Summer: 2015

Sting, four strings and a voice to help you forget it's raining...

The English star captivated Paléo on Wednesday evening, choosing music over spectacle. Stunning.

It's quite surprising. Popeye doesn't wear a beard, but the bearded Sting looks like Popeye. He appeared Wednesday evening shortly before midnight, his face ringed with a magnificent brown whaler's mane, an impression perhaps forced by the (finally) humid atmosphere of the Asse plain. An understatement: when the English star set foot on the main stage, a significant portion of the audience had already withdrawn after a torrential thunderstorm and several hours of downpours transformed the field into a mud pit.

It's infuriating to think that Calogero sold out the Asse better than Sting. The latter probably doesn't care that he was overtaken in terms of attendance by a sort of limp French endive, with singing so flat that Mylène Farmer could pass for Montserrat Caballé. The main stage hadn't yet finished blushing at the stupid "art inhabits me" poses of the faux leather jacket when the Englishman came to set the record straight and show how a Fender Precision is worn - and played.

To haul in his net, Sting doesn't need a big trawler. One of the stars of this 40th edition could play on the smallest of stages. Six musicians in all, including a violinist and a backing singer. No visual effects. No monumental set. Even the maestro's bass amp seems to be made of old living room speakers arranged on a black podium behind him. It's clear: this is a musical affair, and there's no need to look at much else other than Sting.

First harpooning with If I Ever Lose My Faith in You, heading for the Caribbean seas and its calypso rhythms, undisturbed by Every Little Thing She Does is Magic. With his bulging muscle under a nondescript T-shirt and his mischievous lip, Sting appears a million miles away from the well-combed star and the friend from the City who makes no secret of his fascination with the English upper class. On the contrary, it's a 4-string worker who attacks Paléo, entering his own groove, his eyes half-closed and his body shaken by the heavy impacts of his E string. Singer Sting has nothing to envy the bassist: at 63, his voice remains one of the most fabulous in pop, always brushing the breaking point without ever breaking, mimicking exotic intonations that this son of a milk delivery man discovered on records. 

He visits The Police for half of his repertoire, easily rediscovering the trio's expressive urgency. Message in the Bottle capsizes the crowd as much as Roxanne, while the spotlights cut curtains of rain over the audience. The singer has the elegance to express himself in impeccable French between songs, giving a pop concert that doesn't shy away from long - often rich, sometimes verbose - forays into jazzy jams. Sting has fun with it, abandoning the discreet virtuosity of his playing in favour of a muscular slap.

An encore in the form of the already dated Desert Rose and the timeless Every Breath You Take. Sting took on the Asse plain like a club concert, and conquered it. The most fearsome killers are those who advance maskless, hands in their pockets, straight toward you.

(c) 24Heures by François Barras