That’s All: the Self-Titled Genesis LP at 40
Looking back on the band’s last grasp at art-rock glory
Depending on where you stand, Genesis’s self-titled 1983 album is either their last listenable record or their first.
Either way, it’s definitely a dividing point between their prog-a-palooza past and their entry into the ‘80s pop pantheon. But for that one precious moment, Tony Banks, Phil Collins, and Mike Rutherford were able to occupy the place from which both sides could be seen.
Genesis had already proven their ability to reinvent themselves on their last album, 1981’s Abacab, where they dipped into minimalism and availed themselves of the New Wave tool kit without abandoning their identity. So by the time the next record rolled around, they could move in any direction they pleased. Fortuitously, their pleasures tended toward the most successful mix of the arty and the accessible they would ever achieve.
For the first few minutes of the album, listeners could be forgiven for not even recognizing the band. “Mama” is matched only by Abacab’s Devo-esque “Who Dunnit?” as the least Genesis-sounding song in the band’s catalog. Between the industrial-flavored drum machine, sinister electronic drones and creepy murmurs that define the first verse, we might almost be listening to Cabaret Voltaire or something. And when things explode with the positively evil-sounding Collins cackle that becomes the song’s most indelible hook, we’re suddenly in horror movie soundtrack territory.
With “Mama,” the band managed to create a completely new vibe with some serious bite. If they wanted, they could probably have ventured down that road for the rest of the album and done just fine. But Genesis had other ideas brewing, too.
On “Home by the Sea” and its sequel, “Second Home by the Sea” they found a way to keep things in that foreboding, mysterious mood while summoning the complexity of their ‘70s classics, but without employing any overt prog tropes. It was no mean feat, and something that heavily Genesis-influenced neo-prog bands of the period, like Marillion, were only just beginning to work out.
Leaping to the other end of the spectrum, the band offered up arguably their finest piece of popcraft so far with “That’s All.” It was far from the first time the band had taken a swipe at pure pop. They had dipped a toe into that territory at least as far back as 1978’s “Follow You Follow Me” (or, depending on your definition, 1973’s “More Fool Me”). And of course, that’s not even counting the fact that Genesis’ 1969 debut was full of Bee Gees manque balladry. But from its earworm organ line to its McCartney-esque flow, “That’s All” was the kind of song born to introduced to the American charts by Casey Kasem (look him up, kids) with a placing far north of 40. (In fact, it became Genesis’ first U.S. Top 10 single).
VIDEO: Genesis “That’s All”
But for all the song’s mainstream appeal, it still bore an organic feel that old-school fans could surely relate to a lot easier than the digital-sounding Genesis smashes that would soon make the band pop superstars, attracting throngs of new listeners while sending many of the old guard fleeing for the exits. Most of the album’s poppier tunes were actually masterminded by Rutherford. “It’s Gonna Get Better” might be the best of that batch, matching a gut-grabbing melody with a nimble structure and an inspirational lyric for a downright transcendent effect.
Rutherford was also the driving force of the record’s biggest gaffe, though. While it has melodic charms aplenty and could have been a winner with a different set of lyrics, “Illegal Alien” has not aged well. It’s not entirely Mike’s fault, though. While there’s no glossing over the “It’s no fun being an illegal alien” refrain accompanied by music jaunty enough to be a circus soundtrack, it’s the all-purpose Third World accent Collins adopts for the tune that really seals its fate as a low point in the Genesis discography. Still, that’s the only fumble on an album that otherwise abounds with adventurous art rock and classy pop in equal measure.
The hardliners among the Genesis audience had already had multiple exit opportunities over the years—the first came when Peter Gabriel split and Collins assumed the frontman role. Another arrived when guitarist Steve Hackett left and the new trio lineup made its first real pop foray with the aforementioned “Follow You Follow Me.” And the sonic sea change of Abacab surely sent plenty of prog purists packing.
The arrival of 1986’s Invisible Touch would mark the definitive schism, the true point of no return. But the more open-minded Genesis lovers who hung on long enough to soak up the band’s self-titled album (and the pop-era fans adventurous enough to backtrack at least that far) had a lot to celebrate.
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