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

by Stewart Copeland

  But the cameras are down now and the team is stowing its gear as I step back out into the hallway. Now is when I get to strap on my gear and tool up for the big ride. The Argentine TV guy is still at my side as we stroll past the stacked flight cases and off-duty crew back to Police world. Just ahead is the pipe and drape, which is the telephone booth for my transformation into drum god. We are leering about his new president when I suggest that after a beer or two she could qualify as hot—too bad about that Chilean president though, “now that would take at least four beers!” Well, of course, the Argentines love that, but the Santiago crew are still loitering in the hall and they catch the quip.

  Days later, word comes in from head office that the Latin press is full of outrage that some damned rock drummer has been casting aspersions on the dignity of the estimable President Michelle Bachelet of Chile. Turns out that the lines on her face are hard-earned. Her father died under torture, and she herself was tortured by Pinochet’s goons. She is altogether too saintly a figure to have to put up with being questioned about her rock babe rating by her own national press. I hate to annoy heads of state, so I write a groveling letter and hope that it blows over by the time we get down there in a few weeks.

  Sound check, contemplating the set list.

  Copyright © 2009 Kevin Williams

  When I was a kid my daddy used to conduct his nefarious manipulation of local potentates with cocktail parties at our modest Ottoman palace in the hills overlooking Beirut. With the city sparkling below, an Armenian jazz band grooving on the terrace, and a briefcase full of CIA dollars in his office, he would cultivate eager dictators-in-training. Leaders of conscience were pretty thin on the ground in those days and the practices of empire had not yet been discredited. It was all about the colonels.

  In the 1950s my father and his cowboy chums seemed to be doing a pretty good job, maneuvering the resources of their patch of the cold war world. Very simply, the Muslim oil was flowing west to us rather than north to the Soviets. The CIA had a pretty good record of putting “our sons of bitches” (as my dad fondly called them) into power around the Middle East. Even the great lion of pan-Arab nationalism (Baathism to you), Gamal Abdul Nasser, was in the pay of our guys. It’s hard to fathom now, but the Shah of Iran was looking like a good deal back then. My dad and his friend Kermit Roosevelt had heinously installed a Peacock Throne on top of ancient Persia (Iran) and the second-largest source of oil in the world was ours. It all went splendidly until Khomeini.

  While President Bachelet is no Khomeini, she is directly the heir to the same kind of foul play that my father practiced. In fact, during our first swing through South America back in the day, both Argentina and Chile were still under the dictatorship of American Empire–era juntas. In Chile we could feel the cold hand of autocracy on our shoulders from the moment we arrived. I think the militaries only let us into the country because they liked the name of our band.

  Back in 1982 we had enjoyed much success from throwing verbal bombs wherever we went in the “free” world. It was all pretty harmless fun casting aspersions on cultural icons and taboos. It was expected of us. In fact, we had to disguise our true nature as rapacious capitalists by leading the charge of cultural revolution.

  So we may have been a tad callow when we got to our first press conference in Viña del Mar. On the table before us, along with all of the microphones, were the flags of England, the United States, and Chile. These were swept aside by the preening rock band—regrettably, including the Chilean one. I dimly recall that it was the mighty hand of our singer that did the sweeping. He’s always been antinationalist. As we spouted our usual boisterous cant we noticed a distinct lack of echo in the room. Instead of the usual jocular banter we were getting flinty-eyed scrutiny.

  Before we exposed ourselves as deviant insurrectionists the state media had whipped up a tide of enthusiasm for us and the big outdoor festival that we were set to play. There were happy mobs outside the hotel and when we got to the show the vibe was electric, but the atmosphere backstage with our local contacts was cold. Right in front of the stage was a seated section of privileged brass and behind them was the common herd of Chilean people. During our show Sting pointedly projected right over the heads of state to the folks behind the barrier—who went wild. The oligarchs found themselves between the snarly rock band and the raging proles.

  It was really only rock-and-roll exuberance, but the folks in the money seats didn’t look to me like they were enjoying the show. I could see from the drum riser that they were looking over their shoulders. The fancy women looked scared and the fancy men were making hard eye contact with the men in uniform who were everywhere. When we finished the shows the junta was still intact, so we were allowed to leave town next morning without hassle. But the papers tore us to shreds. There was a story about how Sting had insulted national honor by having his microphone disinfected. And then how he kept spitting on the Chilean stage (which was actually true—for some reason most singers who also play an instrument expectorate prolifically).

  So here I am again in 2007, causing trouble and annoying a nation. When we arrive this time, after a raucous ride in Argentina, the atmosphere in Chile is brand-new. The only hassle we have on arrival is Nadine Barner’s strange supply of macrobiotic grains and unguents. The customs guys have a party trying to figure out what drugs to arrest her for.

  Since it’s a day off, Brad and I venture out for a stroll around Santiago, taking in some sights and doing a little retail therapy. It’s a very nice city and strangely reminds me of Santa Monica, California, of all places. It’s something about how the hills loom over the suburban shopping street. We end up at a cozy little restaurant for dinner, sample some of the native cuisine, and share our genuine enthusiasm with the chef, who comes out to have his picture taken with us. When one camera comes out, they all do, so the next ten minutes are spent signing autographs and smiling into camera flashes. No big deal, after a damned fine day and a great meal, I can absorb this idolatry without breaking stride.

  Next morning Brad brings over the newspaper. There’s a picture of Sting looking his usual handsome self surrounded by security staff, and a goofy picture of me on the streets of Santiago in the arms of the people. My Spanish is not too hablo but with Brad’s help we discern from the article:

  “Copeland demostró su célebre humor….”

  Well, that’s promising. At least they got the humor part. But later on we get to it.

  “Michelle Bachelet…cuatro cervezas…affaire con ella….”

  Oh boy. Reading on we get to:

  “Sting…Bachelet…privada o una audiencia….”

  Ha-ha! Sexy ole Stingo scores! I wonder how many beers it took her. At the gig, in Band Dining, he shows me the trophy. For heroic services to…we’re not sure what, he gets a big green sash and a magnificent medal, which he attaches to his bass strap. It’s about three inches across, bigger even than the Chevalier des Arts that we all got in France. Oh well, maybe if I hadn’t been such a knavish fool I coulda had a sash and medal, too.

  He gets this all the time. Check the medal on the bass strap.

  Copyright © 2008 George Pajon Jr.

  CHAPTER 38

  RAGING KUMBAYA

  JANUARY 2008

  NEW ZEALAND

  Strange things happen Down Under. We’re on tour with Fergie, and Rage Against the Machine is touring with Björk. Our tours are on parallel paths across the subcontinent.

  B

  rad and I are heading for the main stage flashing passes at every layer. This isn’t our show, but we have a good hand, and are making our way in when Brad’s buddy on the Björk crew catches up with us. With him is Rage’s tour manager. The band would like to say hello to me before they go onstage…any minute now. Why, sure! The festival audience is screaming with rage in the background as we head into the Rage compound, which is a group of trailers pulled into a square, laager style. As we slip into their world I imagine that we’ll be interrupting some k
ind of wild anger-inducing ritual. I mean what do you say to guys who are this pissed off? Here, suddenly in my face, is one of the scariest bands on earth. And hey, we’re all goofballs! It turns out that back in the day they were all of an age as to be Police fodder. Before they got mad, I guess. And they are not mad now, either. We are immediately engaged in an orgy of mutual salutations of respect, slobbering our praises of one another. But it’s time for them to do their show and the crew are calling, “Ready On Deck!”

  Well, now that we’re with the band, Brad is able to parley this all the way up onto the big stage and right to the front of the wings. We’re about six inches from the edge of the light. If I stick my foot out it’ll be part of the show. Now, for my humble taste in rock music, Rage Against the Machine is How You Do it. Back in L.A. I took my sons along to see them play the Forum, as a fine example of shamanistic principles. See how hard they hammer it down, my sons; this is the Right Stuff.

  But I didn’t realize then, from out in the audience, just how pissed off this band is. There is just so much Injustice in the world to be angry about. From the moment Tom starts it up, it’s heavy, hard, and angry, and forty thousand kids are going nuts. We get a nice response at our shows, very emotional in fact, but this crowd of wild youth is unleavened by nostalgia. Dang! If these guys come to one of our shows, they had better do, like, eight hours of yoga first.

  ALTHOUGH THERE ARE GIANT distances involved down here, it’s actually a pretty small world. A couple of days later in Brisbane, floating through the marble-and-silk byways of the Palazzo Versace Hotel, who should I meet, but those heroes of the downtrodden, Rage Against, well sometimes, the Machine. This is a cultural mismatch. Now I know that I own their reputation.

  Days later, on the streets of Sydney, there’s their singer and angry poet Zack again. Is he…shopping? Did Zapata shop? Ha-ha! I remember when I used to be professionally angry. To be fair, even though there is Hunger and Injustice in the world, a great meal at a fancy restaurant is still a great meal, no matter how socially outraged one might be. OK, so they’re extremely angry for two hours every day or so on behalf of the Unfed. It’s just not healthy sometimes to fully live the life of the avatar that you create. Can you imagine being a member of Slipknot twenty-four-seven? From my hoary vantage point I forgive these lads probably more than they do themselves. It’s OK to be Happy Against the Versace. I promise not to tell.

  Couple of days later, my new chums are at our show. After our thing I go out to band dining to look for them and I find Tim, who has fought his way through every movie star in Australia, talking bass with Sting. Bless his heart, he’s prodding Stingo about his plectrum. You see, when we were rockers, Sting used a plectrum. But every bass player reaches a stage in his or her development when they eschew the pick and pluck their fat strings with their fingers. It’s just more sophisticated that way. That’s how Stanley Clarke does it. There is no bass player over thirty who would be caught dead using a pick.

  Problem is, Sting wrote many of our classics in that earlier, more callow, stage of his evolution. The music around a song like our “Bring on the Night” is built on that particular effect of a pick chugging up and down on the string. It’s just not the same with fingers. I, like every drummer, have been pleading with my bass player to drop the sophisto and pick up the pick again, at least for a couple of songs. I love to be here now, watching the heaviest bass player of his generation hassling my guy, the heaviest musician of my generation, about it.

  Back in my room over a round of tequila shots with the visitors, I’m inquiring about their reunion experience. They have a similar history of conflict in their band. Not sure what happened, singer ran off, or the band reformed with someone else. Anyway, there was drama. As I prod, I realize that we’re having a little band therapy right here and now in my dressing room. The humidity is rising and I have a sudden fear that I have raked over coals that should have been left. I must heal the world.

  I rise up and draw my guests to their feet. “C’mon, guys, band hug!”

  They’re a little leery at first but are too polite to resist. When we are all huggy and loving, a song wells up in our throats.

  “Kumbaya, my Lord, Kumbaya…!”

  We’re all singing. Even Zack—who professionally as a singer doesn’t sing—is singing!

  My life is complete. My career is made. I actually have Rage Against the Machine singing “Kumbaya” in my casbah. It doesn’t get any cooler than this.

  “So, Zack, have you forgiven these assholes yet?”

  “Kumbaya, my Lord….”

  It’s all so mellow now, and we’re passing around the tequila again when Brad Wilk, who has been sitting quietly, decides to throw a bomb.

  “So, Stewart, did I read somewhere that you hate jazz?”

  It takes a moment or two for the sacrilege of this information to penetrate the warm fuzzy atmosphere. But one by one, the Ragers process this thunderbolt and fall silent. Soon conversation has stopped. They are regarding me with baleful dread. This is my favorite cue.

  “Well, yeah…the only problem with jazz…is that it sucks.”

  Whaa??!!!

  Suddenly Love Against the Machine is raging around my silks, rending their garments, pulling their beards, and beseeching me to withdraw this blasphemy. Aw, man! This jazz gag never gets old.

  “Yeah, you see, if you really want to be a ‘musician’ but have no talent, just practice for twenty hours a day and play jazz. It’s almost as good as real music. Ha-ha! Because of course, jazz is the last refuge of the un—”

  That’s as far as I get. I now have Zack and Tim leaning forward with urgent fervor.

  “Surely, you get Parker—” pleads Tim.

  “No, he needs to hear some Coltrane,” interrupts Zack implacably.

  And they’re arguing over which is the critical jazz that can save this old sinner. Coltrane? Parker? I forget which was which. Young Wilk has climbed back into his slot, smirking darkly. When they pause for breath, I hit them with another.

  “Well, I guess some jazz doesn’t suck. I was brought up on Stan Kenton and Dave Brubeck….”

  “Aaarrrrggh! Stan K-k-k-k-k-enton?! That’s not jazz!” They howl with desperate indignation.

  Now they’re Raging against me personally. Who knew that Rage has such exquisite taste in jazz? There’s only one solution. I rise up, arms outstretched.

  “Kumbaya, my Lord….”

  They’re out of their seats in a flash, and we join in another round of this great song. Whaahooo! Kumbaya! One thing about these guys, mad or glad, they do have a sense of humor. They may have crap taste in music but hanging with these guys is a total rage.

  Now that we can talk, we quiz each other on what other music is cool or not. I don’t want to disappoint anyone out there, so their yeas and nays are classified, but I can happily report that my good buddy Les’s Primus makes the cut. It was hard to discern from up in my ivory tower, but it seems that Les was seminal to a lot of wild music.

  We get talking on all kinds of things, politics mostly, and Zack generously forgives my CIA past. I promise him that my dad had nothing to do with Allende, Bay of Pigs, Contras, or any of the other Latin political meddling. All my daddy’s dirty deeds were done in the Middle East. And he was extremely rare in his advocacy of the downtrodden Palestinians at a time when it was close to career suicide.

  But there’s one last ideological hurdle to overcome. I do have some plutocratic artifacts in my own past that must be faced.

  “We’ve been through a lot together, Copeland,” says Zack, son of a Mexican revolutionary. There is a glint of mischief in his eye.

  “I’m just going to have to let you slide on the polo.”

  CHAPTER 39

  SLAV ON A SLAB

  JUNE 2008

  Swinging through Eastern Europe.

  A

  s the Danube rolls past the river barge, and the greasy violins slice the night, my old buddies Paul Mulligan and Collin Dhillon are banging
the tables and singing wildly to the Gypsy music. Andy and I are dancing the cha-cha, or whatever you would call this strange motion while the ancient Eastern melodies swirl around us. With a couple of spoons I’m able to join in the rhythm. There are maybe twenty players around us, heaving, surging, and dancing among the tables of this riverboat cafe. We’re a few miles downriver from Belgrade, beyond the glittery restaurants and down even further from the wild, throbbing, floating disco zone. We’re alone on the dark river with our Gypsy friends. In the lamplight everybody is laughing or singing or banging something. I’m doing all three, forgetting briefly that this frail flesh of mine has obligations. These old bones are currently leased out to Tourzilla.

  Next day in my hotel room, the price is paid for those few stolen hours of frivolous frolic. I’m admiring the skyscraper view of Belgrade on a sunny morning-after-the-night-before as I reach over to zip up a suitcase. There is a click in my lower back that must have been audible down in the lobby, and I’m stuck. Locked in a cage of pain. I’m not aware of it yet, but I’ll be pretty much holding this posture for the next week.

  Brad is able to get me and my stuff down to the car because the full rigor mortis hasn’t yet set in. The ride out to the airport gets the pain cycle moving, though. We’ve got the full flashing squealing escort; unfortunately for me, it’s a particularly urgent Serbian team, but when we reach the plane I’m able to stretch out on the couch and relax off some of the spasm.