Police Reunion: 2007/08

The Police commit a hold-up...

What did you think of The Police concert?

Halfway through the two-hour concert: The do do do, the da da da, followed by Invisible Sun. The Police have often been seen spreading their wings, shifting from bouncy pop gems to woolly soundscapes. From last night until tonight, Sting, Summers, and Copeland are committing a hold-up on Antwerp. The Sportpaleis is happy to surrender.

An arena full of forty-somethings, or more precisely: between 40 and 45, the generation of original Police fans. Those who were there in the first half of the eighties of the last century.

They had called, emailed, and texted like crazy just to get those tickets. Two nights, but in the euphoria of the announcement, they sold out in the blink of an eye. Those who were there last night felt chosen. For those here tonight, we won't reveal anything new.

That is somewhat peculiar about this reunion: night after night, the element of surprise disappears, even for the three main protagonists themselves, as it turns out. And yet, no one wants to believe anything other than: every little thing they do is magic. As for Sting: he has brought some magic into the world at home as well. Joe Sumner hardly wants to acknowledge that he is the son of Gordon Sumner, alias Sting, but what he pulls off in the opening act with Fiction Plane is quite amusing.

How Fiction Plane will ever be able to stand on its own two feet is highly questionable. But you can hardly blame a son for having inherited something from his father—a handful of looks, a bundle of talent, a massive nose for music. Fiction Plane could count on graciousness, but naturally, the Sportpaleis hadn't paid for that. Sting, Andy Summers, Stewart Copeland, and their management as well—they make no secret of the fact that even for them, that big money for this reunion tour is a nice bonus.

But at the first concerts, in Vancouver in late May, the three still embraced each other in joy. They seemed to be reconciling with their past of ego clashes and cocaine trips. However, rumors preceded them to Antwerp: the renewed love had already cooled somewhat. Since the European premiere in Stockholm in late August, hardly anything has changed. The entire tour is a smoothly rolling affair, but there is no surprise whatsoever.

The playlist has found an unshakeable routine; the show allows for little extra spectacle. Sting on the left, Summers on the right, Copeland in the middle at the back. That is how they stood then, that is how they stand today, under a bluish light, under a handful of screens. No, so many years later, The Police do not hide behind a battery of strings or a pack of choirboys. Three men, a dozen and a half songs, what you see is what you get. It made last night's concert particularly powerful, but with its dips.

Naturally, it is one big climax for a blazing Sportpaleis when, after all those years of futile yearning, *Message In A Bottle* bursts open. The message lands at hip level, screams its way out, the roof—yes, it comes off. Somehow, Sting clearly feels more at home on stage than the other two. Let’s attribute that to his Proms experience in the same venue. And although Summers and Copeland defend themselves with guitar and drums as weapons, it is clearer today than ever that Sting *is* The Police, or at least wants to be the chief of the force.

The Sportpaleis eats out of his hand, laughs at his remarks, and sings at his direction. Perhaps even more so than drummer Copeland, Sting dictates the tempo of the show. A fast one, a slow one, a monster hit, a B-side. The bass hangs high, the drums hit that beat *after* the rhythm, and the guitar cuts loosely through it. They were fantastic back then, and they still are.

In short, The Police remain a wondrous band, and the first of those two Antwerp concerts was a wondrous experience. Twenty years of group silence is broken, and hardly anything has changed regarding the relationships between them. A psychologist has their hands full with entrenched relationships; the Sportpaleis enjoyed it.

(c) Het Nieuwsblad by Thomas Lowette