Yesterday, Brooklyn held the inaugural Phil Collins Day Parade. Seriously. Let that sink in for a moment. According to Gavon Laessig, “there was a float with Phil Collins’ head, revelers in Phil Collins masks, and a marching band doing festive covers of Mr. Collins’ work.”
I love “Sussudio” as much as the next person and will air drum the shit out of “In the Air Tonight” and will even, on a rare occasion, throw down for “Take Me Home.” But not enough to throw an ironic parade in his honor.
“I hope, that for all who come tonight, that they come to enjoy everything that Phil represents, and to have a great time,” said parade organizer Heather Feather, who started the holiday five years ago as a Valentine’s Day protest.
Sure, there’s probably an article in this story about the death of irony, or post-irony, or ironic irony or something. Because whether or not Ms. Feather truly does love Phil Collins, a celebratory parade and holiday in his honor is arbitrary. Phil Collins works because he’s well-known enough and people like him, in say, the same way as Neil Diamond or Journey. Which is to say, that if you can rally that many people for a parade in honor of Phil Collins, the majority of the people there are staying for the joke.
I fully expect something like this from Portland, Ore. — a city that either doesn’t understand nor doesn’t care to draw the line at good taste. A Phil Collins Day Parade, sure why the fuck not. And while we’re at it, I’m going to wear my neon green tank top over my leopard print nylons with cowboy boots, a fedora and sunglasses bitches. Because I can.