The return of Genesis fills me with ennui and despair on a number of counts. The classic five-piece line-up embodied some of the worst, most self-indulgent attitudes of 70s prog rock, but at least they had, in Peter Gabriel, a frontman who was prepared to make an absolute pillock of himself in the name of entertainment. Very few of today's so-called pop stars dress as daisies for the delight of the punters, and the music world is poorer for it. But we're not even graced with that version. We have the efficient, sensible, blokey, non-floral, roll-up-your-jacket-sleeves-and-look-slightly-earnest three-piece, with Phil bloody Collins on vocals. It's like the return of Roxy Music without their only certified genius, Brian Eno (although I'm sure Bob Swipe will now weigh in with his pungent defence of the Avalon years).
In any case, I thought this Genesis Lite had been banished to the deepest reaches of Hades when Patrick Bateman, the Alan Partridge of Wall Street, declared himself to be a fan of the band (along with Whitney Houston and Huey Lewis & the News). So, good news for wannabe serial killers with rigorous skincare routines everywhere.