The Musical Box

Venue:

The Cadogan Hall, London

Date: 27/06/2026

Lockdown made many of us do some very odd things. I had a new job, a proper disposable income for the first time in years, and time to myself. I found myself exploring old music that had previously existed on dusty cassettes, long-consigned to landfill. I bought up the complete works of Squeeze on second hand CDs. Then came a hankering for the old Yes Albums I’d actively loved (Drama, Going for the One, Close to the Edge). Then came Genesis. A 3CD best-of revealed the Gabriel era ‘good’ (Disc 3), the pop era ‘bad’ (Disc 1) and the largely ‘great’ (Disc 2). This was the post Gabriel, pre-megastardom sweet spot that balanced tunes with prog flourish, emotion with innovation. I wanted more, and duly bought up Trick of the Tail, Wind and Wuthering, And Then There Were Three, and Duke. And I got really into them.

I couldn’t really justify the expense of going to see the final Genesis gigs. Not only did it look like Phil Collins was diminished to an alarming extent (keys of songs dropped by huge amounts, other singers filling in the blanks), but I had no wish to see and hear a lot of it. Land of Confusion? No Son of Mine? I wanted, you know, the good stuff.

And then the advert popped up. The Musical Box, purveyors of Gabriel-era music, were touring the ‘And Then There Was… Phil’ tour. All the stuff I got into. And a mate I hadn’t seen for ages was going. Cheap ticket purchased, I go to the Cadogan Hall on a sweltering evening to bask in some prog.

My seat is at the very back of the stalls. I’ve been made aware that it’s restricted view but didn’t allow for an incline of the stalls that appears to peak one row before me, then fall back slightly. A pillar, plus the ever-present glow of the sound and lighting desk to my right make it very restricted indeed. This is further compounded by a quite large fellow in front of me who will do much side-to-side craning of the neck to get a view throughout. As the lights dim, a glimmer of comfort appears as the adjoining spare seat appears free, and they’re just starting. I think of stretching out. Until, that is, a large gentleman squeezes himself next to me just as The Eleventh Earl of Mar gets going. Unlike the couple to my left (who have seen TMB four times before) he appears to be a friend of the woman doing lights and doesn’t look like he’s going to be familiar with this music. He may be in for a long night.

Unless you’re really into the most proggy elements of early-Phil Genesis, the opening trio might be seen as something of a test. One for the Vine follows Earl of Mar, followed by Burning Rope. If I had a Yorkshire Terrier on me, I’d whisper “Toto, I don’t think we’re going to get Misunderstanding tonight”. My new neighbour is not getting on with this. As Burning Rope gets into its sixth minute, he involuntarily raises his knees and elbows up into something approaching a foetal position.

The band are splendid, for the most part. All of the technical stuff is handled with a flourish and they give the appearance of a real band, not an orchestra trotting it out. If I have to single any members out, keyboardist Ian Benhamou hits those Tony Banks rolling argeggios beautifully and drummer Marc Laflamme is phenomenal on his period-correct ‘huge toms’ kit. But they’re all top drawer and, as you’d expect for a band who have been at it since the early nineties, inhabiting this strange musical universe like they invented it themselves. A minor quibble is that singer Denis Gagné, who has spent the previous years doing a very good Peter Gabriel, does all the cheeky-chappy Phil-isms well, especially the between song banter and showbiz gestures, but still sounds more like PG than PC in the vocal department. A minor aside: the small flight of stairs he uses to get to the second drumkit when not singing gets used so frequently that I’m reminded of Eric Morecambe limbering up for Grieg’s Piano Concerto.

With the transcendent – and postman-friendly – Ripples done, Wot Gorrilla? brings the fusion, and an extra level of discomfort for my neighbour. Then, perhaps my favourite sequence, three in a row from the Duke album. I would have loved the whole Duke ‘suite’ complete with Turn It On Again and Guide Vocal, but TMB and audience are here for the hard stuff. Finishing with Duke’s End, we’re off for the interval to grab a beer and ponder what’s coming.

Amazingly, my large neighbour makes it back for the interval and I guess he may be on a promise with the lighting lady. Anything else suggests a worrying level of masochism. Set two is Trick of the Tail time – Dance on a Volcano, Entangled (lovely) and the mighty Squonk, which brings a cheer from the faithful: the sound is quite something and you can feel the Taurus pedals’ sub-frequencies in the fillings of your teeth. Blood On The Rooftops goes down a storm with most, but I find it rambles on a little, even with the lightshow doing some heavy lifting. Mr Seat-Next-Door seizes the opportunity for a nap. The end of the set proper, the rest of side 2 of Wind and Wuthering, is worth the admission, slowly building to Afterglow’s mighty crescendo, lights, sound and (yes) musicianship combining for a sensation many have spouted pseudish nonsense over, but to me sounds like ‘Punk? No thanks’.

There’s a more than slightly patronising intro to the first encore; ‘This is for all the ladies who’ve had to put up with the last hour and a half’ – it is, of course, Follow You, Follow Me – then an old one (in The Cage), an obscure one (It’s Yourself) and the contractual there’ll-be-uproar-if-we-don’t-finish-with-this-one one (Los Endos). The encore breaks the Cadogan curfew by about 10 minutes and we forgo the opportunity to see England/Panama at a local. I’m in home for the second half.

The audience:

Predictably, people mainly in their sixties and up. Less predictably, a large number of women and, unlike the closing remarks of the singer, most were perfectly happy to be there. The bloke craning his neck back and forth in front of me was almost certainly Martin Bashir. I’ve hadn’t seen so many people wearing shorts at a gig since a Neds Atomic Dustbin show in 1991, but it was about 34 degrees out.

It made me think..

The closest that a rock gig I’ve attended has resembled a classic recital – seated, respectful audience, posh surroundings, not a note out of place from the original – and thoroughly enjoyable.

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