I really, really wanted to be a punk rocker. And then, at the start of 1977, my friend Dave played me Blood on the Rooftops, a song from the album Wind & Wuthering, by Genesis. Genesis! This was a time when, for a young teenager who was attempting to live his life by the rules laid down in NME and Sniffin' Glue, Genesis, along with Pink Floyd and Yes, represented everything that was dull, pretentious, overblown, middle-class and unacceptable about music before the year zero of punk. Trouble was, I really liked the song. Resistant though my ear was supposed to be to this particular quality, I thought it was beautiful. But I held on, fastened to the safety pin of self-denial, buying White Riot and New Rose and Peaches, until one day, possibly under cover of darkness, probably in disguise, I went to Our Price in Willesden Green and bought Nursery Cryme. And I was lost. Peter Gabriel had me at "I heard the old man tell his tale ". I didn't - and still don't - know why the changes of no consequence should pick up the reins from nowhere, but it suddenly became clear to me why I loved this band. They wrote fantastic songs.
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