Phil Collins Urban Myth

An older dad drove his preteen daughter to her soccer game. They listened to the local pop music radio station playing Ethel Idaho’s chart topper, “I’m Sexy. I’m Young. I Have a Publicist.”

After a minute of the repetitive yet catchy tune, he lowered the radio.

“Did you know that there was once an out-of-shape, balding, middle-aged drummer who was a pop star?” he asked his daughter.

“No way,” his daughter replied, brushing lint off her Poughkeepsie United soccer jersey.

“It was the ’80s and this man, one Phil Collins, wrote this song, ‘In the Air Tonight.’ People said it was about his friend who refused to help a drowning man.”

“Come on,” she replied. “You’re making this up.”

“He said the song was about breaking up with his first wife, but the summer, before the song was written and released, and topped the charts, Phil Collins was hanging out at the beach with his two buddies, Peter and Richard.

“It’s not an American beach. They’re outside London. It’s grey. It’s cloudy. There’s poop flying through the air, hitting them in the face. A perfect English beach day. They’re wearing parkas and mittens and goggles, and they’re pretending their umbrellas are parasols.

“Suddenly, a miracle happens. The sun majestically appears. Instantaneously. Peter rips off his clothes, revealing a 1940s one-piece men’s bathing suit. He runs over the pebbles and jumps into the English Channel.

“But as quick as the sun came out, it goes away. A storm kicks up. The clouds don’t go grey, but blacken, as if God had paved the skies with a fresh coat of asphalt. Rain pours down. The water swells and heaves.

“Peter yells out for help.

“Now, Phil Collins couldn’t swim, and even if he could, he’s already had his assistant, spritely 20-something Georgina, bury him up to his neck in sand.”

“Wait a second,” his daughter said. “His assistant was there? You only mentioned three guys.”

“These celeb types don’t really recognize the assistants who work for them,” the dad said. “They’re narcissists who just want, want, want and take, take, take. You could have all the assistants there, band managers, agents, publicists, but to them, there were only three people there, Phil, Peter—who was drowning—and Richard. So, follow along.

“Phil yells to Richard, ‘Richard! Go out and save Peter.’

“Richard says in a thick English accent, ‘But I have a hot date in an hour, and I will ruin me hair.’”

“He really said, ‘me hair?’” his daughter asked.

“Absolutely,” the dad said. “They talk strange like that.”

“Cool.”

He returned to the story. “He’s still buried in the sand to his neck, his entourage frantically trying to free him. Phil Collins calls to Richard, ‘But you are a former athlete, an expert swimmer, and a proper British bath taker.’

“Richard refuses, refuses, refuses. And Peter drowns.”

“That’s terrible,” the daughter said. “Although if I was on, say, a date, and you were drowning, I might think twice.”

“Fast forward a decade plus later,” the dad said. “Phil Collins is performing at a show in Manchester. Not New Hampshire, but in England. After singing ‘Sussudio,’ he retells this story to the audience, and performs ‘In The Air Tonight’ with different lyrics than the one playing on the radio.

“‘I can see it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord,’ he sings.’ I can see you not rushing out to help my friend, oh Lord. I can see him drowning in the sea tonight, oh Lord, oh Lord.’

“At the conclusion of the song, the band fading out—he abruptly points into the crowd at Richard. ‘It’s about him,’ he hollers. ‘That is Richard. And Richard refused to save Peter.’

“‘Kill Richard,’ he instructs the audience.

“Richard yells, ‘But I can’t swim,’ but no one can hear him amid the yelling and the Robinson fruit drinks and vodka gimlets being thrown by an angry English horde.

“In this chaos, Richard squirms away, climbs onto the stage, and grabs the mic from Phil Collins.

“‘I didn’t allow Peter to die,’ Richard says.”

“It was Phil who allowed Peter to die?” the daughter asked.

“Have I told you this story before?” the dad asks his daughter.

“No. But there are only three people on the beach, minus all the assistants, band managers, et cetera. If my sister accused me in front of a crowd like that, you bet I’m getting up there and accusing her.”

“Wow, you are evil. Let me finish telling the story.”

His daughter nodded.

“Richard tells the crowd a different story:

“‘’It wasn’t me who had allowed Peter to drown. It was, in fact, Phil Collins, this bugger. He swam under the name Brian Hinkley in the 1972 Munich Summer Games for the English Olympic team. Me begged Phil Collins to jump into the water to save Peter, but he had a Flex Pop photo shoot later in the day and couldn’t ruin his hair.’

“Phil looked at Richard. Richard stared back at Phil.

“‘You son of a bitch!’ Phil Collins yells and storms off stage.

“The audience got so angry, they didn’t wait for the encore of ‘Take Me Home,’ but stormed out of the concert, and beat up a bunch of Man. U. soccer hooligans.”

The dad pulled the car to the soccer field behind the school playground. He looked over at his daughter, who was scratching her chin. “To think, an average-looking drummer became a pop star.”

“Yes, and I was a fan,” the dad said. He shook his head. The bad choices he made back then. Acid-washed jeans, mesh T-shirts, a mullet. He added, “The funny thing was, Peter didn’t drown that day. He would never perform again with Genesis.”

“What’s Genesis?” she inquired.

“It’s a story for another day. Go enjoy your game.”

THE END

Theodore Kechris