Genesis #3

by Regis Boff

Genesis tours, looking back on them now, involved hunting for things. If I managed to find the venue we were scheduled to play it was a fucking miracle. My “responsibilities” thinned and were confiscated slowly by the band over the years. I was little more than a driver who carried the money by the time Peter Gabriel left.
But I was by far the best driver. Tony Banks was a fair driver but prone to temper. Mike Rutherford could do it but didn’t understand how to talk if his hands had to be on the wheel. Peter simply could not be trusted. However, he did save our lives in Kansas when I fell asleep. He grabbed the wheel. I never admitted to it. Steve Hackett never took off his stage outfits and was regarded as a liability on cop ridden American roads.
Phil Collins drove too fast. I think he sometimes forgot he was driving and would begin drumming with his right foot. He was not a smooth driver. We shared much in background and temperament. Our distaste for the vegetarian food that we were constantly subjected to, because the others were veggies cemented us as friends.
The hunt for vegetarian restaurants in Germany in the early seventies was sometimes surreal. It would have been simpler to hunt for Nazis.
In America, such food did not exist at all except in hippy communes which suited Phil and I because we were the only ones constantly stoned so we could pick up grass there.
We did a European tour with the newly created Range Rover. We leased four or five of them, shipped them over to the continent and drove gig to gig for six months.
I hit a taxi whipping around a Madrid round-a-bout with a giant statue of an iron virgin being carried away by a bird in the middle of it. Phil was with me, and we pulverized the shit out of it knocking it almost into the fountain water. Luckily, the driver came out screaming but unhurt. Within seconds, we were surrounded by some natural brotherhood of poor driving, hot blooded, miniature people screaming at us in Spanish.
Abruptly someone yelled “Genesis.” pointing at Phil. He signed autographs for a little bit; I gave the driver some money and we left.
It was not uncommon for me to get “take out” burgers delivered to the backstage after the show for Phil and me.
We had no alcohol in the dressing rooms except a nauseating white Liebfraumilch referred to as ” Blue Nun.”9314803_1_l