Phil Collins Hated Him More Than Anyone

In 1994, a British rock star made a chilling promise—he told a documentary crew that he wanted Phil Collins’s head in his fridge by the end of the decade.

He wasn’t joking. He called Collins the “Antichrist of music.” But he wasn’t alone. A grunge icon once said he’d only wear tie-dye if it was dyed with Phil’s urine.

A reality TV judge was called “cruel” by Phil himself. Even Collins’s childhood hero, Paul McCartney, publicly humiliated him.

Despite selling over 150 million albums and defining the sound of the 1980s, Phil Collins somehow became one of the most hated musicians alive.

Born on January 30, 1951, in Chiswick, West London, Collins grew up in a house where showbiz was dinnertime conversation.

His mother, June, worked as a theatrical agent; his father, Greville, was an insurance man. That combination of creative flair and pragmatic discipline shaped young Phil early on.

At just five years old, he got a toy drum set, entered a talent contest during a family holiday, and stunned an orchestra by correcting their key—correctly.

It was the first glimpse of his musical ear and unshakable confidence. From there, his life became a collision of stage lights and rhythm.

By his teens, Collins was already performing in London’s West End, acting in *Oliver!* and appearing as an extra in *A Hard Day’s Night*.

He wrote his first song, “Lying Crying Dying,” and formed early bands before spotting a classified ad in *Melody Maker* that would change everything: Genesis was looking for a drummer.

At just 19, he landed the gig and quickly proved himself during the band’s ambitious prog-rock years.

He played on epics like “Supper’s Ready” and “The Battle of Epping Forest,” using dozens of percussion instruments—even kitchen utensils.

But when Peter Gabriel left in 1975, the band faced an identity crisis. Phil stepped up to the mic—and something clicked.

What few people realized was that while fronting Genesis, Collins was living a double life.

He joined jazz fusion group Brand X, recording technical masterpieces with time signatures like 17/16, while working full days with Genesis.

That relentless pace eventually caught up with him. In 1979, his marriage collapsed. Alone and devastated, he poured his heart into music, dragging an old piano into his bedroom and recording what would become *Face Value*.

Released in 1981, it was raw, emotional, and unlike anything on the radio. The haunting track “In the Air Tonight” redefined pop music, thanks to an accidental drum sound that became legendary—gated reverb.

From that mistake came a revolution. Collins’s sound was everywhere. He followed *Face Value* with *Hello, I Must Be Going* and then the mega-successful *No Jacket Required*, which earned him three Grammys and dominated global charts.

By the late ’80s, he had more Top 40 hits in the U.S. than anyone. His success eclipsed Genesis, and even when he returned to the band for *Invisible Touch*, it was clear: Collins *was* the moment. But the more famous he got, the more the backlash grew

.

To critics of the time, Phil Collins was the embodiment of everything wrong with pop. Too polished. Too safe. Too successful. Britpop and grunge arrived with an axe to grind. Noel Gallagher wanted Collins’s head.

Kurt Cobain mocked him in interviews. Collins became a punchline in *South Park*, *American Psycho*, and late-night talk shows.

He didn’t just dominate the charts—he symbolized them. Collins fought back with music, acting, and even an Oscar win for “You’ll Be in My Heart” from Disney’s *Tarzan*, which he recorded in five languages. But personally, he was falling apart.

Three marriages ended in heartbreak and public spectacle. His 2008 divorce from Orianne Cevey cost him over \$46 million—the largest celebrity divorce in British history at the time.

Years later, she secretly married another man and refused to leave Collins’s \$40 million Miami mansion, hiring armed guards and demanding more money. The tabloids devoured every detail.

Meanwhile, his daughter, actress Lily Collins, spoke openly about the emotional toll of his absence in her life. Collins was no longer just fighting the public—he was fighting himself.

Years of drumming had damaged his spine. Nerve damage left him unable to hold drumsticks. He had multiple surgeries, developed drop foot, and eventually had to perform seated, using a cane.

Despite the pain, he reunited with Genesis one last time in 2020 for *The Last Domino* tour, letting his son Nick take over on drums. It was emotional. It was final. Collins announced he was done.

In 2016, he released a memoir titled *Not Dead Yet*. It was brutally honest. He wrote about his divorces, his drinking, his regrets, and his rise.

He admitted he never intended to be a solo superstar—it just happened. And maybe that’s the story of Phil Collins: a gifted kid with a toy drum, a voice full of sorrow, and a career that soared so high it cast a shadow even he couldn’t escape.

Loved, hated, mocked, and revered—Phil Collins never asked for worship. He just made the music. And somehow, that made him a target.