At a tiny airstrip in darkest Poland we are met by a fleet of Porsche Cayennes. On the one hand, it’s pretty sleek. This is even plusher than what the German promoters send. On a better day I might have appreciated the swank of it all; but today the creamy leather bucket seats are a misery.
What’s the point of a Porsche if it isn’t to fly like the wind over the potholes of Poland? For forty minutes, unrelieved by traffic or traffic signals (flaming escort!) we lurch across the postcommunist tundra. By the time we get to the gig I’m sure they’re going to have to cut me out of the car with a blow torch. I am locked up good.
I’m usually a good subject for chiropractors, who are generally very careful to prepare affected areas with calibrated massage and manipulation before applying their skill to specific joints. I’m optimistic that my tangle can be fixed.
The Katowice chiropractor shows up. One look at him, all mustache and gut, and it’s not too hard to imagine that he’s probably also the village barber, butcher, and dog catcher. He looks like a combination of Lech Walesa and Homer Simpson.
With an air of confident authority he climbs right up onto the rickety table huffing, and without preamble drops three hundred pounds of Slav onto my back.
“Hup-lah!!” he shouts like the acrobat that he isn’t, and lands like a cow.
“Hhyyaaaghhhnnnk!!!” I reply
The sound that we don’t hear is the crunch of relief that is the signature tune of the chiropractic art. As I groan and writhe, Lech Simpson is beaming. After briefing the local staff importantly on the details of his recovery program, he exits in triumph.
Well, never mind, all I have to do now is play a show. Brad is able to go online and confirm that the evil-looking pills that the Butcher of Katowice gave us are indeed the painkillers (for humans) that I need. And that’s pretty much the only remedy. I’m still in the same posture I was in when I zipped my bag this morning in Belgrade.
The show is an interesting ordeal. I’m wedged into my seat, with its backrest, so mostly I can do my job; but every now and then a reach for a distant crash cymbal will cross the wires in my back and an electric jolt of pain will paralyze me for a beat or two. Right there in front of a paying audience I’m being stabbed in the back and twisting randomly, swishing my sticks through air instead of drums. Sting and Andy chug right on and I’m able to climb back aboard the ship after a beat or two. Obvious fuckups, though.
And here’s the strange thing. The crowd doesn’t seem to notice! Maybe our reputation is so deep that moments of clanging chaos are thought to be artistic redefinitions of the space-time continuum. And they didn’t even have to pay extra! Amazing what you can get away with when the voodoo is lit. But I’m strangely grumpy that they don’t even honor my obvious pain with diminished but sympathetic applause. They’re rocking along at full throttle, oblivious! Later, as we fly off into the night, Sting comes over to console me and I share this insight with him. He gets this a lot.
The voice is the most fragile instrument in music. On a world tour it’s impossible to avoid the occasional sore throat. During The Police show Sting has four or five high notes that need to be hit big. They are landmarks for him. He’s got to pace himself and take aim at these big ones. With a little bit of a sore throat, they are a challenge, but when he’s caught onstage with real throat problems they croak big, right there in the spotlight at the focal point of everything. What amazes Sting is that the folks still cheer wildly. We’re both uncomfortable with what this tells us.
Brad in shades. Billy beyond in black shirt.
In the next city, Leipzig, two hard-faced doctors come up to my room with black bags and sharp needles. They prickle me with cortisone for two days, which begins to straighten me out, but they warn me of side effects—such as irritability and flashes of temper. Good thing I’m in an environment where this won’t be a problem.
CHAPTER 40
BURNING THE GOLDEN GOOSE
1984
I found this journal from back in the day.
Everything is different; nothing has changed….
L
ife in my wildest dreams is beginning to depress me. This band is beginning to get on my nerves. It is at the apex of high but is beginning to outpace the mortal flesh. The world as we know it belongs to us, but we belong to this machine called The Police. From Bombay to Buenos Aires to Cleveland, the world, by which I mean the entire globe, is dancing under our feet. Across the continents, in all the capital cities, we perform our strange ritual and generate wild joy, then fly off into the night. We fly the seven skies and glimpse the world’s great monuments as they flash by. We use them as props in our videos. The world we never see is the real world down there on the streets. One day on my way out to the airport, the limousine takes a shortcut through a suburban neighborhood. Looking out the window at the nice, simple houses with cheerful gardens and happy pets, the thought crosses my mind that if I wasn’t such a cartoon, I could live on a street like this. Right now simple pleasures just seem more appealing than exquisite adventures. Walking down the street must feel better than all of this flying. Goofing off on a street corner seems better than the rarefied bubble that I live in.
Locked inside this bubble, Sting is getting more stir-crazy by the hour, although we’re actually getting along pretty well right now. The shows are good and we’ve got nothing to argue about. We have all adapted easily to the opulent hotel life and have bailed out of any social contact with one another. I’m not actually sure what either of them do offstage these days. Andy is off with his cameras and Sting is nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER 41
SINGAPORE SHOWDOWN
FEBRUARY 2008
The golden cage thing again.
T
here is still something not right. Andy and I get along fine. We have a healthy musical respect for each other and I can sense that he feels my pulse onstage. No matter how complicated his parts, he’s always in my groove. But the point of this band is not my relationship with Andy. We’re here for Sting’s relationship with us. We’ve been playing together for a year now and, for all of our disagreements, the crowds have been showering us with approval. Closer in, the wings are thronged with our esteemed musician peers, who are paying very close attention. With the critics we seem to be bulletproof. Rarely have so many loved so few, so much. So we’re doing the right thing? On the right path?
Well, yes and no. It is a blessing beyond all blessings to be able to play this show that lights up the multitudes. Who could ask for anything more? Well, us. We’re greedy to partake of the fresh new fruit that our imaginations place before us. We’re all still growing. Having a sacred ritual to perform is all very good, but what do we do with new stuff? Over in my corner, I have a head full of music that is irrelevant to The Police. Or, more to the point, The Police is irrelevant to the churning, burning torrent that’s swilling around, building up pressure, and becoming a big distraction after a year away from my studio.
Believe it or not, music is pretty important to the mental health of musicians. We can do it so well only because we go crazy when we don’t. Bands are supposed to be—and this band certainly used to be—the perfect place to spit out new ideas as they occur, catch flyers from other talents, and run with whatever works.
My dilemma is that this just isn’t the place for anything that’s going on in my head. The music in my hands is what I’m here for, but the nonthinking, elemental, spiritual throb of my drums is being constantly interrupted by a cold stream of analysis and arrangement from the prophet. He has a perfect vision of what we should each be doing and my thing isn’t it.
Fact is, I would starve as a session player. Even for my own film work I hire professional drummers to hit specific grooves, as the mission dictates. The only point of ever getting behind the drums myself is to charge up a living, breathing audience, to close my eyes and look for the out groove that rocks the joint. Which is almost what I’m doing every night with The Police. Very close, but there is that
constant cold current that keeps me from reaching Nirvana.
Copyright © 2009 AP Images
The Nirvana of which I speak is no impossible ideal, in fact it’s the norm for me outside of this band. Piece of cake with the Tarantas. It is a constant irritant that I can light up the front rows but I just can’t light up my bass player. He’s got his own fire and that’s all he needs.
His music is a cathedral of beauty, but it’s implacable, unyielding, and set beautifully in stone. Whatever music he wants to make, I will definitely buy the record, but I’m the wrong guy to be playing it. There is a pink elephant, a shoe waiting to drop, a golden apple waiting to be plucked, a destiny hovering. Where is this band going?
We came together with a clear understanding that the mission is finite. Even when we started adding extensions to the tour, every added leg had a cutoff date. For the three of us it’s uncomplicated. But we’re surrounded by a world that is sustained by our produce. There is a momentum to this thing. Everyone wants to know what’s next. There is no available point of view that shows this whole Police thing to be not an eternal golden goose.
One day I get a hunch about this. Maybe Sting still has the energy to continue harassing me after a solid year of it because he thinks he’s going to be stuck with me. Maybe he’s so resistant to collaboration because he sees a trap closing around him. Well, I certainly can sympathize. I’ve felt this constriction for a year now, but I entered it willingly, knowing that it would end. I’m still secure in this knowledge because it isn’t me to whom people are looking for continuance. Folks assume that I’ll be along for the ride. It’s Sting who is getting the pressure.
If you love somebody, set them free. That’s what Sting said the minute he was free from The Police the first time around, years ago. I think it’s pretty good advice for right now, too. We love each other, so let’s be free.
In a quiet moment before the show, I go over to Sting world and join him in his meditations. I’ve tried to formulate a coherent but untedious declaration of independence, but it just comes blurting out, something like:
“That little silvery bell has been ringing in my head for some time now. My high esteem for you has kept my hands from your throat, my axe from your handsome brow. But now I’m casting loose. You can go ahead and be as mad as you like, and I won’t take offense.
“But you’re going to be hearing some strange rhythms coming up behind you. Listen out for them or not. Suit yourself. With 500,000 watts of amplification and Andy to connect with, I’ll be charging right on. Come along for the ride or not, I’m going home—via Nirvana.
“So I don’t know what your plans are for the future, but this probably isn’t the band for them. We’re not the team that produced ‘Roxanne’ or ‘Every Breath’ anymore. The relationship that we have now only works in live performances—fueled by mass human frenzy. Couple of days in the studio and one of us is going to have mallets sticking out of his neck.”
I have no idea at all how any of this is working or if I’m saying it right. I’ve known him for thirty years, but Sting is a sphinx. Maybe he doesn’t believe me. I do babble earnestly from time to time, and he mostly just amiably tunes me out. There’s no reason he should take this manifesto any more seriously than all of my other rantings.
Next morning, however, he surprises me by calling me in my room. Without elaboration, he thanks me. It’s a short conversation and, as usual, leaves me mystified. Did he hear the part about strange rhythms? Cool thing is, there’s no Sting problem anymore. Our future is untethered.
And so over the next few shows, as we tour across The Orient this new vibe sinks in. There are some flare-ups—we’re both still volatile—but soon I can see that the reward of freedom is beginning to ease the punishment of chaos. By the time we get to Hawaii we are really loosening up. The two shows in Honolulu are scrappy as hell but who cares? We’re trying stuff, throwing stuff back and forth. Real sparks are flying and great music is happening.
This really is a great band! Now I’m confused…no, I’m not. It’s alive because it’s over, because we can shrug it off. This is the same nihilism that set us free back in the day. It was the unfettered grooving in the dark under Eberhard’s laser show that inspired us to open up the throttle and let the Valkyries take us.
After these Hawaiian shows we break for a month. They were supposed to be the end, but we were plushed into agreeing to one last push through Europe and the United States. I’m looking forward to it. This is going to be much more fun.
Copyright © 2008–9 Petrina Gattuso
CHAPTER 42
TOAST IN THE MACHINE
AUGUST 2008
The fun part.
W
e’re doing a runner tonight. We have to get out of Dodge before the roads choke up. After our last song, we wave, we bow, wave some more, then dart down the hatch into the stage, on our way to the waiting cars. At the foot of my hatch Jeff and Brad are pulling off the earpieces, head mic, wires, and power-pack belt. Then the slippery, soaking shirt. The three of us are headed for the cars, with Karen catching soggy vestments that are flying off of the retreating witch doctors. With the plugs out, my ears are suddenly back in the real world and the night is roaring. As the multitudes ring we’re escorted to the getaway cars by a festival of flashlights and a column of security. Local crew are hooting and hollering as we pass through them to the waiting squadron of vans and motorcycles. It’s a giant disco of red, white, and blue flashing lights.
“Right here,” says Brad, and I duck into a long, low white limousine. It’s white because Billy likes to fuck with me. My colleagues are happy to pile into vans for the airport dash but I need more space. I’m soaking wet, breathing hard, and everything within three feet of me is more breakable, including fragile fellow artists.
Copyright © 2009 Danny Clinch / A&M Records
As the sirens wail we pull out of the gig, through the trucks and onto the highway. I’m buck-naked in towel heaven. Aaaahhh….
Up the other end of the long white prom car is one of my more scurrilous buddies. He’s completely in the flashing-lights moment, grinning from ear to ear with his eyes bugging out. He surrenders to fantasy, reaches into his jacket, and pulls out a spliff of marijuana.
“I’ve just got to do this!” he wails and lights up his cheroot.
He does have a point. It would be hard to imagine a more fitting punctuation to a Police concert. Riding with The Police, protected by the police…it’s just screaming for a little law breaking! As he draws deep on his smoking cone, his eyes close and I can see his heart filling with love for the sirens and lights of the lawmen who surround us, who are here…to protect him. I’m tempted to ask the driver to radio the sheriff and ask him to slow down the posse because Mr. Copeland’s guests would like to finish their joint before we get to the airport.
When we pile up the gangway onto the plane, my brethren are already there. Andy is settling into the midcabin, contentedly fussing with his cameras, books, and accoutrements. Sting is in the back with his colorful crew. I’m up at the front, where my own cronies drape themselves on the plush seats, bitterly ruing the parental advice that sent them to law school rather than down the path of rock and roll.
It’s hard to recognize this band as the same three assholes who grumped out at Calgary. When we started the tour, it was all business. The three anointed ones would sit together at the front of the plane and make difficult conversation, while Billy, Phil, and Brad maintained an atmosphere of funereal decorum around us. No one was allowed on the jet. No one was allowed near the stage. Even the dressing rooms and communal backstage facilities (gym, wardrobe, Band Dining, and such) were kept closed with the haloed air of a sacred grove. The Police are famously volatile. Let nothing arouse their demons.
Down! Up!
photograph courtesy of Andy Sumers
The first crack in the armor was Sting’s chum the vigilante philanthropist Bobby Sager. When he’s on the plane, it’s all easy company. Bobby�
��s day job somewhere in the world is zillionaire philanthropy, but out here on the Dark Planet tour he brings us the gift of rock and roll. He just doesn’t get the sacred thing. Pretty soon bringing chums aboard doesn’t require three signatures and a cavity probe. Even my unpredictable friends Henry and Pete can raid Band Dining without getting Billied. My old polo chum Collin is On Tour. We all love how our civilian friends live the rock tour fantasy more than the bandsters.
So tonight there are three tinkling parties lighting up our flying tour bus as the moon carries us across the sky, over the horizon, and into the night. Just like the moon gods of yore.
THIS IS A WHOLE ’nuther tour. In Europe we’re still playing stadiums and festivals, but by the time we get to our last jaunt across the United States we’re into the tertiary markets. These are the places that we haven’t already played ten times. Out here, instead of stadiums and arenas they have sheds, a form of venue unique to America. Half indoor, half outdoor; half seated, half wild. Since these structures are built for shows rather than games, the stages are hard-built. The bad news is that we have to leave our cool hot rod stage behind; the good news is that these stages sound fantastic. Some of them are in incredible locations, like the Gorge, in Washington state, and Red Rocks, near Denver.
Strange things happen: a life with the Police, polo, and pygmies Page 24
