Nothing Like The Sun: 1987/88

Sting gets serious ten years on - Sting ain't what he used to be...

Ten years ago I saw The Police in a small dance hall in Bristol. Under Sting's shrewd tutelage, they were developing into the sharpest pop band of the time, mixing the pace of punk with the rhythm of reggae. The music was tailor-made for that rolling walk-dance conducted on the balls of the feet, which Sting, its inventor, performed non-stop. It was two hours of undiluted pleasure.

Ten years later, at the Wembley Arena, he is looking hardly a day older. Which is more than can be said for his audience. The class of 1977 now sport pinstripes, ties and bald patches; their pre-concert Tannoy entertainment was the greatest hits of Dire Straits.

Sting was here to prove that he has become a serious musician, and his stage-set has grown-up written all over it. Rows of computers, banks of drum-kits (no fewer than four of his eight-strong band were deputed to bang out the simple beat of 'Consider Me Gone') the acres of chrome set off by a discreet mauve lighting. 

After a substantial tom-tom drum roll, he wandered on to the stage looking as relaxed as if it were a first rehearsal, wearing a blue silk jacket and black mess trousers, his head topped by a scrag of long hair, worn in the manner of Richard Harris in his wild days. Breaking into the first number, he took the unconventional step of introducing his band immediately; Steve Williamson had not even put his sax to his lips before we knew his name.

There had been much made of this band in the pre-concert publicity, how they represent the cream of American session talent, but like Tottenham Hotspur at their most beguiling, they played with a wild virtuosity, with rarely a nod to teamwork. And if they were that good, why did Sting feel it necessary to interject his Chopsticks-standard keyboard playing into every other song?

He was here to promote '...Nothing But The Sun', his serious new album. Gone was the dance-walk, instead there was a sophisticated stroll round the stage as his band showed off their virtuosity. He ambled through them, hand in pocket, indulging in the sort of cod theatrics that underpinned his screen performance in 'Brimstone and Treacle': "No, no don't do that, it's too loud", he mimed as someone shaped to strike a huge gong. 

The problem with Sting is that his best writing centres on the bouncy three-minute pop songs of The Police, ideal for a three piece. Here the two he played ('Driven To Tears' and 'Spirits In The Material World') were overwhelmed by a band constricted by the songs' simplicity; three minutes became eight became twelve as elaborate guitar and drum solos were grafted on to a structure which could not support them. Yet his new material, written for the big jazz band, is charmless and pretentious. 

The only exception was 'An Englishman In New York', which echoed the lyrical ingenuousness of The Police. Too much of the time, Sting assumed that being a serious musician, he had to say something serious, which generally manifested itself in the wearisome "shon" rhyme he favours ("revolushon", "communicashon", "infatuashon").

The final word belonged to the Arena touts. "Want best seats for tonight's show?", they asked as we arrived, "Pound each. All right then, pound the pair." Five years ago there would have been fighting for Police tickets.

(c) The Independent by Jim White