The Police

By SoDak

In the 1970s, my parents regularly played cards with friends. Every couple of weeks, we would pile into the car and head to someone’s house. The adults sat in the kitchen, drank beer, shuffled cards, and gossiped. Us kids messed around in the backyard. We were easily entertained. We played a modified, but more dangerous, version of dodgeball. Instead of balls, we threw sticks at each other. We knew it was not smart, but we had more sticks than balls. From time to time, my mother would yell out the window, reminding us to be careful and not to poke someone’s eye out. We eventually called this game: “Stick in the Eye.” When it was too dark outside, we would play board games in the living room. We enjoyed listening to our parents tell stories. When they swore, we laughed and repeated the words. From time to time, we were allowed to listen to the radio, as long as it was not too loud. When the radio was on, I would lay on the floor and just focus on the music. There were two AM radio stations that played rock music. I turned the dial back and forth, between stations, hoping to catch a song that I wanted to hear. In 1978, one of the stations played, “Can’t Stand Losing You,” by The Police. The strange opening beat captivated me. I had never heard anything like it before. I started tapping my foot. Then the chorus started. It was simple; I sang along, repeating:

I Can’t, I Can’t, I Can’t Stand Losing,

I Can’t, I Can’t, I Can’t Stand Losing,

I Can’t, I Can’t, I Can’t Stand Losing,

I Can’t, I Can’t, I Can’t Stand Losing,

I Can’t, I Can’t, I Can’t Stand Losing,

I Can’t, I Can’t, I Can’t Stand Losing. 

I could not stop singing these lines. On the drive home, I kept singing this song, driving my parents nuts. I begged my parents to turn on the rock station, hoping to hear the song again.

Music was not instantaneous or a click away. I had to have the radio on in order to hear new music. I had a few records, and I wanted more. But saving allowance money was a slow process. My parents did not have extra cash to spend on such luxuries. In fact, many evenings during the summer, we would go through the dumpsters in the parks to collect aluminum cans to recycle. With the money, we would go to the movies. Every now and then, my folks would buy a record. So listening to the radio was a routine. It provided a means to be exposed to a broader world of sounds.

In 1979, I heard The Police song “So Lonely.” It followed a similar structure, with a reggae beat followed by a revved up rock chorus. I was hooked. I had to get The Police. Finally, by the summer, I was able to buy Outlandos d’Amour on vinyl. I sat in my bedroom with my record player that looked like a suitcase and had an internal speaker, repeatedly playing the album. The song “Next to You” also kicked ass. I would jump around the room throughout the three-minute song pretending that I was playing guitar. “Roxanne” bored me. It still does, even though it gets stuck in my head from time to time. I never liked how Sting sang the chorus. At this point in time, I internalized each record I had—even ones that I was not that excited about. I sat with the music, read the lyrics when they were available, and imagined stories behind the songs. I listened to the record over and over again.

Being a music junkie at a young age was difficult. I would hear the singles on the radio. I would stay up late each night, listening to a hand-held transistor radio, hoping to hear particular songs again. Each single teased me, reminding me that there was a whole album full of songs that I had not heard. About the time that I was finally able to buy the full-length record, singles from the next album were being released. Such was the case with The Police. During the fall of 1979, I heard “Message in Bottle.” The guitar line set my mind adrift, searching for a connection. I am not sure why, but I often cried when I heard this song on the radio. The song fucked me up. The cycle of listening to the radio to hear a new song by The Police, saving money to buy the recent record, and obsessively listening to the record started again. Reggatta de Blanc did not disappoint. The title track was captivating, followed by the urgency of “It’s Alright for You.” I always appreciated the slower songs by The Police, such as “Walking on the Moon.” Songs such as “Contact” were a bit chilling. I loved how all three of the members sang and the strange beats that ran throughout a record. The Police were definitely a quirky band, who became increasingly so with each record.

At this point in time, for a young kid without money, it was inevitable that a single would serve as the introduction to each record. They were the songs that were first available. They became imprinted in my mind, before further exploration of each record. “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” was a drug. Each day, I was in desperate need to hear the song. I would set my alarm an hour earlier than I needed to get up for school, just to get my fix listening to the radio, hoping to hear it. The song was obviously creepy, given the relationship between the teacher and student. But the song was infectious, causing me to sit with unsettling words and catchy music. By the time I bought Zenyattà Mondatta, Police records were very familiar as far as what type of music I would find. The throbbing bass line in “Driven to Tears” was enthralling. “Canary in a Coalmine,” “De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da,” and “Man in a Suitcase” operated as stimulants, making me dance around the room. “Bombs Away” intersected with my political imagination.

At a rummage sale, I used my allowance, which I had been saving, to buy a stereo system with a phonograph player and radio. Not long after this, I would pick up cables so I could transfer records to cassette tapes. Hours were spent sitting on the floor, playing one side of the vinyl and then the other, pushing record and pause on the tape deck, and writing the names of songs on the tape insert. The first three records by The Police were the first records I recall transferring. While this process continued to be part of my life for many more years, especially once I started buying punk rock seven inches, this was also a period of transition. In 1981, The Police’s Ghost in the Machine was released. I bought it on cassette. It took me longer to digest this record. At times, it was darker in its sound and lyrics, which captivated me. “Spirits in the Material World” had a great bass line, which carried the song, until the chorus. When I first heard “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic,” I was mostly indifferent, as the parts with the Caribbean vibe seemed like it would be played at a fancy resort (not sure why I thought of this at the time). It is a catchy song, but it still does not hold my attention. “Invisible Sun” was quite the opposite. I found it enchanting, almost like a chant. The images of factory smoke solidified in my head, making me think of distant industrial centers and conflict. “Demolition Man” did not interest me much either. But I really liked “One World (Not Three),” as I was increasingly fearful of nuclear annihilation and the intensification of the Cold War under Reagan. A simple message seemed to stand in direct contrast to the greed and destruction of the world fueled by capitalism. This record fascinated me when I was young, but I think much of it was simply because the record had a different sound due to production. The added horns on the record were not as appealing. Today, I still find great moments, but overall, I find it a bit less satisfying and taxing.

I first heard “King of Pain” on the radio. It knocked me on my ass. I sat there listening with images based on the lyrics swirling through my head.

There’s a little black spot on the sun today

It’s the same old thing as yesterday

There’s a black hat caught in the high tree top

There’s a flag pole rag and the wind won’t stop

I have stood here before inside the pouring rain

With the world turning circles running ‘round my brain….

There’s a fossil that’s trapped in a high cliff wall, that’s my soul up there

There’s a dead salmon frozen in a waterfall, that’s my soul up there

There’s a blue whale beached by a springtide’s ebb, that’s my soul up there

There’s a butterfly trapped in a spider’s web, that’s my soul up there….

There’s a king on a throne with his eyes torn out

There’s a blind man looking for a shadow of doubt;

There’s a rich man sleeping on a golden bed

There’s a skeleton choking on a crust of bread.

I thought the words were fucking brilliant. Additionally, I was taken by the emotional hooks in the song. I loved how it started out so soft and slow, then built up in steps into a rocking chorus. Once the song was done, I rolled the dial on the radio back and forth, hoping one of the other rock stations on FM would be playing the song. I would rush home from school each day, wanting to hear the song. Eventually, I bought a blank cassette tape. I would sit at the ready, eager to push record if I heard the opening notes of the song. The best situation would be if the DJ announced that the next song was going to be “King of Pain”—then I would have the entire song. Finally, I recorded a version that was listenable, with only a little bit of static. Each night before I went to sleep, I would play it over and over.

For Christmas, I got a cassette of Synchronicity. I retreated to my room to listen to this tape for days. This was the most successful record by The Police, in no small part due to the singles “Every Breath You Take,” “King of Pain,” and “Wrapped Around Your Finger.” The record embodied the full-range of styles and oddities of The Police. The opening title track is ferocious, as far as The Police is concerned. “Walking in Your Footsteps” is almost entirely dependent on the drum beat and Sting’s voice, speaking about the inevitability of human extinction. “Mother” provides a “what the fuck” moment, revealing a different type of strangeness. Since I had a cassette, instead of vinyl, my copy also had “Murder by Numbers,” as it was exclusive to tapes at the time—a practice that is beyond out of control.

After five records, The Police were done. During their short tenure, I went through several phases of how I listened to music. Many years later, long after The Police boxset, Message in a Box, was released, I eventually got a CD player. I finally heard the B-sides for many of the singles by The Police. I have never really been a fan of the music Sting has made since The Police, minus a very rare song here and there. I am sure that part of the reason is that I have not devoted the same amount of time to digesting it. But I also lack interest, as associate Sting with other annoying self-obsessed musicians such as Bono. Nevertheless, I still love the records by The Police and part of my own history is bound up with this band.