(Almost) Back to Back Albums: Genesis - Invisible Touch
Few things are as synonymous with the 1980's for me than Genesis and Phil Collins. I remember hearing many of the hits from this album played from the garage at my uncle's house as my cousins and I ran around in the orchards surrounding it, or heading out to the Donegal Bay beach.
In my college years I checked out Genesis' early stuff, when they were still fronted by Peter Gabriel, and found it fascinating for the most part, and at times mindnumbingly bizarre. Though they were never as far out there as Syd Barret-era Pink Floyed, even well structured masterpieces as Foxtrot and Nusery Crime had moments that were simply beyond comprehension. Apart from the debut album, Trespass, the power trio of drummer Phil Collins, guitarist/bassist Michael Rutherford, and keyboardist Tony Banks had remained the sole constant to this point in Genesis' history. Following the departure of Peter Gabriel, Phil Collins stepped out from behind the kit and took up the mic.
While the change from avant-garde rock group to the space age pop present on Invisible Touch was by no means an overnight process, it was evident by the time of their 1980 album, Duke, that they were destined for radio glory. Abacab and the self-titled 1983 album furthered this tradition, but kept the prog rock firmly in place, with odd keyboard flourishes and complex drumming. Invisible Touch is where the process is fully streamlined to the extent that the songs flow like poppy shit from a duck's ass...at least for the first half of the album.
To call Invisible Touch "shit" is far from appropriate, and could only be applied by the most pretentious artsy fartsy douchewads. Suffocators of cheap entertainment they are, and as wet blankets they shall be cast into the lake of fire. Invisible Touch certainly lacks the experimentation that made the Gabriel-era albums so challenging and rewarding, but more than makes up for it with the litanies of dynamite pop hits that make up side A.
On the surface, a song like "Invisible Touch" may seem like a simple exercise at describing unrequited love, but under the surface, it's a much more complex beast. Layers of keyboards and Collin's on-the-spot drumming propel the number deep into your subconscious like brain parasites. The offbeat janglings of guitar give the song an almost tropical feel and has me lusting to go balls deep in some Brazilian girl's luscious booty in a quaint motel on coast in Santa Catarina.
Maybe you don't think of this when you think of Genesis. I do, and you shall henceforth!
Break out the cachaca and limes, bitches, because this album is about to get real.
Oh wait, it already has.
"Tonight, Tonight, Tonight" is a recipe for one hell of a bad introspective nightmare. This is what you hear at 2AM as you shit your guts out in your cold bathroom from eating some potent mushrooms. You know the situation: you've got the light's off so that they don't disturb the geometric patterns that flash across your eyes, and you want your hearing to be more attuned for any cause for alarm. Suddenly, a fox screams outside, and more diarrhea shoots from your bowels.
"Tonight, tonight, tonight," it sounds like a mantra, and with "I'm going to make it right," it comes across as more of a veiled threat. And what's this about "I've got some money in my pocket, and I don't remember where I got it?" Evidently he's just robbed someone, and now he's going for that girl that jilted him in the title track.
Who is he? Where is he from? Can he be from the future to kill John Connor, or to fornicate with Sarah Connor?
For those prog freaks out there, there's a groovy/jazzy/psychedelic breakdown right in the middle that drags out a bit with the drums and whistles of a tropical rainforest. This is the point where you contemplate just how the fuck your life choices have lead to this very point. But then Phil and the boys kick it back into gear, bring it to a climax, and the song fades out like the lingering hum of a good acid trip.
The war drums of "Land of Confusion" herald the prerequisite song about social consciousness that was on every 1980's pop/rock album. You can just feel the indignation in Phil Collins as he beats the monkey piss out of his kit and Tony Banks hammers on the keys. You've even got some slightly distorted guitars, that bring this album into real rocking territory. It all screams to me "WHY COME PEOPLES HAS GOTS TO BE SO BAD TO EACHOTHER?!?!?!" This has another one of those midsection breakdowns, not unlike Judas Priest's "Turbo Lover," that are meant for kindling the romantic aspect in Mars, Bringer of War, as he yearns for the sweet honeypots of maidens he shall conquer by spilling the blood of his sworn enemies.
The romantic promise is in full fruition from the opening notes of "In Too Deep." This is as much a question of the follies of love, as it is about "busting out the bottom," or thrusting too hard on your lady and jackhammering her cervix. There was once this guy I knew who claims to have given his girlfriend a hernia from viscious thrusting, and although I'm sure the hernia's bullshit, I have no shred of doubt that he was in fact "In Too Deep." Just like crazy love, which threatens to consume thine world in its unlimited stupidity, busting out the bottom can be painful for you, like it is for her, so you should heed Phil's words of caution about being "In Too Deep." And it's usually the girls who suffer most from both aforementioned hazards...so think of the ladies before you go "In Too Deep."
Side B takes a nose dive as far as quality. "Anything She Does" is more beach rock with horns and all that fruity shit, as well as frantic drumming. What it does is firmly reestablish the beach vibe from the title track, leaving me thinking of Brazilian sex, Brazilian panties, and Brazilian booze. Sadly, I think Collins/Rutherford/Banks just accidentally dusted their crumpets with Gary Busey's cocaine supply, having mistaken it for non-dairy creamer. "Domino" is weird, off beat, and sounds like music from a Carribbean themed German porno. Well, I guess I could get into this...have sex on my balcony as I gaze at the breakers on the Atlantic and consciously ignore the stares from surfers far out. The punishment for witnessing my coitus shall be for them to to lose their killer wave as I distract all with my coochie-devastating prowess. Then I shall motion with my hand to a turtle shaped island on the horizon, the ultimate location for my penis.
"Invisible Touch" conjures up these types of images in my mind's eye.
"Throwing Away" is a feeble attempt to recapture the tenderness and pop sensiblility "In Too Deep" and "Invisible Touch." This is perhaps the realization of a man who has lusted after a woman, robbed and kidnapped, fought a bloody war, ravaged the fairer ones annexed through war, abused stimulants, fornicated in public, and is now finally admitting that maybe it's just not going to work. It's a tender reflection on commitment, and pondering trading the vaginas of many for a sole female companion. There are no experimental keyboard flourishes or complex drum beats, just simplicity, as there is nothing left to do or say. (NB: I have actually heard this one played, along with "In Too Deep," between Sade in Brazilian motels.)
Invisible Touch ends on a most eclectic note, in the form of "The Brazilian." This is the gonzo cumshot conclusion/climax to all of this, if it were produced by Germans during Carnaval. But it lacks the innate appeal of anything Brazilian, like big booties, warm smiles, cachaca, and coxinha, to showcase only sprawling favelas and such debauchery as one can find in cinematic forays like 2 Girls 1 Cup. Weird, pseudo-African percussion, random alien synth, and burst of guitar solos go nowhere. There aren't any vocals, leaving the narrative of this hodgepodge of 80's experimentation a mystery. I guess this is our hero pulling a total "man overboard" bukkake shot, donning up a Carnaval mask, and jumping out of his hotel window bucknaked to head for the sanctuary of a 5 mile run in the subtropical jungle as his lady wonders what the fuck just happend. It's a conclusion of sorts, but only in the most asinine of senses, as there are too many questions left unanswered: where is our hero going? Where shall he find his next quarry? With what towel shall the fair maiden wipe the jizzum from her countenence? And will the beer in the fridge be cold enough to cool the fire of the passion?
In a way, it's not surprising that Genesis couldn't come up with a full album of amazing songs, as they had clearly blown their load on the first four. Although one can find certain redeeming qualities in the second half of the album, it is wholly berefit of the merit evident in its counterpart. And lacking the youthful experimentation of Peter Gabriel's quirkiness, it fails to deliver anything that one could potentially contemplate, either on the shitter or the Tree of Woe
