The following article by James Hunter appeared in a December 1994 issue of the Village Voice
Gentleman's Agreement: Sting dreams a world without junk...
"In The Police he was a pop star, the best we've had, a potent force delivering blistering reggae-tinged chart-friendly hits apparently to order." That's the new Q on Sting, delivering Britain's attitude about its homeboy. Here, he came across as the lead blond of a fluffy threesome who successfully crafted themselves into heavy new-wavers with AOR cred, and by the time he went solo he was a guaranteed rock-mag cover. He had attempted the oddest new career - jazz, don't you know - with music that, in retrospect, unfolds like a single piece of steel, ignoring orthodoxy yet achieving the field's flexibility and no hot-tub vapor, laughing in the face of rock yet getting on more different sets of nerves than most punks ever manage, skipping pop rules yet selling millions, admitting in public to a yen for Mozart. Inclined toward modernist seriousness, not pop earnestness, he's been the student-punk as gentleman as pop star, an art-directed Pierre Boulez with his own staunch program. Unlike singer-songwriters one generation before him (Paul Simon, Jackson Browne, Joni Mitchell), he's spoken new wave since birth; unlike pop motivators after him, (L.L. Cool J., Madonna, Liz Phair), he remains untouched, even unmoved, by genre.
Sting is his own vibe. When the mood strikes him, he dresses in clothes from past centuries, not decades. He scores his impeccable melodies to reggaeish floats and perfect silvery dissolves, nodding across continents between choruses. Now and then he revisits Brecht and Broadway. You know that stereotype of English gentlemen never recovering from the Temptations, or, if they're intellectuals, The Fatback Band? Not Sting. ''Be yourself, no matter what they say,'' he advised in a tone that was all fire and confidence in 'Englishman in New York', a tune intended to honor Quentin Crisp but which ends up honoring, you know, Sting.
Over the past decade, the time covered by his impressive new Fields of Gold retrospective, his very name has annoyed people. Comedian Margaret Smith once told David Letterman that if she ran a talk show, she'd seat him next to Tommy Tune. Others have resented how the terra-cotta vocal sweep became a radio mainstay in no time flat. "Sings through his nose, you know," a young L.A. Anglophile once confided. Still others tired of the physique. Throughout everything, along with the politics and the library ads, the benefits and the Chaucer, many disliked the loftiness. "Ah," the man himself once exhaled to an interviewer, "if only to do a few Mahler songs."
Few people past grade school enjoy purely blissful relationships with pop stars. In fact, they irritate us constantly; it's part of their function as cultural emblems. If over the past decade Sting has been the grand master of pop-starannoyance, it hasn't been because of cute new-wave stage names or vocal self-esteem or pumping up or a weakness for good causes. No, it's been because of his relentless sense of what a pop star might bring to his audience - a solid hankering for the traditional liberal arts, a downright iconoclastic obsession these days.
The closest U.S. parallel for Sting isn't in records; it's PBS, which should only be able to sell high-end American culture in such numbers. Although he's long understood the impact of the shirtless encore, in fact Sting's obsessions are as intellectual as his detractors often claim. Throughout his solo career, his pop recipe, a fusion extremely hard to describe, has come straight out of the equally elegant iconoclasm of Gil Evans - clear structure, precisely rendered, with as much freedom and motion as possible, a goal that dictates his taste in sidemen. But unlike Bryan Ferry, another refinement junkie, Sting doesn't care to argue that the stuff of the Shirelles can be art; he wants Jung and Nabokov and whatever else compels him to be pop, or at least his pop. He seems happy to live in a world without junk.
After 1983's Synchronicity - the Police's cheesy masterwork and essentially the first Sting solo album - he teamed with Branford Marsalis, Kenny Kirkland, and others for 'The Dream of the Blue Turtles', an awkward albumof fusion-haunted pop-jazz. It spawned the postliterate smash, 'If You Love Somebody Set Them Free'. Next year came the live version of this experiment, 'Bring on the Night', which forgot about the four-minute form and became a sensational showcase for musicians, charged with the cosmic necessity that Evans's records always had. In 1987, Sting made his big persona play, aiming to leap beyond the geeky guy who'd worried about machines and dinosaurs. He decided that, while others might play the New Pop game or contemplate weird guitar tunings, he would become the Jeremy Irons of international rock. Italy and South America went nuts.
The album was '...Nothing Like the Sun'. Prodigiously produced by Neil Dorffman, it was enriched by curbed vocals, dynamic instrumental conversations and melodies and countermelodies that were pure soul. With this recording, one of the high points of '80s superstar pop, all the bits and pieces of Sting reached critical mass: the quest for musical distinction, the social engagement ('They Dance Alone', a Pinochet-inspired model of politics and drama), the general portrayal of Sting as a pop star lost in a Graham Greene novel. A Greene novel ransacked for irony and ambience, right? No, Sting went for the whole Greene cosmos of personal accountability, accursedness, and spiritual unease.
Sting had his own style, thanks, a mix of pop melody, Russian and Eastern European composers, '70s prog rock, and the remaining new-wave canniness. But as 'Fields of Gold' - a singles anthology, really, including songs from 1991's 'The Soul Cages' and last year's smash 'Ten Summoner's Tales', plus two new tunes suggests, Sting sometimes fails at the thing that can unite his new-wave gifts and old-world obsessions: tone.
Does he intend for the opening seconds of 'When We Dance' - a new song, a lucidly anguished and compellingly constructed ballad about romantic separation and closure - to blare forward with the rise and fall of a nervous young tenor recitalist? It's like the famous last Cold War pop tune 'Russians': Doesn't Sting intend to insinuate affirmation about Soviet families instead of drumming up defensiveness? These are failures of tone.
Yet the best Sting music on 'Fields of Gold' just flows. 'If I Ever Lose My Faith in You' bounces devotion into a series of long-lined melodies that stop to allow for some thumping syncopations. With 'Fragile', everything works: the Braziloid composition, Dorfman's and the band's delicate layerings, and Sting's understated delivery. 'Be Still My Beating Heart' may find no solace in the library, but the basslines are killer. And on the great 'Why Should I Cry For You?' Sting interlocks finely differentiated melodic parts with a master's skill with glue.
What sometimes stops Sting is his occasional impatience with the purely pop. He once told critic Peter Watrous that he loved Madonna and felt that most bad pop was "benign", the result of aesthetic mistakes. This was smart. His own career has not held forth for so long and with such success because he's lacked pop smarts: virtually any tune on 'Fields of Gold' demonstrates this savvy. No, he's flourished because his music remains the passionately clever work of a superstar mongrel traditionalist. He may well be the last of the breed.
© The Village Voice
The role of renaissance bloke: It's 10am on a Saturday at Drapers Brothers Dry Cleaners, and Dougie and Don Draper are preparing for the weekend rush when the door clatters open and in comes a Mr Sting. "I was just wondering if you could clean this donkey jacket, like," he says in rich, Newcastle Brown tones, shrugging out of the garment in question. Dougie D (maroon slacks, fawn cardie, pervert scoutmaster-style nylon wig in a worrying shade of lemon) duly ingratiates himself, customer care skills to the fore. "No problem at all," he oozes. Meanwhile Don D (two-tone overall, spectacles, pervert woodwork teacher-style nylon wig in a worrying shade of chestnut brown) is anticipating a visit to the theatre to see American illusionist David Copperfield. "Every little thing he does is magic," he sings repeatedly...
Sting has lately reasserted himself as a musician, and won a roomful of awards. Now he is releasing his greatest hits. He gave Nicholas Barber a guided tour of 10 years' work. "Sting's house, please." That's all you have to say to taxi drivers at Salisbury station. No need for directions or addresses, they know where Gordon Matthew Sumner lives. And does the local rock god ever descend to town, I ask the driver as we make the nine-mile journey. "Occasionally," he says. "We see his wife Trudie (Styler) more often, and the kids and the nanny. But Sting, he's a busy man, isn't he...?"
Hits set mines Sting's gold: A decade has passed since Sting left the seminal modern rock trio the Police. On November 8, A&M will commemorate the occasion with the release of 'Fields Of Gold, The Best Of Sting', 1984-1994 and an accompanying home video and laserdisc collection. "They've been saying that now is the time to do a greatest hits," Sting told Billboard during a tour stop in South Africa. "I actually resisted it, because in a way I was thinking, 'Well, is this capitulating? Shouldn't I really just do another album?' Then I thought about it, and thought about the 10-year landmark..."
For 15 years his sophisticated pop music has been pleasing fans, while his finely chiselled features and piercing blue eyes have melted women at 40 paces. He claims to be a marathon sexual athlete and he spent R625,000 on his wife's wedding dress. When he's not strumming his guitar on stage - often shirtless, with a cheeky, boyish grin and a wiggle of the bum - he's in South America saving rainforests, acting in movies, doing yoga or reading Jung. So with the world hanging on every breath he takes, is Sting a pretentious egomaniac or a genius with a conscience? Perhaps he's both...
"So I'm standing here in a strange hat and a strange, flowing gown in front of what looks very much like an audience, and I'm about to do something that I don't do very often, which is to make speeches in public. And I'm asking myself how I managed to end up here? This was never in any plan I'd outlined for myself. Nevertheless, I'm here and you're all expecting something coherent, and perhaps meaningful, to come out of my mouth. I'll try, but there are no guarantees. And I have to say I'm a little bit nervous. You might think this is strange for a man who makes his living playing in stadiums, but I often stand in the middle of a stadium full of people and ask myself the same question, "how the hell did I end up here?" The simple answer is I'm a musician. And for some reason I've never had any other ambition but to be a musician. So by way of explanation, I'll start at the beginning..."