Live Review: The Police

A week ago, I had the honor of seeing an atmospheric, no-frills show by the Police, and they knocked my socks off.

As we walked up to the behemoth that is the Staples Center, it was clear this wasn’t going to be any ordinary show. We found ourselves amongst hordes of twentysomething hipsters, mid-forties soccer moms who wanted to get in Sting’s pants, and dudes in their late fifties who still think they’re in their mid twenties. Eclectic doesn’t say enough.

Sting’s a nice guy, so he let his son’s band, Fiction Plane, open. Personally, I think this is a bit harsh. They got to play to a 20,000+ seat arena that had maybe 1,000 people in it. I could have had a conversation from the upper tier with them, if they’d wanted. Staring them in the face was 19,000 empty seats, screaming: “we don’t care, give us The Police!”

And just before 9:00, we got ‘em. Sting, Stewart Copeland (aka Badass), and Andy Summers appeared, three individuals together. Sting wore his classic sleeveless muscle shirt, Copeland was looking geeky cool in a t-shirt and headband (and awesome grey hair), and Summers tried to hide his age with a slick suit. After a moment acknowledging the crowd, Copeland smashing his giant gong, they burst into Message In A Bottle, and that crowd acknowledged them back.

You couldn’t help but smile. This was a no-frills rock show, just three guys playing all the songs that made them one of the biggest bands in the world. No backing musicians, no piped in music, no stage extending into the audience (it was a simple oval), no lazer light show, no bullshit. Just rock. And damn good rock.

For the most part, the songs were only slightly changed, and generally for the better (at least in terms of the live experience). I’d list the highlights, but there were too many. “Wrapped Around Your Finger” saw Copeland retreat to a wall of chimes and control the arena. Summers let loose on a variety of guitar solos, including “Roxanne,” and Sting’s voice pounded through hits like “So Lonely.”

It wasn’t perfect, in the technical sense, anyway. But the imperfections made it better. Sure, Sting’s voice cracked a bit on “Every Little Thing,” but they had the crowd so enthralled (wrapped around their finger?) that we picked up the slack for him, and he regrouped by the end of the song.

In fact, there was a ton of audience interplay. Whether offering call-and-receives (on at least three songs) or illuminating the arena with spotlights (which they did constantly), they were very aware of their adoring fans and made sure we knew it. The back of the ovular stage was raised, allowing Sting and Summers to walk back and play to the crowd with the shitty rear-view seats; every time Copeland moved, he’d speak to or motion to the audience. This is a band that respected its fans, and it made the show feel like a communal ceremony.

Now, a disclaimer: I was once a Police hater. That is, I didn’t like Sting’s voice, at all. Then, this January, I decided to give them another chance. I got Synchronicity, and I listened to it on repeat for months. I got Ghost in the Machine. I got it. Stewart Copeland’s pounding, fresh beats; Summers’ jumping guitar; Sting’s powerful, emotive voice. I got it.

But even if I didn’t get it before this show, I would have after. When you see people in the upper deck at the opposite end of a huge arena like the Staples center dancing their asses off at the end of a two hour show, it tells you something. This is a band that connected last Wednesday, and did so on their own, their way, without any of the gimmicks that plague modern arena shows. It was a refreshing reminder of what rock can be.