Phil Collins, Live Aid, and the Concorde: How One Man Outsmarted Time Itself

It’s July 13, 1985. Live Aid is happening—yes, that colossal charity concert featuring every musical legend you’ve ever heard of, and probably a few you haven’t. The world was watching as two simultaneous concerts, one in London and the other in Philadelphia, unfolded. But let’s focus on the real story here—the bonkers, absolutely madcap adventure of one man who decided that the laws of physics, common sense, and geographical limitations simply didn’t apply to him: Phil Collins.

Now, at this time, Collins was already gallivanting around the U.S., minding his own business, probably writing another heart-wrenching ballad. But then, as if by cosmic coincidence, he bumps into Robert Plant, who says, “Oi, Phil, fancy banging the drums for me at Live Aid in Philly?” Collins, being the eager beaver he is, says, “Why not?” because what else are you going to do on a Saturday?

But wait, there's more. As if playing one massive concert isn’t enough, along comes Sting, the ex-frontman of The Police, probably still sulking about breaking up the band. Sting says, “Phil, old chap, I’m doing Live Aid in London, but I really don’t fancy singing by myself. How about you join me?” And what does our man Phil say? “Sure, why not? Two gigs, two continents—how hard can it be?”

Here's where things get interesting. You see, London and Philadelphia are separated by a small puddle called the Atlantic Ocean. A minor detail, really, but one that would stump most mortals. However, the producers of Live Aid—clearly unshackled by trivial concerns like reality—decide that Phil should do both gigs. And how? By taking advantage of time zones and a little thing called the Concorde.

Now, the Concorde wasn’t just any airplane. It was a needle-nosed, supersonic marvel that could zip across the Atlantic faster than you could say “In the Air Tonight.” And so, the stage was set for the most ludicrous plan ever concocted in the history of rock ‘n’ roll.

The big day arrives. Phil kicks things off at 2 PM in London, belting out tunes with Sting at Wembley Stadium, rubbing shoulders with the likes of Paul McCartney, The Who, and Queen. But there’s no time for autographs because as soon as the last chord is struck, Phil’s whisked away by helicopter to the airport. Here, he boards the Concorde, which blasts off towards America with all the urgency of a musician who’s left the kettle on at home.

During the flight, Collins, ever the showman, tries to make a live connection to Philadelphia, but naturally, the audio cuts out because, let’s be honest, the technology was about as reliable as a chocolate teapot. Nevertheless, it was the thought that counted—or at least that’s what they told him.

Finally, he lands in New York, and quicker than you can say “double booking,” he hops into another helicopter, zips to Philadelphia, and struts onto the stage like he’s just popped out for a pint of milk. And what does he do? He plays with Eric Clapton, does a solo set, and then because he clearly doesn’t need sleep like the rest of us, he announces the return of Led Zeppelin, sitting in on drums as if it’s just another Tuesday.

And there you have it: on one truly bonkers day in July 1985, Phil Collins defied logic, reason, and the space-time continuum, all thanks to the Concorde. Who needs superpowers when you’ve got a ticket on the fastest plane in the world and the sheer audacity to try the impossible?

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