I’ve always been lucky when it comes to cops. Three times my friends and I got nabbed red-handed smoking pot; all three times the cops gave us a pass. Now my cousin T., on the other hand, is an arrest magnet. My favorite T. story involves the time he was pillaging the trunk of a car abandoned along the highway when he saw a state police car approaching. T. did what any rational idiot would have done—he climbed into the trunk and locked it behind him. Realizing he could die in there, he was reduced to plaintively calling for the state trooper to set him free. I hail from feckless stock.
But if I’ve been lucky with cops, I’ve never been lucky with The Police, the London trio whose long string of new wave, reggae-inflected (or should that be infected?) hits were the bane of my existence from 1978 to 1983. My suffering began with “Roxanne” and became exquisite as “De Do Do Do De Da Da Da,” “Don’t Stand So Close to Me,” and “Spirits in the Material World” conquered the airwaves. Those were dark times indeed, my friends.
I will be the first to admit that my hostility towards The Police is for the most part directed against vocalist-bassist Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner, aka Sting. I can’t abide his singing, and find him find arrogant, humorless, pretentious, and not half as smart or “spiritual” as he thinks. How spiritual is this? “I come from a family of losers, and I’ve rejected my family as something I don’t want to be like.” Why, the unmitigated gall! I’m a loser in a long line of losers, and I’m proud of the fact. It’s the winners in this world you should fear. They’re the ones who start the wars, run the corrupt corporations, and hand out the death sentences. As for us losers, we lock ourselves in car trunks.
Now I know you’re thinking. “How is this self-pronounced Sting loather supposed to write an unbiased review of The Police?” To which I would reply that there’s no such thing as an unbiased review. Besides, perhaps I’m not as biased as I appear. For instance, I find The Police’s live work borderline likeable, because for once they don’t sound all rigid like they have sticks up their butts, and they play everything twice as fast as they do on record. Finally, in order to guarantee maximum objectivity I recently underwent painful and expensive ear replacement surgery. So it won’t be my jaundiced ears listening to the album under review but the ears of the late Samuel Cohen, who died in a tragic blintz explosion but kindly bequeathed me the gift of his Police-virgin auditory organs.
The Police—Sting on vocals and bass, Andy Summers on guitar, and Stewart Copeland on drums—formed in London in 1977 and were laughably called punk rock, despite the fact that they possess an iota of punk’s snide wit or bellicosity. What’s more, they were all ab fab instrumentalists. Sting came from a jazz-rock background, while Copeland hailed from the Brit prog-rock band Curved Air, and you can hear (or at least I do) both elements in The Police’s songs, underpinned of course by the reggae-lite that constituted the spine of their sound.
Every Breath You Take: The Singles is as good a Police sampler as any. While you won’t find such mainstays as “Synchronicity II,” “So Lonely,” or “Canary in a Coalmine,” you will find the loathsome “Roxanne,” which has long been on my Top Ten list of most annoying songs ever. And no, it’s not the big reggae bottom or undeniably catchy chorus that appall me. It’s Sting. Every time he brays “Roxxxxxaaanne” like a singing donkey in that faux-reggae voice of his, I die a little. I also find the song’s story line, which has Sting trying to save a poor woman from prostitution, a bit hypocritical, given that it comes from the same band of whores who dyed their hair blond for a Wrigley’s chewing gum commercial. As for “Can’t Stand Losing You,” it’s as tightly wound as a clock, and has all the soul of a clock. I don’t care for the melody, and its chorus is as repetitive as a parrot with a four-word vocabulary. As for Sting, his sole moment of glory is the little yelp he lets out at the 1:40 mark. If the song was just that yelp, I might like the damn thing.
“Message in a Bottle” is fast and mechanized-sounding and not half bad; Sumner plays some nice understated guitar, Copeland’s drumming is rock solid, and the only reggae I hear is in Sting’s voice. Unfortunately the song is rendered idiotic by its ending, when lo and behold Gilligan’s Island Sting sees not one, but “a hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore.” Why, we’re all lonely! That’s some deep shit, dude! As for “Walking on the Moon” I’ve never cared for its melody, or Sting’s vocals, or Summer’s repeated guitar riff, which is too wimpy for my tastes. Once again the chorus has its merits, but as for the rest of the song it’s a kind of reggae-jazz hybrid, and that’s one unhappy union indeed.
“Don’t Stand So Close to Me” is a bad song, from its opening synthesizer riff to the ponderous way Sting sings the verses, as if he’s delivering unto us something deeply profound. As for the melody and the synthesizer solo, they remind me of something by the “new” Yes, and that’s a big No. As for Sting’s “Just like the old man in/That book by Nabokov,” it might win him literacy points but for the fact he mispronounces the author’s name. And what can I say about “De Do Do Do De Da Da Da,” except I’m reasonably certain it’s not the title of a book by Vladimir Nabokov? Well, I actually like its bouncy melody, and Summer plays a few tough riffs, but really—De Do Do Do De Da Da Da? There’s nothing inherently wrong with a sing full of nonsense syllables (Long Live Trio!), but such songs are always funny, and this one most decidedly isn’t.
“Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” is one fine and bouncy pop tune, with some real propulsion (thanks to Copeland’s fine drumming) and a genuinely likeable chorus. I also like the fancy piano work, and for once Sting doesn’t sound like White Reggae Guy, Jr. I especially like the way he repeats, “Eeyore, Eeyore” (what? That’s not what he’s singing?) at song’s end. True, the lyrics are treacle, but the song’s big symphonic sound makes them easy enough to ignore. Meanwhile, “Invisible Sun” begins with a cool count-off and some simple as addition drumming by Copeland. It also boasts a lugubrious melody that I like, and features one natty guitar solo by Summer. Why, I even like Sting’s lyrics for once (“And they’re only going to change this place/By killing everybody in the human race”), and his singing is a-okay. Samuel Cohen’s ears give this one a big thumbs up! Or would, if ears had thumbs.
“Spirits in the Material World” boasts a funky and sinuous bass line by Sting, and some excellent tub-thumping by Copeland. Unfortunately I hate both its melody and Yes-lite synthesized sound. And the lyrics are Sting at his most intellectually pretentious and so much New Age hoodoo spew. “Every Breath You Take” is a sinister tune and a seeming love song that turns out to be the declaration of a creepy stalker, and one of Sting’s finer lyrical conceits. Unfortunately the melody is nothing to write home about, although the big chorus is catchy and I really like the simple piano, Summer’s repetitive guitar figure, and the interplay between the backing vocals and Sting at song’s end. There are far, far worse Police songs than this one, which pulls you along whether you like it or not. And any song that can do that has something going for it.
“King of Pain” has a mechanized sound and prog-like feel that stir queasy thoughts of “Owner of a Lonely Heart.” Then there’s the song’s ludicrous conceit. Let’s face it, if Sting—who doesn’t appear to suffer from self-doubt, enjoys 39-hour Tantric sex, and probably possesses more expensive automobiles than I do brain cells—is the King of Pain, I’m the King of Siam. That said, once again I like the chorus—if these guys wrote nothing but choruses, I might actually be a fan. As for that little black spot on the Sun, I suggest that Sting stop looking at it, and schedule an emergency ophthalmologist appointment. It could be dangerous. As for LP closer “Wrapped Around Your Finger,” same story: hate the slow verses, like the triumphant chorus. This is prog-pop at its most vapid, and Sting’s name-dropping the Scylla and Charybdis makes him sound like a first-year graduate student seeking to impress. Summer’s echoing guitar effects are kinda cool, but I don’t like Sting’s keyboards, and when he sings “Vanish in the air/You’ll never find me,” all I can say is, “Promises, promises.”
The Police left behind a lot of songs that a lot of people love, but I’m not one of them. And neither are Samuel Cohen’s ears, who recommended I give this compilation of The Police’s singles an F. Me, I’m more inclined to be merciful, although I don’t know exactly why. I mean, I hate The Police more than I hate cops. They lacked a sense of humor, put out song after song that made me want to drive an ice pick through my radio like it was Trotsky’s brain, and didn’t leave behind so much as a single song I would ever listen to except at gunpoint. I originally intended to give them a C for Competent, but instead gave them a D for Demoralizing. Along with a + for those “Eeyores” at the end of “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” They never fail to make my day.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
D+
