatoes, and eggplants), is the poisonous member of that family, which is slowly and maliciously taking over (somewhat reminiscent of “Giant Hogweed” two albums before).  Also, the nightshade could be another double-meaning reference, in that Tess, satisfied that she has her goods and safety, closes the nightshade on her window to the dangers and economic/social factors in turmoil outside.  If Tess represents mainstream England (and what is more “mainstream” than commercial grocery store chains), it has clearly not learned its lesson.  At the dawn of a new day, the hawkers return in full force:

Peek Freans was a biscuit and related-confectionary brand, now subsumed under United Biscuits and Kraft Foods.  Fairy Liquid is a Procter & Gamble washing-up liquid now genericized (like Xerox and Kleenex) to mean any liquid washing-up product in the United Kingdom.  Anchor is a New Zealand dairy company popular in the United Kingdom (and other places).  Bird’s Eye is the international frozen foods magnate, of course (though I’m not sure what a “dairy cream sponge” is).

“It’s Scrambled Eggs”

“It’s Scrambled Eggs” are the final words from the liner notes.  We must go on living, but we can’t be solely concerned about the price of living in our own little communities, as if our own material needs are the only causes worth investigating and fighting for.  Selling England By the Pound does not offer many direct solutions to any of these problems, but it does give us strong reminders of the dangers of living only for ourselves.  The music of the album is among the best of Genesis’s career; the lyrics likewise display the great skill (for the most part) of the band’s mature output.  Collectively, the album is a phenomenal work.

With this album, Genesis clearly eradicates any doubts about their greatness not only as a progressive rock band but as musicians and writers at large.  The unity of the album is stupendous, maintaining and morphing its satirical needs brilliantly throughout a variety of subjects.  As the last of the typical Gabriel-era albums, Selling England By the Pound proves that by abandoning the limiting restraints of their initial management, Genesis could incorporate myth, satire, literature, and imagination into something astounding.  Though they may have burned up their reserve of epic music, scrambling all their lengthy creativity eggs, it was well worth it.  With a combination of pungent social satire, classical allusions, and pervasive self-effacement (“You play the Hobbyhorse, I’ll play the Fool”; “More fool me”), Selling England By the Pound is as close to a perfect album as any can get, and it is undoubtedly worth listening to and enjoying again and again.

Christopher Rush

No Line (or Apostrophe) on the Horizons

Genius is rarely recognized immediately.  Foxtrot reached only #12 on the charts in England and did not chart at all in America.  These nonsensical historical anecdotes aside, in 1972, Genesis gave us one of the greatest musical experiences of all time: Foxtrot.  The band is in full stride here, continuing its mature sounds and lyrical creativities from the success (if not commercial success) of Nursery Cryme.  If there was indeed a sense of subdued relief at the completion of the diverse and inaugural classic-lineup album, the energy has been refreshed and renewed, as evidenced by the initial archetypal sounds of Tony Banks’s mellotron.

“Watcher of the Skies”

For any fan of good music, all one has to do is hit the play button (or drop the tone arm into the grooves) and emit the unmistakable sounds of Tony Banks’s Mellotron Mark II, and after but one second of the sound everyone will know instantly that this is “Watcher of the Skies.”  It is that recognizable.  The introduction is very good, despite the progression through discordant chords — even Tony Banks detractors have great difficulty in rebutting this powerful and energetic introduction.  The gigantic sound sets the mood for the cosmic powers at play.

The lyric of the song is a strange supernatural tale about a galactic observer (doubtful it’s a supreme being, more likely a cousin or friend of Uatu) who discovers planet earth, apparently at the point of man’s last gasp, almost as if man is about to leave Earth behind — either because he is exterminating himself or because he is about to journey to the stars (but his self-destruction by his own devising is more likely).  The title is taken from John Keats’s delightful “On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer” (the poem that also gives us Keats’s great description of the world of art, literature, and beauty: the “realms of gold”): “Then I felt like some watcher of the skies / When a new planet swims into his ken.”

The story is ambiguous, as indicated in the uncertainty above: at times the words indicate life is going and possibly has been gone from Earth for a long time; other verses indicate that mankind is about to progress to another advanced phase: “Think not your journey done / For though your ship be sturdy, no / Mercy has the sea, / Will you survive on the ocean of being?”  The optimism of man’s potential shifts again in the final verse, along with the potential downfall and isolation to the point of extinction of the Watcher himself: “Sadly now your thoughts turn to the stars / Where we have gone you know you never can go. / Watcher of the skies watcher of all / This is your fate alone, this fate is your own.”

With the immense power of the music of this opening track, finishing up the weight and vastness of the Stephen Vincent Benét-like lyrics, Genesis has satisfied both the audience that believed Nursery Cryme was the cusp of greatness and the audience that knew Nursery Cryme was the beginning of the band’s peak output.  Gabriel’s lyrical skill has surpassed its tentative forays from the early years, building upon his initial attempts at ambiguity mixed with concrete emotional evocation, and achieving the longed-for narrative skill the band needed to complement its musical talents.

“Time Table”

In a way, “Time Table” continues the pattern Nursery Cryme set by alternating the fast-paced epic songs with the more melodic, almost quaint English life ballads.  However, the pattern is not complete, since “Time Table” has a stronger, more emphatic chorus than “For Absent Friends” and “Harlequin.”  Further, “Time Table” is more reminiscent of Trespass — the talk of kings and queens of old draws one back to that sophomore (not sophomoric in any way) effort.  The precision of the language is better than those days, though, especially in the chorus: “Why, why can we never be sure ’til we die / Or have killed for an answer, / Why, why do we suffer each race to believe / That no race has been grander? / It seems because through time and space / Though names may change each face retains the mark it wore.”  Not only is it refreshing that Gabriel is answering his own questions (finally), but also the melodic shifts of the “answer” lines are unlike any other motifs in the song, furthering the band’s connection between the music and the lyrics as integrated and integral aspects of their poetic/musical output.

The verses are reminiscent of Tu Fu’s “Jade Flower Palace” with a dash of Shelley’s “Ozymandias.”  Without trying to imply that Peter Gabriel is a better poet than either of those world masters, “Time Table” is a better lyric than those poems (though I admit I have only read “Jade Flower Palace” in translation — perhaps the original surpasses Gabriel).  The fullness of the title itself is more creative than the simple declaratives of the other two titles.  Initially is the extreme Britishness of the time table itself, harbinger of trains, schedules (with a “shed” sound, not “sked,” of course), and punctuality rivaled only by the Germans.  “Here is a song of the passage of time, how it has been chronicled and organized since the days of Bede and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle,” says the title.

Four words into the song, though, the title takes on additional layers of significance: “A carved oak table, / Tells a tale….”  The time table is, in fact, an actual table, a carved oak table.  The layering is doubly rich: not only have we the table itself telling the tales by evoking memories “[o]f times when kings and queens sipped wine from goblets gold,” but the table is of carved oak, recalling to mind the aspect of knowing a tree’s age by cutting it down and counting its rings, telling a tale of its age and the weather incidents that affected its development and trunk life.  The title of this song is rich indeed.

The Britishness of the song continues, as the carved oak table tells the tale of English kings and queens and their glory halcyon days of old, when “the brave would lead their ladies out the room / To arbors cool. / A time of valor, and legends born / A time when honor meant much more to a man than life / And the days knew only strife to tell right from wrong / Through lance and sword.”  The subtlety of Gabriel’s lyric is impressive: what starts out as a nostalgic look backward to medieval jousting combats, feasts, and castles suddenly becomes a diatribe against uncivilized barbarity.  It seemed like a civilized time of honor and nobility, but their definition of glory (evinced by Ivanhoe himself) was, fundamentally, “might makes right.”  The chorus, quoted above, furthers the political overtones of the song.  Beyond the medieval imagery, the song is a universal denunciation of all xenophobic military mindsets, British or otherwise.  The winsome music accompanying the “answer” section of the chorus turns out to be an almost ironic response, as if the answer is so self-evident it can’t be answered with a straight face: human nature (barbaric, aggressive) never changes.

Verse two is even more reminiscent of “Jade Flower Palace”: “A dusty table / Musty smells / Tarnished silver lies discarded upon the floor / Only feeble light descends through a film of grey / That scars the panes.”  The narrator cannot even recall the scenes with zestful authenticity anymore; the oak table, once a sign of strength and security, is just a collector of dust.  The cool arbors are replaced by musty smells.  The refulgent gold goblets and chargers are scarring, miasmic, filmy grey memories.  “Gone the carving, and those who left their mark, / Gone the kings and queens now only the rats hold sway / And the weak must die according to nature’s law / As old as they.”  Gabriel works in another great subtle line, as the carved oak table (first carved as an example of craftsmanship, now carved as a memory bank of those who sat and dined, lived and loved there) is shown against the scarring light — the notches of conquests are now the scars of memories and the scars of faded glory.  The strong warriors and leaders fell away, succumbing to the passages of time and the unconquerable reign of nature.  The lament-filled chorus returns and the Trespass-like sounds soon play the memories into oblivion.  The fading dulcimer tones are quite appropriate for the final moods of the song.

“Get ’Em Out By Friday”

In the vein of “Harold the Barrel,” “Get ’Em Out By Friday” is a multiple-narrator story, but the song as a whole is more complex (which does not imply “better”) and more social awareness-oriented like Selling England By the Pound.  Without looking at the words the first time one listens to the song, one might suppose the song is about shipping clerks, but it’s not, unfortunately.  The song has three main characters: John Pebble of Styx Enterprises, Mark Hall of Styx Enterprises (“The Winkler”), and Mrs. Barrow (a tenant).  Not too much time passes before we realize Styx Enterprises is not about the band (especially since the band had not yet reached mainstream popularity) but the Underworld.  Pebble and The Winkler are clearly in league with Satan, but the song is not as darkly supernatural as that accusation implies.

John Pebble is a landowning entrepreneur in the most acquisitive and degrading senses on the word: “Get ’em out by Friday! / You don’t get paid ’til the last one’s well on his way. / Get ’em out by Friday! / It’s important that we keep to schedule, there must be no delay.”  Before the first verse is over, Pebble makes his priorities clear: profit is the supreme good.  The well-being of people, even employees, is irrelevant.  The legality of Pebble’s threat that his employees won’t get paid until they finish evicting all the tenants is suspect, but who knows what wage systems were in place in 1970s England.

Mark “Winkler” Hall follows orders.  “I represent a firm of gentlemen who recently purchased this / house and all the others in the road, / In the interest of humanity we’ve found a better place for you to go-go-go-go-go.”  The Winkler puts the most dangerous spin on economy: the interest of humanity.  The real interest, of course, is Styx Enterprise’s profit interest.  Mrs. Barrow, poor tenant, provides the typical human response (phrased in a typical British way): “Oh, no, this I can’t believe, / Oh, Mary, they’re asking us to leave.”  Since The Winkler is asking them to leave, it’s possible that Styx Enterprises has no legal recourse to evict the people after all, especially since his supreme value of profit does not allow basic human sentiment.  If they had the right to evict them, they would do so immediately, especially without bribing them to move.

Back at Styx Enterprises, Mr. Pebble is upset and flustered: “Get ’em out by Friday! / I’ve told you before, ’s good many gone if we let them stay. / And if it isn’t easy, / You can squeeze a little grease and our troubles will soon run away.”  Like a typical Barney Miller slum lord, Pebble is concerned about immediacy of his plans and is willing to resort to a slightly smaller profit margin (with distributed bribe money) if it forestalls widespread public awareness of their methodology.

Mrs. Barrow’s response to The Winkler is confusing.  She desires to stay in her home so badly she offers to pay twice her current rent, but she allows him to convince her to take 400£s and move to a flat with central heating based on a photograph.  She even admits they’re “going to find it hard” at that place.  Now that Pebble has his way, acquisitiveness rules again: “Now we’ve got them! / I’ve always said that cash cash cash can do anything well. / Work can be rewarding / When a flash of intuition is a gift that helps you excel-sell-sell.”  I’m not certain acquisitiveness is either a gift or a flash of intuition, but pecuniary-minded people think strangely about reality.  The Winkler informs Mrs. Barrow that her rent for her new place has been raised, to which she responds, “Oh, no, this I can’t believe, / Oh, Mary, and we agreed to leave.”

A musical interlude indicates the passage of time, during which Styx Enterprises disappears, and Mr. Pebble has been knighted and now works for United Blacksprings International.  I suspect Styx Enterprises has transformed into UBI, since “Blacksprings” is too like the river Styx to be anything but infernal.  Now that the year is 2012 (in the song), a modern, futuristic name is needed to hide its diabolical business.  In this futuristic world run by Satan’s Pebbles of the world, Genetic Control has declared that people will only be four feet tall, in order to fit more tenants in UBI’s tenements.  The new representative of the common man, Joe Ordinary, who frequents the Local Pub-o-rama (definitely a British expression of the future), recognizes their shady and unscrupulous practices.  As Gabriel sang in “Time Table,” the names have changed but the motivations and methods never do: “in the interest of humanity,” says Joe Ordinary, “they’ve been told they must go-go-go-go.”  The interest is not of humanity, of course, but of the Blacksprings.  Sir John de Pebble rouses The Winkler from some sort of dormancy (is he, after all, a spirit?): he has more work to do.

The end of the song is another layered ambiguity from the lyrically mature Peter Gabriel (whose name is incredibly ironic concerning this song).  According to the liner notes, the last two lines are a memo from Satin Peter of Rock Developments Limited.  Whether “Satin” is an accidental misspelling of “Saint” is unclear, though it could be an intentional Saint/Satan ambiguity (or Gabriel could be prefiguring Bryan Earwood’s typical spelling of “Satan”).  I doubt Gabriel is positing Peter and Satan are the same, and as mentioned before, the song is not as overtly diabolical as this brief treatment may make it seem.  Gabriel’s intelligence is shown by having Peter work for Rock Developments Limited, since, if it is really Saint Peter, Gabriel’s knowledge that he is the rock is impressive, even if he is somewhat derogatorily saying the developments of the rock (perhaps the church herself) are a “limited” enterprise, especially in contrast to the dominance of United Blacksprings International.  The memo itself is again Blakean: “With land in your hand you’ll be happy on earth / Then invest in the Church for your heaven.”  You can figure that one out for yourself.

“Can-Utility and the Coastliners”

Genesis’s range of source material has clearly transcended its scriptural From Genesis to Revelation beginnings.  Trespass gave us, among others, the beast fable of Fang the wolf.  Nursery Cryme showed their penchant for classical myth and Victorian fantasy.  Here, on Foxtrot, Genesis extends their mythical range to the Viking King Canut (Cnut the Great) of Denmark, Norway, England, and parts of Sweden who ruled shortly before the Norman Invasion destroyed most of pre-1066 history.  Cnut’s invasion of England was complete by 1016.  By 1027, Cnut ruled the rest of those northern Norse men territories.  Within a few years of his death in 1035, Edward the Confessor reigned, setting the stage for William the Conqueror thereafter.  The apocryphal story has variations, of course.  Supposedly King Cnut once placed his throne on the shore, tired of his sycophantic court, and commanded the waves to part and not wash upon his throne or his robes to demonstrate his true power (and mock his courtiers who believed the waves would heed him).  Of course the waves did not honor his request and lapped around him.  Some accounts, such as Henry of Huntingdon’s, declare Cnut then placed his crown on a crucifix and gave the glory to the God of the Bible as the deity whom the natural world obeys.  Gabriel’s version here does not have that sort of climax, but it does relate a similar story as a whole.

Gabriel personifies the natural setting, and the musical accompaniment at the beginning is as mellifluous as anything Genesis ever did, opening with one of the most evocative opening lines in their canon: “The scattered pages of a book by the sea, / Held by the sand washed by the waves.”  No more mention is given of what this book was, though it may be fair to assume it is a book about King Cnut.  “A shadow forms cast by a cloud, / Skimming by as eyes of the past, but the rising tide / Absorbs them effortlessly claiming.”  The clouds as “eyes of the past” is a wonderful image, one of Gabriel’s best metaphors.  As the verse continues, the shifting vocalizations and musicality increase as the tide and Cnut’s disappointment swell, leading into one of the most dynamic musical interludes not just of the album but in Gabriel’s entire tenure.  Referring to Cnut as “Can-Utility” is impressively ironic again, since the entire story is about what Cnut could not do, though he was desperate for useful followers and worshippers, not mindless flatterers.  The story follows the climax of Cnut’s experiment, as Hackett and Rutherford’s contributions mimic the waves and Cnut’s emotions.  From reaction to worshipful declarations, the diversity in this song is most impressive.  Instead of the Christian conclusion though (as can be supposed), Gabriel ends with a mysterious tag: “See a little man with his face turning red / Though his story’s often told you can tell he’s dead.”  Much like “Time Table,” “Can-Utility and the Coastliners” (the Coastliners are most likely the unheeded flatterers who resemble fox hunters/hounds on the cover) reminds us of the passage of time during which the power and reigns of even the mightiest and proudest rulers will eventually conquer mortal rulers, no matter how often their stories are told (or re-imagined, as Genesis does here).

“Horizons”

Little needs be said about possibly the most beautiful song of Genesis’s career.  Though the re-mastered cd release calls “Horizon’s,” the title has no apostrophe.  Steve Hackett’s masterful work is a marvelous prelude to the epic “Supper’s Ready,” making the B-side of Foxtrot probably the best B-side in the history of music recording.  It has been noted that Hackett begins with the central theme from Bach’s cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, but he soon progresses to his own baroque-influenced song.  Like all the great soft Genesis numbers, one is almost left with the impression that it is too short, that there should be more song, but that, of course, misses the point entirely.  It is a precisely-structured musical expression of the soul in a beautiful world — any more would be over-indulgence to the point of aural gluttony.  We must re-train ourselves to appreciate and enjoy what is there and ask for no more.

“Supper’s Ready”

Oh, boy.  Time for the great supernatural epic, one of the top-tier songs that defines Genesis’s career (by those aware of the Gabriel era, that is).  Various accounts credit very bizarre sources for the inspiration of this mighty work (many of which do not have the same tone and direction that the song itself has), and the reader can seek those out at his leisure.  Gabriel’s intro of the song in concert gives it a different context as well.  At the outset of this series I indicated we were going to focus solely (as much as possible) on the lyrics and music of the songs themselves — admittedly, though, we have used some liner note stories and other historical references to explain some of the allusions where appropriate, and we will need to do a bit more of that here.  As for The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway next issue…well, we’ll cross that bear when we get to it.  Though we won’t utilize all the interviews and dvd bonus material available for simplicity’s sake, we will use quotations from the 1972-73 concert tour handout that explains (in typical covert Gabriel fashion) the story.  The nearly twenty-three-minute musical epic is divided into seven sections, in a variation of the sonata form.

I. Lover’s Leap

The opening scene of the magnum opus is a calm, quiet evening in a British home of two typical British young lovers (since the episodes that influenced the writing of this song were from Gabriel’s wife, we shall call the main characters a married couple, one woman and one man).  The simple melody and restrained accompaniment hearken back to the folk days of Trespass.  The couple seems to be newly reunited (“I’ve been so far from here, / Far from your warm arms. / It’s good to feel you again, / It’s been a long, long time.  Hasn’t it?”), but it could also (or instead) be a metaphorical separation that is being bridged.  The song opens with the male narrator turning off the television and looking into his wife’s eyes, perhaps for the first time in quite a while, thus necessitating the repeated encouraging line, “Hey my baby, don’t you know our love is true.”  Outside this familial scene the supernatural is coming to life: “Out in the garden, the moon seems very bright, / Six saintly shrouded men move across the lawn slowly. / The seventh walks in front with a cross held high in hand.”  Additionally, the wife is also going through supernatural transitions: “I swear I saw your face change, it didn’t seem quite right.”  The mystical work outside completes the transformation of the couple inside.  The guide summarizes this quiet scene of transformation nicely: “In which two lovers are lost in each other’s eyes, and found again transformed in the bodies of another male and female.”

II. The Guaranteed Eternal Sanctuary Man

“The lovers come across a town dominated by two characters; one a benevolent farmer and the other the head of a highly disciplined scientific religion.  The latter likes to be known as ‘The Guaranteed Eternal Sanctuary Man’ and claims to contain a new secret ingredient capable of fighting fire.  This is a falsehood, an untruth, a whopper and a taradiddle, or to put it in clearer terms, a lie,” says the guide.  The melodic line of this section is recalled at the climax of the song in part seven, though the lyrics there are much more Biblical and life-affirming than the lyrics are here.  The pacing and melody of the sounds in this section, though, are great.  The challenge of this section is to discern whether Gabriel is satirizing (a gentle word for it) Jesus and Christianity (since he wore a crown of thorns during this portion of the song for some live performances); though Gabriel is not an overt Christian, I posit that he is not denigrating Christianity itself but the materialistic, “scientific” versions of it (such as televangelists and others of that ilk), primarily because of the biological science references.  I hope I am not being credulous.

I don’t know if anything should be made of another farmer reference, though it is interesting that Genesis often speaks of farmers (“Seven Stones” from Nursery Cryme, “The Chamber of 32 Doors” from The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, among others).  The farmer doesn’t seem to have much to do in this section of the song, though; after the brief mention of his skill and concern for his task caring for the natural world (in a Chaucer-like description), the focus shifts entirely to the GESM.  I have no knowledge if Gabriel has read Fahrenheit 451, but it is clever that his fireman, the GESM, “looks after the fire” and doesn’t put out fires.  The guide, quoted above, intimates the secret ingredient to fight fire is some sort of salvation, if the fire is the eternal fires of damnation from the Lake of Fire.  This might contradict my earlier position that the GESM is not an attack on Jesus, but I don’t think it does.  We know that Jesus does not provide falsehoods, untruths, whoppers, and lies about the afterlife — even if the GESM is an attack on the Bible, Gabriel would be wrong, and there would be no need to be concerned, provided we then explained this misconception rationally and thoroughly.  If the GESM is just a type of false gospel promoter, Gabriel is thoroughly correct that the technological, scientific “secret” is “a lie.”

The quiet chorus after the final lyrical and musical climax of this section is difficult to understand: “We will rock you, rock you little snake, / We will keep you snug and warm.”  The quietude of the conclusion transforms into a flute recapitulation of the “Lover’s Leap” melody.  This in turn prepares the way for the third section of the work.

III. Ikhnaton and Itsacon (Its-a-con) and Their Band of Merry Men

“Who the lovers see clad in greys and purples, awaiting to be summoned out of the ground.  At the GESM’s command they put forth from the bowels of the earth, to attack all those without an up-to-date ‘Eternal Life License,’ which were obtainable at the head office of the GESM’s religion,” according to the guide.  Ikhnaton is none other than Akhenaten, the Egyptian pharaoh and husband of Nefertiti, whose “Great Hymn to the Aten” we read in 10^th grade.  The GESM conjures him and Its-a-con (furthering the song’s antipathy toward false religion and pseudo-scientific-intellectualism) and a mighty battle rages, as evidenced by the faster pace, louder percussion, and interaction and interplay of Tony Banks’s organ and Steve Hackett’s guitar.  The arpeggiated musical break is one of the musical highlights of the entire album (and Genesis canon).

The verses of this section further the song’s satiric approach to such a diversity of subject matter, this time war.  “Wearing feelings on our faces while our faces took a rest, / We walked across the fields to see the children of the West, / We saw a host of dark skinned warriors standing still below the ground, / Waiting for battle.”  I’ll admit I don’t know who the “children of the West” are, nor do I fully comprehend what “wearing feelings on our faces while our faces took a rest” means, though I suspect it also connects to the attacks on hypocrisy throughout the number.  Reminiscent of most battle songs from Genesis (“The Knife,” especially), Gabriel points out the paradox of war: “Killing foe for peace… / Today’s a day to celebrate, the foe have met their fate.”  Like Homer, though more acerbic, Gabriel reminds us that “war, no matter how much we may enjoy it, is no strawberry festival.”  The admixture of war satire with religion satire (“And even though I’m feeling good, / Something tells me, I’d better activate my prayer capsule”) makes the mostly music-driven section lyrically full.  Once the battle is over, the momentum is rapidly lost, and the section virtually slams to a halt, despite the final line, “The order for rejoicing and dancing has come from our warlord.”  (I’m pretty sure the live performances change it to “from Avalon,” but I could be wrong.)  The rejoicing and dancing do not appear.

IV. How Dare I Be so Beautiful?

The battle is over and only chaos is left, chaos and Narcissus.  “We climb up the mountain of human flesh, / To a plateau of green grass, and green trees full of life.”  The transformed couple climbs a mountain of war-struck corpses to find Narcissus admiring his beauty in a pool in a forest sitting by the pool.  Suddenly “He’s been stamped ‘Human Bacon’ by some butchery tool. / (He is you) / Social Security took care of this lad.”  This brief interlude of a number hearkens back to the ambiguous lyrics of From Genesis to Revelation, which is ironic since the phrase “How dare I be so beautiful” was a favorite expression of the band’s manager at the time, Jonathan King.  The connection of the “Human Bacon” stamp on Narcissus is most likely a reference to the battle carnage over which the couple has just ascended, since the “he is you” line furthers the representational nature of the previous section.  It is rather nice that the government took care of its fallen soldiers through social security, though the sparse musical accompaniment of this section belies the sincerity of the words.  It is a remarkably quiet section, but it is appropriate as the aftermath of such a battle.  Similarly appropriate with the music is the couple’s quite reverent non-participation (only as observers) of the transformation of Narcissus into a flower, according to Ovid’s version of the myth.  Like Narcissus (especially in variations on the myth), the couple are pulled down into the pool and the inane world of Willow Farm, resulting in a drastic shift from the direction of the song thus far.

V. Willow Farm

“Willow Farm” was a separate song worked in to “Supper’s Ready,” helping to distinguish it from other lengthy, unified narratives such as “Stagnation,” according to Tony Banks.  This portion of the number gave us one of Gabriel’s most iconic moments during live performances: the flower mask.  Lyrically, the song is diverse and often called Python-esque for its verbal wordplay (though it may be more Sellers-esque, if not Goon Show/Beyond the Fringe-esque).  The couple has by now climbed out of the pool into a different existence, an unusual world that makes Wonderland seem like the Reform Club.

The opening section has the feel of being welcomed by Kaa the python into his lair — Gabriel’s voice has all the unctuous charm of impending doom for the listener.  It is from this section we get a rare reference to a fox (“Like the fox on the rocks”), though the fox is not trotting, nor is it wearing a red dress like the fox on the Paul Whitehead cover of the album (Gabriel would sometimes wear a fox head and red dress during some Foxtrot song performances in concert).  Perhaps the narrator is a Reynard the Fox character, since the fox reappears again in the next section of the song.  The verbal rigmarole includes political commentary (“There’s Winston Churchill dressed in drag, / He used to be a British flag, plastic bag, what a drag”) and fable references (“The frog was a prince, the prince was a brick, the brick was an egg, and the egg was a bird / Hadn’t you heard?”).  Gabriel even includes a sly self-reference to “the musical box.”  Suddenly, a whistle blows, diverse sound effects occur, and the garden/woodland scene transforms into a typical British daily life tableau reminiscent of “Harold the Barrel.”  The verbal flummery continues (“Mum to mud to mad to dad / Dad diddley office, Dad diddley office, / You’re all full of ball / Dad to dam to dum to mum / Mum diddley washing, Mum diddley washing / You’re all full of ball”), based more in the sounds of the words than in their denotative sense (perhaps precursoring A Bit of Fry and Laurie — the British love their intelligent, verbal humor, and their non-intelligible verbal humor, that’s for sure).  Gabriel’s original narrative voice (mixing Grima Wormtongue with Uriah Heep) returns for the final few lines, and the menace grows until, just like the sudden climax before, the whistle blows again and the scene transforms: “You’ve been here all the time, / Like it or not, like what you got, / You’re under the soil, / Yes deep in the soil. / So we’ll end with a whistle and end with a bang / And all of us back in our places.”

VI. Apocalypse in 9/8 (Co-starring the Delicious Talents of Gabble Ratchet)

Unlike the peaceful follow-up to the abrupt end of “Ikhnaton and Itsacon,” the musical interlude between sections five and six does not fit with any previously-heard musical motifs, and its ominous timbre is not encouraging.  Instead of “Gabble Ratchet,” the guide indicates the co-stars are wild geese, a version of the “hounds of Hell.”  The ominous interlude quickly transmogrifies into a full diabolical performance as the rhythm section beats out a disjointing 9/8 rhythm.  Gabriel dons a geometrical headdress for a Magog costume, and the apocalypse is upon us.

“At one whistle the lovers become seeds in the soil, where they recognize other seeds to be people from the world in which they had originated.  While they wait for Spring, they are returned to their old world to see Apocalypse of St. John in full progress.  The seven trumpeteers cause a sensation, the fox keeps throwing sixes, and Pythagoras (a Greek extra) is deliriously happy as he manages to put exactly the right amount of milk and honey on his corn flakes,” says the guide, which actually makes matters worse in its obfuscatory George S. Kauffman-era Marx Brothers style.  We have traveled from seven shrouded saintly men from the garden to seven trumpeteers “blowing sweet rock and roll.”  The apocalyptic language is a mixture of Revelation, folktale, myth, and William Blake, both here and in the final section.  The musical variations during this section are more grinding and fretful than enjoyable, which is appropriate after a fashion for an apocalyptic climax (Tony Banks has commented that his organ solo was a parody of Emerson, Lake, and Palmer).  Couched within the diabolical imagery is the essential warning of the song: “You can tell he’s (the Dragon, Satan) doing well, by the look in human eyes. / You better not compromise. / It won’t be easy.”  The relevancy of Gabriel’s warning is even more relevant in the soul-siphoning digital age than it was during the uncertainties of the 1970s.

As Pythagoras writes out the lyrics to a new tune in blood (it’s doubtful Gabriel is equating geometric equations with the apocalypse, but he could be), the diabolical rhythms draw to a close, and we (and the couple) are saved from a disastrous fate as the opening melody from “Lover’s Leap” returns.  As Dante’s successful navigation through the Underworld resulted in his restoration to Love and Truth, so, too, does our heroic couple’s journey restore their love.  In a declaration reminiscent of Donne’s classic “Valediction: Forbidding Mourning,” the journey has only strengthened their union: “And it’s hey babe, with your guardian eyes so blue, / Hey my baby, don’t you know our love is true, / I’ve been so far from here, / Far from your loving arms, / Now I’m back again, and babe it’s going to work out fine.”

VII. As Sure as Eggs is Eggs (Aching Men’s Feet)

The “Lover’s Leap” motif transforms directly into “The Guaranteed Eternal Sanctuary Man” motif, but the lyrics are much more uplifting than before.  Though there are some elements of William Blake in there, the feeling the song evokes is pure Biblical catharsis.  This is as great an ending to an epic as any out there in any medium.  “Above all else, an egg is an egg,” says the guide.  In pure British simplicity, the self-evidence of the conclusion both discards the symbolic language of the entire song and allows us to believe exactly what the words are saying, at face value.  In simple logic, the tautology of the section title reminds us “as sure as eggs is eggs,” good will conquer evil, God will conquer Magog and the Dragon, and light will conquer darkness.  (The “aching men’s feet” line is probably just another admission that the journey is done, the album is over, and the band is tired out again.)  This is a great song, with an ending that puts to shame most (if not all) contemporary “Christian” music that gives us a pale, shoddy version of the glories of the life to come.  As Phil Collins presses his climactic snare roll, Gabriel sheds his Magog costume for an angelic white costume declaring the victory of goodness over evil. “Jerusalem,” says the guide, “= place of peace.”  What else is needed?  Now we know what the title of the song means: the armies of the Dragon are defeated, and the angel (in Revelation 19:17) invites the birds to feast on the flesh of the wicked.  Supper’s ready not just because the lovers are reunited, and not just because He has prepared the victory feast of His enemies, but more importantly because the Messiah (the Mighty One) has returned to prepare His marriage feast with His Bride, the Church.

Gabriel’s voice is as epic as it gets here.  “Can’t you feel our souls ignite / Shedding ever changing colors, in the darkness of the fading night, / Like the river joins the ocean, as the germ in the seed grows / We have finally been freed to get back home. / There’s an angel standing in the sun, and he’s crying with a loud voice, / ‘This is the supper of the mighty one,’ / Lord of Lords, / King of Kings, / Has returned to lead His children home, / To take them to the new Jerusalem.”  Now that’s a song.

“Now I’m Back Again, and Babe It’s Going to Work Out Fine”

By this point, the greatness of Genesis, especially in the Peter Gabriel era, should be evident to all.  They were diverse and talented lyrically and musically.  They told stories of apocalyptic battles and ballads of couples enjoying life and love.  Their melodies and harmonies, vocally and instrumentally, can still surpass just about anything today.  Their reputation commercially and in concert after the release of Foxtrot was no longer a well-kept secret.  Foxtrot was their first album to break the top 20 in England, and most of these songs became staples of their concerts for years to come.  Foxtrot is a great album from the first mighty chords of Tony Banks’s mellotron of “Watcher of the Skies” to Peter Gabriel’s worshipful exultations at the cathartic conclusion of “Supper’s Ready.”  Listening to Foxtrot is a great experience that should be enjoyed again and again.  Even for those who doubt the greatness of Nursery Cryme, Foxtrot is an uncontestable work of genius, cementing the greatness of Genesis.

Christopher Rush

The Classic Lineup, The Classic Albums

By 1971, Genesis had secured its now-classic five-person lineup: Peter Gabriel, Tony Banks, Mike Rutherford, Phil Collins, and Steve Hackett.  Over the next five years, Genesis would release five albums (four studio albums and one live album) and establish itself as the dominant progressive rock band of all time.  The band mates had honed their musical talents both within the studio and in early live performances, and the arrival of more-skilled musicians (Collins and Hackett) as well as new instruments and technical recording proficiencies all allowed the band to finally create the diverse and unique sounds and songs it had desired to do since its inception.

The first of the five classic lineup albums, Nursery Cryme, is still considered by some the culmination of the band’s maturation process, with its next album, Foxtrot, the real first fruits of its developmental stage.  Such a view does not give Nursery Cryme its just appraisal as a quality album in its own right.  Admittedly, the album does build upon the musical ideas hinted at in their earlier work, and as we found out recently with the previously unreleased demo material finally available in the box sets, many of the songs on this album had definite origins in the band’s earlier musical stages with Anthony Phillips.  Even so, to consider Nursery Cryme only as another development on the way to Foxtrot as the ultimate goal misses the point of the album: it has different songs that are not trying to do what Foxtrot and later albums offer.  It is a worthy and enjoyable album by itself, and it begins with one of the best (and most bizarrely creative) Genesis songs in their entire canon.

“The Musical Box”

The story behind this Victorian fairy story/epic song is included in the liner notes and depicted on the Paul Whitehead cover:

While Henry Hamilton-Smythe minor (8) was playing croquet with Cynthia Jane De Blaise-William (9), sweet-smiling Cynthia raised her mallet high and gracefully removed Henry’s head.  Two weeks later, in Henry’s nursery, she discovered his treasured musical box.  Eagerly she opened it and as “Old King Cole” began to play a small spirit-figure appeared.  Henry had returned — but not for long, for as he stood in the room his body began aging rapidly, leaving a child’s mind inside.  A lifetime’s desires surged through him.  Unfortunately the attempt to persuade Cynthia Jane to fulfill his romantic desire, led his nurse to the nursery to investigate the noise.  Instinctively Nanny hurled the musical box at the bearded child, destroying both.

The song takes place, fortunately, at the climactic moment of the scene described above.  Henry is hovering, apparently, etherealized around or in the nursery, caught between this life and the next — similarly, he is caught between his lust for Cynthia and a bourgeoning apathy toward existence itself (“It hardly seems to matter now” repeated throughout the song).  The opening strums recall us to the idyllic timbres of Trespass, but the audience has not long to wait before the maturity of the band and its aesthetic development shifts our focus away from the simplicity of the earlier album’s tonality to the wider range of sound and emotion, especially by the musical break and pounding section after “And I want / And I feel / And I know / And I touch / The wall” at the end of the opening ethereal section.

Cynthia discovers the musical box, and incorporeal Henry urges her on to open it.  The story in the liner notes (and Peter Gabriel’s introduction of the song in certain live performances) indicates that Henry returns to life with his eight-year-old mind, though his body begins to age rapidly when “Old King Cole” is played.  The supernatural is, as is obvious by now, a key element of Genesis’s lyrics.  Briefly, Henry indicates that the good news of a future afterlife Paradise (“a kingdom beyond the skies” — very Cosette-like) is all a lie.  Instead, he is “lost within this half-world,” neither fully dead nor fully alive, but he is initially unburdened by that (“It hardly seems to matter now”).  The confusing aspect of the lyrics (aside from the entire supernatural events themselves) is that Henry seems to know before his resurrection that his time is short; perhaps that is why he is so insistent that he and Cynthia (despite her age) consummate their relationship — despite the fact as well that she willfully killed him with a croquet mallet two weeks before.  If he knows his time is short, how does he know that, especially since his mind is still that of an eight-year-old?  Despite (or perhaps because of) his prescience, Henry’s lust overpowers his ethereal apathy like the poetic contributions of Andrew Marvell and Robert Herrick: “Just a little bit / Just a little bit more time / Time left to live out my life.”  The remaining time Henry has he wants to spend (in a manner of speaking) with Cynthia.  She opens the box, “Old King Cole” rings out, and Henry is embodied (and embearded) and starts to age physically.

After the pounding musical interlude, the first example of the band’s musical maturity, rapidly-aged Henry confronts the apparently motionless Cynthia (her reactions and attitudes are never mentioned during the song, since it is all from Henry’s point of view).  This half of the song demonstrates undoubtedly Genesis’s maturity as a band that combined provocative lyrics (admittedly sometimes abstrusely) with impressively skillful and aesthetically engaging instrumentality.  Now an old man with an eight-year-old mind, Henry voices his lust for the first (and last) time.  The tension and paradox of his love/lust comes out clearly: “She’s a lady, she’s got time. / Brush back your hair, and let me get to know your face.”  At first respectfully and Victorianly distant, Henry quickly shifts into Marvell-mode: “She’s a lady, she is mine!”  If Cynthia were a lady, even at nine-years-old, she probably would not have assassinated Henry with a croquet mallet in the first place.  If she were a lady, in the second place, she would not “belong” to Henry, young or old.  His lust is winning out: “Brush back your hair, and let me get to know your flesh” — an uncomfortable thought from an eight-year-old, especially toward a nine-year-old, made even more awkward by Peter Gabriel’s mask and movements during the live renditions of the song.  Fortunately, Genesis is in no way condoning such an attitude or behavior, since Henry ultimately receives his just reward.  We should remember, too, that Cynthia did slaughter Henry as well, and he still loves her, which makes the song thoroughly bizarre but archetypically Genesis, in the Gabriel era.

Soon Henry’s unslaked lust (as is often the case) turns into anger, though still tinged by a hint of apathy: “I’ve been waiting here for so long / And all this time has passed me by / It doesn’t seem to matter now” — apathy, or at least willingness to forgive the heretofore unrequited aspect of his lust, if only Cynthia will requite him now…which she won’t.  “You stand there with your fixed expression / Casting doubt on all I have to say.”  Now Henry’s anger and lust are full-boil and inseparable: “Why don’t you touch me, touch me / Why don’t you touch me, touch me, touch me / Touch me now, now, now, now, now / Now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now / Now, now, now, now, now, now!”  They are all there — listen carefully.  The nurse comes in, flings the music box at the wrinkled Henry, and both are destroyed.  “The Musical Box” signals quite well the maturity of Genesis as a prog rock band with finely- (and finally-) honed lyrical and musical talent to support the epic narrative visions that launched the band five years earlier.

“For Absent Friends”

In stark contrast to the William Blake-like bizarre maturity of “The Musical Box” (though no one does William Blake-like bizarreness like early Rush), “For Absent Friends” highlights the band’s softer and sweeter side.  The only thing discordant about this song is the delayed resolution at the very end, as Phil Collins’s first vocal contribution ends before the return of the dominant tonal chords provided by Hackett and Rutherford.  The song has a very folksong feel to it, but the impressive part is that it does not remind one of Trespass — it is its own song while thoroughly Genesis material.  Though the song is about a Sunday evening, it has all the atmosphere of a Saturday afternoon, or perhaps a Saturday late-morning, after one sleeps in with nothing much to do that day, perhaps having Welsh rabbit for lunch while still in one’s jim-jams.  The song concerns an elderly couple who misses and prays for those loved ones who are no longer present in their lives, and while the song has the slow pacing to match their slow gait, it also reflects a time of youth and late-morning sunshine.  Sometimes Genesis songs produce that antithetical feeling.  The lyrics are straightforward, certainly among the most translucent lyrics in the band’s Gabriel-era canon, and thus need no detailed discussion here.  Listen to the song with the words in front of you and enjoy a quiet, too-brief moment.  Though, part of its charm is that it is so short, since if it went on longer it would spoil the mood.  Sit back and enjoy the just-right song evoking both ends of life’s spectrum.

“The Return of the Giant Hogweed”

Nursery Cryme is a loosely-unified concept album in that most of the songs are nursery rhyme-like songs (the overt use of “Old King Cole” is evidence of that) dealing with children, myths, and Romance- and Victorian-atmospheric tunes; some of the songs are even loosely connected to each other.  “The Musical Box” is a Victorian fairytale (of a sort), and “Giant Hogweed” is an apocalyptic vision begun by a Victorian explorer.  Rooted, if you will, in the actual Heracleum mantegazzianum, the phototoxic hogweed plant that originates fairly close to where the eponymous version comes from, “Giant Hogweed” is another epic song beginning in medias res with the Giant Hogweed plants already waging their militaristic campaign.

The obvious connection is to “The Knife” from Trespass (and “The Battle of Epping Forest” in Selling England By the Pound), though “The Knife” is a lot more politically-minded and serious in tone.  That may sound strange, especially since the end of “The Knife” is a tyrant’s conquering of a police force (admittedly an unfortunate thing) and the end of “Giant Hogweed” sees the end of humankind altogether, overcome by rampaging mutant personified human-killer plants.

Musically, “Giant Hogweed” demonstrates Genesis’s ability to tell a story with its musical diversity as well as its lyrical maturity.  The speedy rhythms of the present scenes of the hogweed battle complement the frenetic chaos of the story.  The past tense backstory verses change the musical pace well, mirroring the sounds with the words as the moods change frequently.  In this diversity, the progression from “The Knife” is clear: instead of just post-production vocal manipulation, “Giant Hogweed” changes musical aspects as well as Gabriel’s vocal offerings.  The band is more mature, using their instruments as contributions of the overall song and its message.  Though it uses gimmicks aplenty (especially in Gabriel’s on-stage personae), the band has more to offer than simply gimmicks.

The backstory of the Victorian explorer in the Russian hills finding and transplanting the Giant Hogweed comes in agitated music-box-like verses.  The melody is pleasant like a music box melody should be, but the lyrics and the pace (as if a child were cranking the music box gears too quickly) betray the simplicity of the tune with the danger of the invincible plants.  The hubris of the Victorian “fashionable country gentlemen” who valued exotic botany over safety results in the gentlemen getting their due.  The parallel to the destructive nature of Victorian Imperialism is there, but I wouldn’t press the connection too firmly.  The effects of nineteenth-century imperialism, one could say, resulted in the world-wide destructions of World War I, but I doubt WWI is what Genesis had in mind as a parallel to the genocidal victory of the Giant Hogweed.  The characterization of the Hogweed itself (or themselves) by Gabriel and the other vocal contributors is a further oddity in this lyrical story, especially in the final stanza.  The line “Human bodies soon will know our anger,” were one to just read it without hearing or knowing the tune, might direct the reader to suppose Gabriel’s voice is loud and full of such anger, yet the contrary is true.  The Hogweed sings this line with a music box-like mellifluousness, betraying the aggressive nature of the campaign.  Instead, it is the voice of the humans in the chorus-like sections of the song that Gabriel sings with a hardened edge to his timbre.  The humans exclaim, “Stamp them out / We must destroy them” and “Strike by night / They are defenseless.”  Though both sides are guilty and both sides angry, Gabriel vocalizes the human race as the oppressors and the Giant Hogweed as the self-protecting and righteous combatants (“Mighty Hogweed is avenged”).

In the end, the Hogweed is victorious, but we are never told why it is the “return” of the Giant Hogweed.  The Hogweed bide their time over the years, seeking to avenge their uprooting from their Russian home, but that’s not a “return”; in contrast, once the attack has begun, the humans decide they must “[w]aste no time.”  The impatient reactors to the long-meditated counter-insurgency lose to the royal beast who never forgot what was done to him long ago by the Victorian explorer, and humanity pays the price.  The final musical sounds utilize this call-back to earlier times, with a kind of classical- or baroque-style ending and repeated final chord — definite growth from the Trespass days only months before.

“Seven Stones”

Like “For Absent Friends,” “Seven Stones” presents a soft ballad-like break between musically harder and more driving numbers, almost to the extent the album goes back-and-forth demonstrating Genesis’s developed soft/ballad and hard/mythic narrative facets.  It is possible that “Seven Stones” is the best song on the album that shows their musical and lyrical cohesion, though the time periods the lyrics and musical sounds indicate I believe are different — I am open to correction, of course.  Listening to this song is very much like listening to a Victorian sea shanty about times gone by, connecting it in a roundabout way to the overall theme of the album.  In contrast to the Victorian (perhaps even Edwardian) atmosphere, the lyrics are similar to a Romantic poem.  The opening line, “I heard an old man tell his tale,” reminds us of the opening of Percy Shelley’s poem “Ozymandias” — in both instances, it is not the narrator’s tale that the reader proceeds to read, it is layered by the narrator recalling what he heard from another source (akin to Thomas More’s Utopia, as well).  From this Romantic allusion of multi-layered narration, “Seven Stones” progresses to a parallel of Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” set within an Irish heather or Scottish highland “seventh son, seventh stone” magical fairy-tale background.

The first tale the old man tells is of a “Tinker, alone within a storm,” who is “losing hope” and “clears the leaves beneath a tree” under which he discovers the eponymous seven stones.  We are not told if the tinker takes these stones with him or if he leaves them, only that he later finds a friend in the seventh house he seeks out: apparently the stones (either magically or placebo-like) gave him hope to press on and his friend relieves him from the dangers of the storm — he was not as alone as he thought he was.  The shift from this story to the next is the most ambiguous line in the entire album: “And the changes of no consequence will pick up the reigns from nowhere” — superior to the ambiguous lines from the From Genesis to Revelation days, this line is a Coleridgean/Blakean bizarreness that seems to fit quite well.  The tinker’s change from hopeless isolation to befriended succor is certainly not of “no consequence,” so what the inconsequential changes are we are not told (perhaps because of their very inconsequential nature) — but then they take up the reigns from nowhere, as if what we thought were inconsequential then become the most consequential because they are now in control (holding the reigns — perhaps of destiny or Nature itself, perhaps by the power of the seven stones themselves).

The second story is the definite “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” parallel: sailors are imperiled on the sea about to strike a rock (though this did not happen in Coleridge’s poem) until a gull flies by and the Captain is moved by an unknown force to change course (similar to the supernatural effect the albatross and its slaying has in Coleridge’s poem, but it is admittedly distinct and thus a parallel, not an exact copy).  Whatever the inconsequential changes are in this story, they likewise take the reins from nowhere.

At this point, the old man takes a break (as evidenced both by the lyrics and the vocal change in Gabriel’s sound) and we learn some surprising things about this old narrator and his ambiguously supernatural tales from yet another narrator layer, this time an angelic-like omniscient chorus: “Despair that tires the world brings the old man laughter, / The laughter of the world only grieves him, believe him, / The old man’s guide is chance.”  It is difficult to accept why we should believe the stories of someone so contrary to the fabric of reality, who laughs at what brings most of us despair, who grieves at what brings most of us happiness and relief, and who is ultimately guided not by an absolute standard of morality or destiny but by that most fickle of masters: chance.  Perhaps, though, that is the point.  The things that we laugh at are truly trivial and inconsequential.  The things that we are afraid of should be what we laugh about (the seriousness of human affairs, for example?).  If chance is the reliable guide, does chance have a connection to the seven stones and the natural/supernatural influence of the gull?  If the old man believes in chance and human action and not divine structure, perhaps the stones had no intrinsic power after all, and superstition alone led the tinker to safety; similarly, the Captain who turned his boat to safety, instead of rationally asking why the gull was there, intuitively changed course because of chance.

The old man’s third tale (or second, if the tinker and sailors are two parts of the first tale) features the old man himself and gives further support for his Romantic philosophy couched in a Victorian/Edwardian song.  A farmer, who is apparently a very bad farmer, since he “knows not when to sow,” which is an essential skill for farming, approaches the old man for assistance rather desperately, since he is “clutching money in his hand.”  The old man shrugs, smiles, takes the money, and leaves “the farmer wild.”  Not much (if anything) should be read into the fact the old man with a Romantic/cavalier attitude steals money from a farmer, a man who works closely with the land and thus nature, which a Romantic should value — especially since the farmer is not very good at knowing the land.  With the old man’s thievery, the changes of no consequence pick up the reigns from nowhere, and soon the song comes to a close.  Nothing more is learned about the old man, the ethereal chorus, or the original narrator who is listening to the old man’s tales.

“Harold the Barrel”

Another Phil Collins cymbal roll heralds (I apologize) the shift from the “slow, melodic Genesis” to the “quirky, eclectic sounds and stories Genesis.”  “Harold the Barrel” is certainly one of their quirkier songs in the Gabriel era.  The song is a send-up of inane news reporting about topics of “local interest,” which, if relevant in 1971 England, is certainly relevant to today’s even crazier “news”-saturated, media-driven culture.  Like with most “news” stories, the veracity of the content is questionable at best.  Genesis does a trenchant job of clouding the issues, obscuring the perspectives, and rejecting any satisfactory conclusion to the episode.

Harold’s “mouse-brown overcoat” tells us that he is himself mousy, and thus weak and ineffective.  The next tidbit we learn is he is a father of three and has done something disgusting, apparently cutting off his own toes and serving “them all for tea,” though we are not told if they are served to his sons or if the entire thing is just community gossip, since Harold is a “well-known Bognor restaurant owner,” which means no one knows him at all.  The community soon revolts against him, and the train he took early this morning to escape will not take him far.  That Harold “hasn’t got a leg to stand on” is a remarkable line of Gabriel’s developed dark humor and lyrical skill: not only has Harold supposedly cut off his toes, he has no leg, either.

Before too long we infer that the information of Harold catching a train to escape early that morning is not true (either that he didn’t take a train at all, or just that he took a train not to escape but to get to the town hall where Harold is actually standing out on a ledge, perhaps ready to jump and end it all in a “Richard Cory”-like fashion except jumping from a ledge, not shooting himself with a gun, of course).  The reporter on the scene describes the gathering crowd at the town hall as “a restless crowd of angry people” — so restless that the city council has “to tighten up security.”  Why are they so angry?  Are the rumors about his teatime snack accurate?  It is never mentioned again, nor does the rest of the song give any tacit credence to such a tale.  Genesis could be ridiculing not only the nature of news reporting but also the mob mentality of onlookers — with no facts to ground their emotions upon, anger becomes the easiest communal response.

Even the Lord Mayor gives no leniency to Harold: “Man of suspicion,” he calls Harold, “you can’t last long, / when the British Public is on our side.”  What are the sides?  What is the issue?  Poor Harold is standing on a ledge, obviously discontent over something, and not only is the mindless citizenry against him for no apparent (or rational) reason, but also the elected officials are against him.  Mob mentality is king, here, since the Mayor himself appeals to general consensus: if the Public believes this ledge-hanger is guilty of something despicable, he must be, regardless of who he is, what he has done, or why he is even there.  Their communal antipathy increases in appetite, as they chant menacingly that “he can’t last long” (they clearly don’t want him to) and that supposedly this mindless mass earlier indicated that Harold couldn’t be trusted, “his brother was just the same.”  Why bring his brother into this?  Of course no one earlier voiced any concern about Harold; certainly we should place no credence in their filial associative gossip.

The sweetest moment of the song is the brief interlude from Harold’s perspective, as he looks out over the enraged citizenry and imagines where he would like to be instead: “If I was many miles from here, / I’d be sailing in an open boat on the sea / Instead I’m on this window ledge, / With the whole world below.”  The music accompanying this brief reverie is very enjoyable, especially as it is a break from the frantic cymbal-splashing highlights of the mob mentality and gossip-laced reporting.

Another shift occurs as the mob takes on a patina of Good Samaritan behavior: Mr. Plod (most likely the Lord Mayor, no doubt a pertinent name for his character and approach to his work and life in general) tells Harold “We can help you,” which the drones in the crowd repeat.  “We’re all your friends / if you come on down and talk to us son,” he continues.  Harold and we know this is a hollow lie.  “You must be joking,” is Harold’s appropriate and impassioned response.  “Take a running jump!”

The Samaritan shift in attitude seems to increase, as the crowd, once glad that Harold was out there ready to jump, is now concerned that he is getting weaker, so much so that they send for his mother, which does not help at all (it is difficult to ascertain if the crowd brings in his mother to further his decision to jump or not, since it is highly doubtful they knew anything accurate about the family anyway).  Were it not for the fact Harold’s mother is called Mrs. Barrel, the title calling Harold “the” Barrel might indicate that he is nothing more than a receptacle for other’s emotions, plans, and manipulations (this still may be the case, since, even if Harold’s last name is actually Barrel, the title calling him “the” Barrel may just highlight his prior nature up to the point he steps on to the ledge).  Mrs. Barrel gives Harold very poor reasons to come back inside: if his father were alive, he’d be upset with Harold’s actions; and his shirt is all dirty and thus he is embarrassing her, especially since a man from the BBC is there to capture his disgraceful appearance on film.  Meanwhile, the crowd resorts to content-less social acceptability: “just can’t jump” they say over and over.  Why not?  Because it’s not what people do, apparently.  No one is concerned for Harold, no one bothers to inquire why he is there at all.  Mr. Plod and his chorus repeat their earlier pleas to Harold that since they are friends, he should just come down and talk to them, which Harold rejects as before.  And suddenly, the song is over.  The music does not tell us if Harold jumped or returned inside.  Like all “news” stories of today, the result is irrelevant.  The connection to our lives and why it should matter to us is ignored completely.  The motivation behind Harold’s actions is never sought.  The song ends; the “news” cycle continues on to something else.

“Harlequin”

I have posited that Nursery Cryme is a loose concept album, primarily in the moods of the diverse songs generated, as well as the (admittedly thin at times) lyrical connection to nursery tales of myths, magic, and medieval wonderments.  “Harlequin” furthers the tonal mood aspect of the album, especially since Gabriel’s vocal work on this song is dominantly falsetto.  This song feels like a Harlequin is singing it; it also evokes a pinwheel being blown by the breeze — this song is a pinwheel, and all the simplicity of youth and pre-Econ class joy we once had.  (Not that Economics class is bad, just that it usually occurs at the end of our high school days when we are about to fully embark upon maturity and college, and the days of playing in the dirt with action figures and pinwheels are mostly lost to us.)  Little needs to be said here about this song; it is too lovely to dissect.  In closing, though, it is a very hopeful song, as clearly indicated by the final chorus.  The words and music paint a very enjoyable (and again almost unfortunately brief) aural painting.

“The Fountain of Salmacis”

A final Collins cymbal roll brings the final song of this Wonder Book-like collection of tales and fancies.  The story of Hermaphroditus and Salmacis is even older than Ovid, but his version in Metamorphoses is probably the best known.  The liner notes recap the story for those less literate consumers of prog rock:

Hermaphrodite: a flower containing both male and female organs; a person or animal of both sexes.  The child Hermaphroditus was the son of Hermes and Aphrodite, the result of a secret love affair.  For this reason he was entrusted to the nymphs of the isolated Mount Ida, who allowed him to grow up as a wild creature of the woods.  After his encounter with the water-nymph Salmacis, he laid a curse upon the water.  According to fable, all persons who bathed in the water became hermaphrodites.

Little needs to be said as well about the lyrical content, since it is mostly a straight re-telling of the story, without the complex narrative layering of “Seven Stones” or limited narrative focus of “The Musical Box.”  This song, though, fits well with them and completes this diverse but connected album.  The variations in musical texture at various narrative points in the song are reminiscent of and superior to similar attempts from Trespass, and as has been said so often about this album, the music helps tell the story very well.  The most interesting (and unique) aspect of this song could also be its most frustrating for some: at the end of most verses, either Salmacis or Hermaphroditus says something cogent about her or his feelings or reactions in first person, and usually the omniscient narrator of the song makes a similar comment in third person — at the same time.  This overlapping of words/perspectives is challenging to comprehend the first time or two through the song (especially if one listens without the words in front of him), but it is a unique element that adds to the fast-paced confusion and immediacy of the events in the confrontation of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus.  After setting the blissful scene at the beginning of the song, the rapid action of Salmacis waking up, falling for Hermaphroditus, and their conjunction (against Hermaphroditus’ will) needs a confused, perplexing cacophony to express the moment accurately — and this overlapping of narrative presentation succeeds in that unusual task (concerning such unusual characters).  As an aside, Hermaphroditus’ line, “Away from me cold-blooded woman / Your thirst is not mine” is a sharp indicator of Gabriel’s mature lyricism, combining the emotion of a moment with the irony of the situation, as Hermaphroditus was there to slake his physical thirst for water, but the waken Salmacis has a different kind of thirst when seeing Hermaphroditus.

With Hermaphroditus’ curse, the music winds down to its initial calmness, as the two (and a half) beings descend to their eternal condition: “Both had given everything they had. / A lover’s dream had been fulfilled at last, / Forever still beneath the lake.”  The musical conclusion is similar to the ends of other songs on this album, though the sounds are in line with the tenor of this particular song and the somber mood at the end of the lyrics.  In another sense, the final musical exchange fits with the album as a whole in that the diverse presentation of tones, stories, and emotional energies climaxes with the lovers’ (after a fashion) embrace and resolution — everyone is worn out and almost resigned by the end, including the musicians.  It is time for peace.  The album is a triumph, both for Genesis and for the progression of music itself, but the impressive creativity and emotional energy from everyone has been exhausted, and so it is not so much a victory that is being celebrated (not even for Salmacis) as it is a cathartic completion with the understanding that now even more will be expected and even more must be done (similar to John Adams’s “It’s done! … It’s done,” at the end of 1776).

“Some Creature Has Been Stirred”

I have said throughout that those who see Nursery Cryme as the last of the developmental albums before the heyday of Genesis’s Gabriel era are missing the point.  That is not to say that with this album Genesis peaks and remains static for the next four albums or so, nor is it an implication that the Collins era (or even the short-lived Ray Wilson era) is ultimately inferior — they are all different entities, with different emphases and different highlights (and lowlights).  I suspect that most who argue for Foxtrot’s superiority to Nursery Cryme base their argument solely on personal enjoyment: they like listening to Foxtrot more, probably because of “Watcher of the Skies” and “Supper’s Ready.”  I have already admitted that I enjoy Foxtrot more than I enjoy Nursery Cryme, but that is not because I think it is a better album — they are similar, yes, in several ways obvious to even a cursory appraisal, but they are different albums, and the band members display their lyrical and musical skill extremely well on both.  Let us not let the mighty penumbra of “Supper’s Ready” take away from our appreciation and enjoyment of “The Musical Box” and “The Fountain of Salmacis.”  Neither should we let the perfection of “Horizons” diminish our capacity to revel in “For Absent Friends” and “Harlequin.”  Nursery Cryme is the beginning of the great golden age of Genesis in the Peter Gabriel era, and it should be listened to and enjoyed because of its own merit.