<title2><![CDATA[<br>A Trick of the Tail]]></title2>
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<body><![CDATA[<b>Hello, my name is Tim Nagle, and I am a<br>Genesis fan.</b>I am glad that I can get that off my chest, though IΓÇÖm not alone in then defending my addiction by adding: ΓÇ£But I prefer their earlier work.ΓÇ¥ And I donΓÇÖt really mean Peter Gabriel-era Genesis, for I was too young in the early 1970s to get into that. And I certainly donΓÇÖt mean their later, US-radio-friendly, soft-rocking incarnation, but I feel on safer ground making a case for this, an acknowledged prog-rock classic from 1976 and proof that many great albums come out of adversity. Back then, Phil Collins was just a cheeky drummer with a receding hairline and a taste for stripy knitwear, but when Gabriel suddenly departed the band and a hundred auditions failed to find a replacement singer, he stepped up to the mike. GabrielΓÇÖs exit also gave more elbow room for the other members, bassist Mike Rutherford, guitarist Steve Hackett and, particularly, keyboardist Tony Banks, to cut loose. Cue tortuous arpeggios, 12-string noodling, fiddly time signatures (Robbery, Assault & Battery is in an impenetrable 13/8), instrumentals (such as Los Endos, a Wagnerian ΓÇô I'm not kidding ΓÇô reprise of many of the album's themes) and heaps of poesy. For better or for worse, Genesis back then preferred whimsical tales of bank robbers and sandmen, inspired no doubt by too much torch-lit reading in the dorms at Charterhouse, the public school where the band was formed. You may laugh, but these stories are surprisingly affecting. I defy you not to cry during the full eight minutes of Ripples, a poignant ballad about the toll time takes on beauty that features the delicious rhyme: ΓÇ£Bluegirls come in every size / Some are wise and some otherwise.ΓÇ¥ Then thereΓÇÖs the hard-hitting Squonk, a song about a very pathetic creature that (sob, sob) ΓÇ£is of a very retiring disposition and, due to its ugliness, weeps constantly. It is easy prey for hunters, who simply follow a tear-stained trail. When cornered, it will dissolve itself into tears". So, yes, this album can make me weep cathartic buckets, but what I also like is that, if you have a subwoofer, BanksΓÇÖs strange rumblings have a most agreeable effect on the bowels. And thereΓÇÖs lots of Mr Collins doing what he does best. No, not sympathising with the homeless or winding up his Swiss neighbours, but drumming. Take it away, Phil. If you want to share your guilty pleasure with the world, send your defence of a dodgy-but-great album or act (maximum 300 words) to guiltypleasures<br>@sunday-times.co.uk. If weΓÇÖre convinced, we will print it.]]></body>
