Wrapped around their fingers

OK, so despite all the blog entries I’ve got waiting in the hopper, I had to say a few words about last night’s excellent Police concert at the Air Canada Centre.

I was a huge Police fan in high school. Huge. Problem was, I was a few years too young to catch them in concert. All my friends’ older brothers went to the Police Picnics (they also gave me wedgies) but I didn’t really twig to the band until Ghost in the Machine. I was rabid by the time Synchronicity came out, but then, so was everybody.

So last night was a chance to correct a missed opportunity of 25 years. And to seal the deal, I went with my old high school friend Peter, who was also a big fan.

We seemed to be typical of the ACC crowd – security staff were careful to weed out anyone not between the ages of 30 and 40. Like the band, we’ve aged a little from the days when the Police played the Horseshoe Tavern. Dancing was replaced by happy tapping of feet, and during the slow songs you could see people rhythmically waving their Blackberries. I did smell pot at one point, but it may have been a special effect.

The night began with a reasonable set by mini-Sting, son Joe Sumner’s band Fiction Plane. He too plays in a trio – and I’m reminded how uncommon that actually is. He’s got a great voice, much like his father’s, but the set sounded like mud and nobody really cared. To alter the expression, the Police are a tough act to precede.

While Fiction Plane was droning, I wandered about in search of an overpriced T-shirt. There were many to be had, but they were astoundingly lame, which made me fear for the concert ahead. See, the Police don’t have a new album out, and everyone knows why they are touring: a) to make money, b) to give the crowd a selection of greatest hits. (Quality time with Sting Jr. is probably 59th on the list.)

Making money on former glory was the souvenir theme too: previous album covers silk screened on T-shirts (plus a nondescript “reunion tour” shirt indistinguishable from the scalper versions available at Union Station, except that they cost $30 more.) Seriously, they sold the same Synchronicity T I had in high school and now use for washing the car. If I could have found (or fit into) my Dream of the Blue Turtles shirt, I’d have blended right in. I briefly pondered whether buying and wearing a Ghost in the Machine golf shirt would carry enough apparent irony to be worth $60, but decided the answer was no.

Anyhow, soon enough the lights dimmed, the crowd went nuts, Message in a Bottle started, and I was transported back to the great time I missed out on lo so many years ago. The band was very tight – no sign of rust, bickering or arthritis here. Sting looks exactly the same as he did 20 years ago; Stewart Copeland hasn’t aged much either. Andy Summers looks a little jowly, but he doesn’t play with his face and his hands are none the worse for wear. On the contrary, in concert he was given plenty of opportunities to do those lovely, wanking 70s-style guitar solos that didn’t appear on any album. I’d have thrown my underwear if I was 500 feet closer.

To my delight, it appeared that both Sting and Andy Summers were playing the same battered instruments they used the first time around. Sting’s bass had no varnish left on it and only half the wood; Summers is the reason I bought a Fender Telecaster in university. (I was about to put it up for sale actually – contact me if you are in the market – but after last night I think I need to play it a few times first. I learned a quite a few Police songs when I used to play, though of course I lacked the talent and effects pedals to do them justice. I was probably the worst guitarist in our school, but I did own a flanger, and fingers long enough to play Every Breath You Take. If I had either tone, rhythm or dexterity I’d have been a rock god.)

That dreaded song did get played, in workmanlike fashion (it’s a song about stalking that later made Sting uncomfortable, and its original recording session nearly killed them.) In fact, there was a certain workmanlike, professional edge to the whole affair, as if everyone knew what the assignment was, and decided to carry it out to the very best of their abilities, whether or not the passion of three decades ago was still there. They did appear to be enjoying themselves somewhat, particularly when they acknowledged the crowd between encores.

Anyhow, the concert was a real treat. Before hand, Peter and I decided on the three tracks we’d most like to hear (Next to You, Truth Hits Everybody and Omega Man) and the first two were delivered, with gusto. A couple of songs were altered to accommodate aging vocal chords, and the mix was occasionally iffy (how hard can it be to mic a trio?) but these are small comments on an otherwise delightful evening.

Now, if I could just bring Joe Strummer back from the dead for a Clash reunion, catch a touchdown and date a cheerleader, my revisionist high school years will be complete. Oh, and erase the wedgies.

Posted by: Paul Gorbould | 07-24-2007 | 11:07 AM
Posted in: Blather