A mellow Sting treats his fans to a 'quiet storm'...
O Sting, where is thy sting?
Where is the lonely brooder of 'Message in a Bottle' and 'Bed's Too Big Without You'? The lust-tortured schoolteacher of 'Don't Stand So Close to Me'? The seductive stalker of 'Every Breath You Take'?
Not at Mountain View's Shoreline Amphitheatre, that's for sure. Friday night, the stage belonged to a contented country squire in knee-high black leather boots. In support of his new album, 'Mercury Falling', the squire has consented to leave the comforts of his 16th-century English manor and half-dozen children to shower the adoring masses with his latest musical baubles.
And those masses look quite different from the trend-setters who gravitated to Sting in the late '70s, when he was the head of a revolutionary pop-punk-reggae band I called The Police.
By contrast, the crowd at Shoreline seemed as comfortable as Sting himself, mostly yupsters who'd slipped out of their Dockers and into relaxed-fit jeans for a pleasant night out. This wasn't your average rocker crowd: The line at the espresso bar snaked far beyond the one for beer.
The choice of beverage was fortuitous, however, since without a caffeine jolt it might have been hard to stay awake through some of Sting's silky, soporific songs.
In a show that clocked in at precisely 90 seamless minutes not including a "bonus," though apparently scripted, second encore it became clear that the King of Pain has been overthrown by the Sultan of Smooth Jazz.
Fortunately, the singer/bassist is such a tremendously talented performer that even a mellow Sting is far more enjoyable to listen to than many a hungry, energetic rocker half his age. And if you really must listen to "quiet storm"-type music, it might as well be Sting's. His music is complex, his lyrics literate to the point of pretension. And he creates some truly gorgeous melodies and harmonies.
'Fields of Gold' is an achingly beautiful love song, for instance, a time-defying gem that will probably seem fresh 20 years from now, yet sounds as though it were penned by an English minstrel centuries ago. It shone especially brightly Friday night, thanks in part to the crystalline, Spanish-flavored guitar-picking of Dominic Miller. (A side note: Miller, who has worked on several of Sting's albums, is clearly a Deadhead, as evidenced by the Grateful Dead sticker on one guitar and the painted face of Jerry Garcia on another. Who would have guessed?)
Similarly, an encore of 'Fragile' was just lovely. This time, it was Sting on acoustic Spanish guitar, forsaking his bass to play a delicate accompaniment that complemented his lyrics about the fragility of human life.
Sting also exhumed a number of Police tunes Friday night, though many were given a New-Sting gloss, with mixed results. 'When the World is Running Down' was reborn as a funky, smoking jazz number. On the other hand, Sting and his five-man band churned out a sluggish version of 'Every Breath You Take' worthy of a dentist's waiting room.
Sting still has a vaguely demonic look about him, currently accented by a goatee that's right up there with his long-haired stage as a look that's gotta go. And even in his mellower incarnation, he has a commanding physical presence. He is clearly the master of his music, confident and relaxed on stage.
Perhaps that's part of the problem. Those who still remember the insecure, anguished, angry young man who pushed our perceptions of rock music might be forgiven for selfishly wishing him a little less content. We're just not ready to lose him to "adult contemporary" limbo.
(c) Oakland Tribune by William Friar
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