Strange things happen: a life with the Police, polo, and pygmies

by Stewart Copeland

  “Plug and play,” I mutter to myself as I shake off the adversities and put up as much of a fight as I can. I just have to unleash the hounds, even if they’re going to crash into things. At least I’ve been in training for my upcoming summer shows, so I’ve got enough juice to bluster through the song with enough energy to drive the band. I’m actually beginning to enjoy the show when suddenly we’re at the end of the tune. I’ve got four Foo Fighters staring at me with an urgent look that says, “Oh Sun God of the Immaculate Rock Valhalla, you idiot, we’re at the end of the song!” So we hit the grand washing-up and crunch to an orderly halt. “Thank you very much!” And I’m headed back to the dressing room. Well it wasn’t a performance worthy of legend, but if I worried about that, I wouldn’t ever play.

  We get five minutes to yuck it up in the dressing room. The lads are bitching about the house monitors, but with postshow endorphins kicking in, they are laughing as they bitch. Of course they all tell me how great I was (what else are they going to say?) and I razz Taylor about his potential as a front man (I was actually too deep into my private Idaho to notice how he did on the mic). This is on the bus back to the plane; Gus has us moving pretty briskly along the itinerary. We’re on our way to New York.

  Stage full of Foo

  On the Foo jet, dinner is served as we rise out of the Bay Area and head east. The conversation among the band, as it ever has been among bands, is about other bands. You can tell how well things are going by the attitude toward the competition. The Foos talk mostly about bands they like; struggling bands gripe about bands they hate.

  One by one the travelers peel out of the conversation to get some sleep. Problem is, there’s nowhere to peel off to. The seats are way luxury-lined, but they aren’t beds. The cabin goes dark and quiet. It’s one of those nights when you’re forever trying to get to sleep, and then you wake up and think great, I slept! But your watch reveals that only five minutes have passed.

  Finally, I see a gray light sneaking into the cabin from cracks in the shades. It’s dawn over New Jersey, and we are going down. Everyone rises from our slumber party to nibble some breakfast as we taxi up to the vans. By the time we get to Manhattan the sun is blazing and it’s rush hour.

  The Mandarin Oriental Hotel is a supercalifragilistically deluxe wedge of skyscraper that is poised like an axe over Central Park. Gus has put me in a corner suite with living room, dining room, and bathroom complex. These fancy hotels can be ridiculous. In the bathroom suite, there is a coffee-table book called The Art of Shaving. Call room service and a Vassar-accented voice says “Thank you for calling In-Room Dining, my name is Kimberly, and I’m your dining communication liaison. How may I make your day special?” OK, I’m exaggerating a little, but the obsequiousness does make you want to shout, “Fuck you Kimberly, send me some eggs!”

  Still, it’s a pity that I only get to spend two and a half hours in this Xanadu. A few dark snarls would abbreviate Kimberly. There is a TV in every room and the view is terrific.

  Two hours later, there is a soft ringing in my ear. It’s Kenneth, welcoming me to a Mandarin morning on the occasion of my 12:00 P.M. wake-up call. Would I like breakfast, newspaper, a shoeshine, taxi, or string quartet?

  The Foos have already been on the job for a couple of hours when I get to the MTV studios in Times Square. Actually, they are down at street level in the MTV store, hamming it up for the cameras and throwing swag to “fans” from Central Casting. Actually, these are real MTV prizewinners.

  And now for the reason they flew me all this way. Dave and Taylor and I are going to engage in a drum-off with some street drummers. Out on the sidewalk are the local heroes and a cluster of Tupperware. They are already blasting, so us white boys sit down, grab sticks, and pick up the groove. In a heartbeat, we are woven together in a tapestry of rhythm. The guys on my left and right are as culturally removed from me as Egyptian sailors, but we are soon reaching into one another’s souls as we respond to the pulse. It’s a dialogue that’s clear and deep. Each of us is a spoke in a spinning wheel. We give and take. We support and challenge. We are one.

  I know this sounds like hippy shit, but banging these plastic buckets on a grimy New York sidewalk really has got us all completely enthralled. My sticks are a blur, and my heart is soaring with joy. Never mind the heat and sweat; all of my being is just a vehicle for this gift of rhythm.

  Eventually, there is an MTV producer with headset and clipboard shouting, “We are clear!” which means that the eye of MTV has shifted to scan other horizons and we are off the air. This is only momentary for the Foos. They are immediately hustled off to the next location, with a brief backward “Yo!” to our new drummer dude brethren.

  MTV is a fortress. We have the heavy heavy “Artist” laminate passes so we are rushed past the many layers of security by men with walkie-talkies. Trailing along is I, going, “fuck, Fuck, fuck!” My hands are shredded. In all the time-honored locations, the skin is shaved down to the pink.

  The penalty is that from now until August, my hands will be the focus of constant and tedious attention. Working up the calluses is a careful process, and this blows it completely. I won’t be able to look at a drumstick without strapping up with full armor plating, and the next few months are full of drums for me. Why didn’t I wear my FUCKING gloves?!

  The cameras are on the other band members, Chris and Nate, now. They’re doing a barbeque on the roof. They officiate spring break–type competitions while cooking burgers. It’s just like a real roof party, but with cameras and flinty-eyed production crew prowling through the throng. The throng itself is curiously pleasing to the eye. The idea is that MTV throws the boys a twenty-four-hour party and provides them with sets and toys. It is hoped that the boys will partake thereof and enjoy it all as photogenically as possible. Doesn’t sound like too much of a Dark Deal with the Devil, does it? Roll the cameras, let’s party!

  Downstairs is a soundstage rigged for fun. As well as drums, amps, and music toys, there is Ping-Pong, foosball, pinball, videos, and all the very latest in indoor entertainment. A team of professionals has spent weeks dreaming up party tricks to keep the lads and their audience entertained. The coolness of it all hits me at the point where I’m goofing off with Taylor; he’s laughing about something when I look over his shoulder and out the picture window across Times Square to see him goofing off and laughing on a huge screen that covers the entire face of the opposite building. I give him a poke and he youches live around the world.

  Just as this Midsummer Night’s Foo is getting started, it’s time for me to bail. Gus gives me the nod for my 7:00 P.M. flight back to L.A. After tearful embraces with Chris, Dave, Taylor, Nate, and Gus, Nick guides me through the layers down to the sidewalk. Just like that, I’m out of the band bubble and on the streets of New York City. Times Square, in fact.

  But the limousine door is open and I’m on my way home.

  CHAPTER 22

  GIZMO

  SUMMER 2005

  Able was I ere I saw Elba.

  T

  his mysterious Napoleonic palindrome rattles around my head as I gaze out from the terrace overlooking the harbor of Portoferraio. Jutting out into the bay is the castle where we will play our concert, and behind me is the Teatro dei Vigilanti, in which my new band, Gizmo, will be rehearsing for the next ten days. When Napoleon was first defeated and given this Mediterranean island in exchange for Europe, he noisily put down roots and engaged in public works, giving every impression that he intended to retire here. Secretly he was plotting his escape. He built this jewel of an opera theater, in which Vittorio and I are plotting Gizmo. It is a tiny dollhouse opera theater in the classic horseshoe form, with about a hundred seats on the floor and three stories of ornate boxes around the rim. Our gear is nested on the stage. From my drums I can look straight through the theater, out the front door, across the piazza, and over the terrace to the bay, where fishing and pleasure craft are wafting past.

  It’s just another fine mess tha
t my friend Titti Santini has landed me in. Titti is the impresario who first brought me to Italy four years ago to play the Orchestralli tour and then introduced me to La Notte della Taranta festival. He’s rare among southern Europeans for his brisk organization and rare among promoters for his zeal for unusual music. This time he has hired me some very slick musicians to create a new band called Gizmo.

  Rehearsals start with just keyboards, guitar, and me. In the absence of bass, percussion, and vocals, the most logical place to start turns out to be the Klark Kent songs that I will be singing—which takes us straight to the most intriguing plot point of the project. I have almost never done this before. Remember Top of the Pops? I earned my crust riding my drums, but as a singing guitarist at the front of the stage, I’m just about to open the first door as a rank amateur.

  Leaving aside that I forgot to bring my instrument (verrrry professional!), the first challenge is that I have to walk up to the microphone, with (borrowed) guitar loaded—in front of the crew, local promoter, and some serious pro musicians—and sing. Showing them the parts and groove are easy—I’ve been playing guitar all my life—but approaching the mic is like walking up to the precipice and thoughtlessly leaping into the void.

  So I start singing and my dull baritone reverberates around the hall. In fact, it sounds magnificent! Every utterance into the mic sounds grand and important. It’s not a hard tune to carry, so pretty soon I’m channeling Elvis and putting full attitude into the song. I always suspected that the singing thing would be easy, and it is! Fun, too. Problem is, my guitar chops have disappeared completely. Guitar, vocal, and vibe—I get two out of three. I can play the guitar and sing while staring at my fingers, or play the guitar and dance around without singing, or sing and dance around while only pretending to play the guitar. Clearly the latter course is the only way forward. It’s odd that, after all these years, my big Guitar Hero moment is subsumed by the supremacy of the song. As I tell all of the youngsters: Everybody is working for the singer. Even when the guitarist is the singer.

  Is my enthusiastic debut as cool as it feels, or does it suck? There is an absence of comment from band and crew. If it weren’t my band, this would have been a debut swan song. But it is my band, so even if it does suck, we’re doing it. It’s in the show. With practice, I’ll get better at it. For the moment, from the people around me the clues point to suck.

  The next issue is the matter of the extra bass player. I have managed to entice my old friend, the legendary Armand Sabal-Lecco, Prince of the Deep, to join me on this tour, but there are a few dates that he will have to miss, due to prior commitments. Fortunately there is an eager sub, by the name of Max Gazzè, Prince of Italian Pop. From his ivory palazzo in Rome, Max has heard rumors of Gizmo and has instructed his agents and managers to offer his services. Although known mostly as the singer of a substantial string of hits in Italy, he’s actually a pretty slick bass player. He is excited to be “just the bass player” on this tour and go nowhere near the mic. The plan is for Max to attend the last couple of days of rehearsal, once we have the material worked out, and then Armand will show him the parts.

  Armand, Lord of the Low

  But Max can’t wait. He bursts into the theater on day one, having learned all the parts from the CD that I had sent to all the players. He is completely prepared, and with not only the bass parts. He can sing the guitar solos, too. Since Armand hasn’t arrived yet, Max gets to work with a zeal that is infectious.

  Then Armand arrives. After our exuberant African greeting with hugs and elaborate handshakes, I pull him aside and explain what’s up with the unexpected early arrival of the other bass player. Musicians can be touchy about these things. From the inky blackness that is Armand, there is a brilliant flash of his smile, fully six inches wide and three inches deep. Benignly, he draws his bass and plugs in. He hasn’t done any homework because he just Knows What To Play.

  Max is unsinkable. Over dinner we are entertained by his quick-fire zany humor and for the rest of the week, he is into everything. He plugs earphones into his amp rig and learns his parts silently. Then he’s into the percussion, then some backing vocals (very careful to not step on Raiz’s turf), then he’s fussing over the monitors, then the lights. With his restless energy, he’s into every possible thing that can advance the cause of Gizmo. A man after my own heart.

  Vittorio Cosma, my Taranta buddy, is our keyboard player and music director. As music director he has analyzed all of the material, figured out the parts and form of each song, and is ready to direct the rehearsals for efficient assimilation by the players. Having written the material (with Vittorio), I can now just play my drums while Vitto runs the band.

  I’m amazed by his flying fingers. With the Taranta ensemble he mostly directs the twenty players to play the parts, but in Gizmo he’s doing it all. He immediately bonds with Armand. Our singer, Raiz (a.k.a. Rino Della Volpe) sits on a chair at the front of the stage, intently organizing a plethora of lyrics. He keeps another chair nearby, which he occasionally trashes, when the word/ rhyme/tune puzzles tax him too severely. Dave “Fuze” Fiuczynski from New York is the guitarist and master minister of the chart. While the rest of us thrash and weave, he meticulously notates every wrinkle of the arrangement. Four bars of this, two bars of that, guitar tune, then break down until the signal from Raiz, and so on. At least someone knows what happens next at any given moment in any given song. Over on the percussion rack, Mauro Refosco doesn’t need much organization for his parts. He’s Brazilian—he just grooves.

  Right next door to our lair is Marco’s little café, where we refresh, eat, and plot. For lunch, we lean over there and Fuze heads off for a sea plunge. Refosco climbs onto his rented Vespa and grooves off into the town. The rest of us languorously lunch and lounge, while taking in the view and general Italian vibe. Sometimes the ladies join us. The little girls run around the theater balconies while Fiona, Lian, and Txell regale us with the splendors of Elba that we are missing.

  Armand is usually the life of the party, but periodically he goes dark. For several hours, as the lava flows, the tour managers and stage crew keep their distance—in fear for their lives. I have learned not even to inquire as to the cause of any eruption. Whatever it is, it always blows over and the big grin is back, and soon the crew emerge from their bolt-holes. Everyone has learned to keep his helmet ready.

  At around seven in the evening, I run out of gas and head for the shower. As I soak away the day’s exertions I can hear the band continue to jam. During rehearsals, anything that sounds like jazz receives a curt reprimand from me, but as soon as I leave the room, the players degrade into those fetid figures of harmonic Hades. Fact is, virtuosity is fun; and jazz, a music that elevates dexterity over spirit, is an evil temptation that lurks around the highest-caliber players. My immunity to the stuff comes from childhood immersion in it. My daddy raised and trained me to be a jazz musician, which is why it holds no mystery for me. It reminds me of those dreary drum lessons with old Max Abrams. Professor Fuze likes to rattle my cage by pointing out jazz chords in my music, but no one would mistake my stuff for jazz. Well, maybe some would, but that’s just because it ain’t exactly rock music, either.

  Raiz, Max, Vitto, Fuze, Mauro, Armand, me

  Copyright © 2009 Eugenio Brambilla

  All too soon, our idyll is interrupted by work. It’s time for our first show. We have been given full accommodation and the use of the theater by the city of Portoferraio in return for one concert, to be played in the castle that sits at the mouth of the harbor. It’s an unbelievably atmospheric venue for a show, even though it’s a tad on the small side, with a capacity for just five hundred seated people. We have been hiding out here on Elba, but now the press arrive with their cameras and microphones. We now have to explain what we are up to, and why.

  So, while Sergio and Matteo break down and shift the gear, we have the day to spend with the microphones, concocting a verbal logic for our endeavor. We also have to line up again
st the wall to have our picture taken as a band. It’s actually the first time we get a look at ourselves. None of these players were chosen for their pretty faces but, if I say so myself, what the hell, we are Gizmo.

  WATERLOO

  Where’s the band? I’m pacing around a very cool circular dressing room, occupying one floor of the fat defensive tower of this castle, in the lee of which we are going to play for our supper. It’s the first Gizmo gig, and I’m alone in the dressing room. There are drinks, couches, garment rails, and towels, but no band. Colombo comes in and gives me the nod. It’s showtime and the band are down there, ready to go. I come down from the tower and out into the starry night. I get a glimpse of the audience sitting primly in their seats as I head for the side passage that takes me backstage.

  When I get there, the lads are mooching around behind the stage waiting for me. “There’s a dressing room?” Armand is asking as we walk on.

  Copyright © 2009 Eugenio Brambilla

  I mount the stage, stride to the front, grab the mic, and enthusiastically yell to the people of Portoferraio: “Ciao, Porto Ferino!”

  I have completely mispronounced the name of the town. It’s a classic “Hello, Cleveland.”

  There is a weak ripple from the sophisticated-looking crowd. To the drums I march, count in the band, and we’re on.

  Immediately, there are two problems. One of them is serious. For the first time since my high school band, the bass drum beater is stuck inside my trouser leg. I can shake it loose, but it immediately gets caught again. My war chariot is severely hobbled. I’m blazing away with my top kit, trying to drive the pulse while shaking my pant leg. Right about now the sweatband across my brow starts to creep up my forehead. It’s creeping up the back of my head, too, and soon I will have a hairdo.