We produced Civilian ourselves, and we were thrilled with every track. The album gave Gentle Giant a facelift. We sounded younger, more alive, and more contemporary. It’s not at all prog-y, so it’s very different from Octopus or even Free Hand, but, like those records, it rocked like hell, and it proved that we could write great songs in a format that was mainstream and accessible while retaining our essence. Even though it was a more difficult album to write and record—partly because we were perfectionists about every note we played, and partly because half the band hated LA—we nailed our every objective. In that respect, the album had the same weird atmosphere as In A Glass House. The two were milestones: The former was all about Phil leaving, and the latter, while I didn’t know it at the time, was the band’s last gasp.
That said, when Columbia released Civilian on March 3, 1980, radio wouldn’t touch it. Seeing Lee Abrams’s name in the credits, program directors thought it would look like nepotism if they played it. It was almost as if we’d subconsciously signed our own death sentence, as we did in a different way with Simon Dupree. None of us wanted Civilian to fail, and everyone at Columbia liked it almost as much as we did, but because of our connection with Lee, it was dead in the water as far as radio play was concerned. We were fucked.
In some ways, this was the best thing that could happen. There’s a saying that it’s better to die quickly than wither on the vine, and we were at a point, creatively, personally, and artistically, where it was time to say goodbye to Gentle Giant. Civilian was much better than our previous two records, and many critics have theorized that had we continued in that vein, Civilian would have been the springboard for Gentle Giant to evolve further and possibly break through with a mass audience. As they say, hindsight is 20/20.
Before the album was released, we had lined up a big tour of North America. Looking at the scheduled dates and the travel arrangements made my heart race and my stomach ache. I took that as a sign. I was living in LA with Sharon and our baby daughter Yael, who was born in 1979 in Culver City, and I wanted to be with them as much as possible. I had flashbacks to my dad being absent most nights of my childhood. I loved my father, but his late-night gigs robbed us of years of precious time, and I refused to subject my kids to that. I think I had started to feel quite similar to the way Phil had when he left Gentle Giant. Back then, I dismissed his needs and reacted with youthful anger, which I later regretted. We probably could have handled that whole period of our lives better, but we were all young and stubborn. I’m so glad we eventually mended fences.
There were other signs that touring was a bad idea. We were selling fewer records than ever, and I didn’t want Gentle Giant to become a parody. I didn’t want to turn into a band that only played the old stuff on tour. The thought of regurgitating the same music that to us already belonged in the history books would be soul destroying.
During a band meeting before the tour, I presented my thoughts.
‘Guys, this is as far as I want to go,’ I said. ‘After this album, I’m done touring. As far as I’m concerned, it’s up to you to do what you want with the band.’
‘I’m done, too,’ said Kerry, whose daughter was also born in 1979. Ray wasn’t about to go on with the band without me. I’m not sure Gary and John agreed with our decision, but what could they do? In 2008, Gary formed the band Three Friends with Kerry (who left shortly after) and Malcolm Mortimore to play Gentle Giant songs, replacing Ray’s violin parts with synthesizers and samplers. Ray and I never took the stage again.
Knowing that our days were numbered was a relief. We decided to launch a triumphant farewell tour that would bring our best music to our fans one final time. We had been off the road for two-and-a-half years when we launched our last tour of North America. At that point, our popularity in the UK was at an all-time low, and due to the hostility we received from the media there, we decided not to play anywhere in England. In the end, I also refused to play anywhere else in Europe (as much as they wanted us to), since I couldn’t bear the idea of being that far away from my family; again, I thought of Phil and the tough decision he made after Octopus.
We launched the Civilian tour on May 7, in Rensselaer, New York, at a club called the Hullabaloo. It was a smallish place but we sold it out and the vibe was great. At one point, I forgot the lyrics, and at another, the band flubbed an instrumental line. In the old days of the band, such missteps would have caused lengthy backstage reprimands, but we just laughed it off and the crowd went along with it. When we left the stage, the fans cheered so loudly that we felt obliged to come back. This happened numerous times, and we wound up playing several encores. It was a great way to start the final hurrah.
A few days later, we were back in Montreal, one of the first North American cities to champion Gentle Giant. We played two shows at The Theatre St-Denis, which held about fifteen hundred people, so we had a total crowd that day of three thousand fans, which wasn’t bad. Everything was copacetic until the night after a show in Buffalo, which—if this was a Hollywood biopic—could have foreshadowed the final days for the Giant. The driver of the truck carrying much of our gear to our next show in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania, got into an accident on the New York State Thruway near Syracuse and the truck flipped over. He was uninjured, and most of our gear was fine. The only casualty was our neon Giant head, which was completely crushed.
Worse for us, personally, was a stomach-churning incident in Miami. On the day of the gig, we stopped for burgers at a fast-food joint. By the time we got to the venue, my stomach was roiling. I dismissed it as pre-concert jitters, intuitively feeling that this might be the last great run for us, so I wanted to make it great. As we took the stage, a wave of nausea washed over me, and I began sweating profusely. I struggled to make it through my vocal parts, but I somehow succeeded before running off—sometimes mid-song—to vomit into a trashcan at the side of the stage. John was anchored in place behind his drums and couldn’t leave the stage, so he expertly and repeatedly puked into a bucket throughout the show without missing a beat. Bravo.
We ended the Civilian tour on June 16 with two sets at the venerable venue the Roxy in West Hollywood. Knowing it was our last American show, our fans were lined up down the block. By the time everyone had gotten in, there were a couple of thousand people there, which was likely a fire hazard, but it was a hell of a way to end the tour. During the second set, we tossed Gentle Giant masks and T-shirts into the crowd and staged an impromptu awards ceremony. We honored everyone in the crew by giving them makeshift awards: a gold-plated food mixer trophy for our soundman, a gold-painted lightbulb for our lighting guy. We were playing up a storm but enjoying the silliness, and we finished the set laughing.
The next day, in a very emotionally resistant English way, everyone said farewell. There were no tears, no long goodbyes. We were completely at peace with our decision as we parted ways to go to our respective homes. Sharon and I stayed in LA for a little while. We were in good shape financially because the farewell concerts had sold well, and there was money left over from the Columbia deal. We were offered tours in Europe, but we turned them down and gave the Giant a dignified burial. I got offers from labels and groups for production jobs, and some musicians approached me about singing with them, but I didn’t follow up on any of the invites. My life as a recording and touring artist was over, and I had made peace with that.