"If Miles Davis hadn't died it would have been interesting to do an album with him, but there wasn't much else that would have got me into the studio... although Herbie Hancock has just been in touch about doing something and that would be an interesting combination"
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Phil Collins frames collaboration like a rare chemical reaction: it only happens when the other element is potent enough. The blunt conditional about Miles Davis - “if Miles Davis hadn’t died” - lands as both tribute and flex. He’s not name-dropping to sound hip; he’s staking a threshold. Davis isn’t just a dream partner, he’s the kind of artistic force strong enough to yank Collins back into the studio against inertia, fatigue, or the soft comfort of legacy.
The subtext is about credibility in a post-peak narrative. Collins has spent decades being filed under “pop” by people who forget the drummer first, songwriter second, and MTV staple third. Invoking Miles and then Herbie Hancock isn’t a bid for jazz cosplay; it’s a reminder that his musical instincts were always more rhythm-and-harmony minded than his caricature suggests. He chooses two collaborators who are also expert shape-shifters - Miles turning bands into weather systems, Herbie moving effortlessly from acoustic virtuosity to synth-funk futurism. Collins is aligning himself with that lineage: restless, studio-curious, allergic to repetition.
The small, almost shrugged “there wasn’t much else” is the tell. It admits a lack of desire, not a lack of options. Plenty of people would line up to work with him; he’s saying only the right kind of danger counts. Even the understated “interesting combination” does work: Collins keeps the tone modest while hinting at the real promise - a meeting where pop craft meets jazz risk, and neither side gets to coast.
The subtext is about credibility in a post-peak narrative. Collins has spent decades being filed under “pop” by people who forget the drummer first, songwriter second, and MTV staple third. Invoking Miles and then Herbie Hancock isn’t a bid for jazz cosplay; it’s a reminder that his musical instincts were always more rhythm-and-harmony minded than his caricature suggests. He chooses two collaborators who are also expert shape-shifters - Miles turning bands into weather systems, Herbie moving effortlessly from acoustic virtuosity to synth-funk futurism. Collins is aligning himself with that lineage: restless, studio-curious, allergic to repetition.
The small, almost shrugged “there wasn’t much else” is the tell. It admits a lack of desire, not a lack of options. Plenty of people would line up to work with him; he’s saying only the right kind of danger counts. Even the understated “interesting combination” does work: Collins keeps the tone modest while hinting at the real promise - a meeting where pop craft meets jazz risk, and neither side gets to coast.
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| Topic | Music |
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