Every little thing they did was magic
Posted: 03 Jul 2007 20:53Every little thing they did was magic
July 1, 2007
BY RUMMANA HUSSAIN rhussain@suntimes.com
There were some rock groups I liked as a kid simply because they had cool videos or a fetching lead singer who looked good in tight leather pants.
And then there were the Police, who, in the words of a philosophical groupie in Cameron Crowe's "Almost Famous," I loved so much it hurt.
I wore out my plastic Toys R' Us record player spinning their punky reggae rock, covered my school locker with posters and heckled my junior high classmates who proclaimed Duran Duran a superior band.
I even memorized so many trivial facts about the Police -- like how they dyed their hair blonde for a chewing gum commercial and once opened for a redhead named Cherry Vanilla -- I can still recite them today like a totally '80s "Rain Man."
My undying passion for Sting, Andy Summers and Stewart Copeland, however, ignited too late. It was the mid-1980s, and they had pretty much broken up.
Distraught, I turned to God -- and stayed up on Lailat-Ul-Qadr, the night Muslims consider the most holiest and blessed, praying that I'd catch the Police live one day. Unfortunately, my mom, suspicious of my sudden religious fervor, made me take back what she thought was a blasphemous and silly request.
She didn't find my obsession with the Police particularly cute, especially since I asked her to sign a check I told her was for a subscription to National Geographic's World magazine when it really was for several back-ordered copies of Creem featuring the trio.
Now, more than two decades later, my mom can only smile when I gloat that God has finally come through.
I'm sure the giddy teeny-bopper in me will be screaming hysterically when I catch my first Police concert this week, but I admit I'm nervous.
• Maybe it's because I think it's a bad omen Copeland deemed the tour's opening gig "lame" around the same time Carlos Zambrano and Michael Barrett duked it out at Wrigley Field, where the Police are scheduled to play two shows.
• Maybe it's because I've grown into a frustrated music critic who knows too well how most overpriced reunion shows end up bloated, lukewarm spectacles of what once was.
• Or maybe it's because I'm afraid Sting will continue "experimenting" with his perfect pop songs by transforming them into New Age shmaltz veering more toward lounge Muzak than anything on the band's five studio albums.
I saw Sting one time in college in the early 1990s, deluding myself that it would be the next best thing to watching the Police. I should have been arrested for that thought. Minutes into the show, I was "sending out an S.O.S" as Sting belted out a saxophone-drenched "Roxanne" too lethargic for my taste.
I never saw Sting live again. Without Copeland and Summers, the "King of Pain" to me was more the king of pain in the ass.
It's a thrill to see Sting back with his old group. I just hope his "jazz hands" are tightly handcuffed behind his back. I'm not expecting the Police to mimic the songs exactly as they appeared on the albums or even tear the place apart like they did during their CBGB days, but I'll wince when they slow jam to "retooled" mellower versions of a few classics as they have done in recent shows across the country.
I'm not afraid to say it: I want vintage Police.
So guys, if you're reading this: Please stay true to your roots, rock that trademark sound and recapture the magic that moved this once dorky 13-year-old to scribble "The Police rule" all over her notebooks and classroom desks.
I'd really hate to tell her she was wrong.
July 1, 2007
BY RUMMANA HUSSAIN rhussain@suntimes.com
There were some rock groups I liked as a kid simply because they had cool videos or a fetching lead singer who looked good in tight leather pants.
And then there were the Police, who, in the words of a philosophical groupie in Cameron Crowe's "Almost Famous," I loved so much it hurt.
I wore out my plastic Toys R' Us record player spinning their punky reggae rock, covered my school locker with posters and heckled my junior high classmates who proclaimed Duran Duran a superior band.
I even memorized so many trivial facts about the Police -- like how they dyed their hair blonde for a chewing gum commercial and once opened for a redhead named Cherry Vanilla -- I can still recite them today like a totally '80s "Rain Man."
My undying passion for Sting, Andy Summers and Stewart Copeland, however, ignited too late. It was the mid-1980s, and they had pretty much broken up.
Distraught, I turned to God -- and stayed up on Lailat-Ul-Qadr, the night Muslims consider the most holiest and blessed, praying that I'd catch the Police live one day. Unfortunately, my mom, suspicious of my sudden religious fervor, made me take back what she thought was a blasphemous and silly request.
She didn't find my obsession with the Police particularly cute, especially since I asked her to sign a check I told her was for a subscription to National Geographic's World magazine when it really was for several back-ordered copies of Creem featuring the trio.
Now, more than two decades later, my mom can only smile when I gloat that God has finally come through.
I'm sure the giddy teeny-bopper in me will be screaming hysterically when I catch my first Police concert this week, but I admit I'm nervous.
• Maybe it's because I think it's a bad omen Copeland deemed the tour's opening gig "lame" around the same time Carlos Zambrano and Michael Barrett duked it out at Wrigley Field, where the Police are scheduled to play two shows.
• Maybe it's because I've grown into a frustrated music critic who knows too well how most overpriced reunion shows end up bloated, lukewarm spectacles of what once was.
• Or maybe it's because I'm afraid Sting will continue "experimenting" with his perfect pop songs by transforming them into New Age shmaltz veering more toward lounge Muzak than anything on the band's five studio albums.
I saw Sting one time in college in the early 1990s, deluding myself that it would be the next best thing to watching the Police. I should have been arrested for that thought. Minutes into the show, I was "sending out an S.O.S" as Sting belted out a saxophone-drenched "Roxanne" too lethargic for my taste.
I never saw Sting live again. Without Copeland and Summers, the "King of Pain" to me was more the king of pain in the ass.
It's a thrill to see Sting back with his old group. I just hope his "jazz hands" are tightly handcuffed behind his back. I'm not expecting the Police to mimic the songs exactly as they appeared on the albums or even tear the place apart like they did during their CBGB days, but I'll wince when they slow jam to "retooled" mellower versions of a few classics as they have done in recent shows across the country.
I'm not afraid to say it: I want vintage Police.
So guys, if you're reading this: Please stay true to your roots, rock that trademark sound and recapture the magic that moved this once dorky 13-year-old to scribble "The Police rule" all over her notebooks and classroom desks.
I'd really hate to tell her she was wrong.
