I'm a Walking Disaster

This is what it was, really:

I spent most of the day yesterday sitting in my chair reviewing a table of contents. Since it's fairly monotonous, brainless work I put in my Police CDs to prepare myself for the evening's festivities at the Dunk. Every half hour or so I'd pick my head up, look at the clock, tense all my muscles and squeal. "Eee! Sting!"
"Tell Deb I said God Speed," Kristen commented wearily.
After picking up the minivan from the people I babysit for ("Amy, why do they call it the Dunk? That sounds silly") Deb and I were on our way to Providence. We parked at the Providence Place Mall and walked over to the arena. It was eerily quiet right before the show began. At venues in Boston people loiter by the door, smoking and waiting to go in. In Providence, people hustled inside, dodging the homeless people like land mines.
Since my family isn't the sporting type I'd never been inside the Dunk (formerly known as the Providence Civic Center). It's a lot like what I imagine the old Garden in Boston was like-- sports banners, funky wood paneling, painted concrete walls interrupted only by doors to the bathroom and concession stands, most of which sold Dunkin Donuts products. I was sad to learn that the promised land of cheap beer does not apply to all minor league sports in Rhode Island-- the beer cost $6 each at the Dunk. I sucked it up and paid $9.75 for a Sam Adams and a slice of Aramark pizza. It tasted exactly like the pizza my high school cafeteria sold. The flavor of the pizza and being inside Rhode Island state lines put me into "who am I going to see that I know" mode. I expected to run into my ex-WHW I, but I didn't see him. I was surprised at how old the crowd was-- when I saw Sting at the Tweeter Center (Great Woods, you motherfuckers!) it was a fair mix of young and old. Last night women in their 40s walked from beer concession stand to beer concession stand like drunk bees in acid-washed jeans that were about a size too small, cackling with joy. They were obviously grateful for the big night out away from work and the kids. Save the lone group of thirteen year old girls, Deb and I were the youngest people I saw in the crowd.
I looked everywhere for discussion of who the opening act would be, but Sting's website nor the Dunk's advertised any opener. This resulted in Deb and I not having time for dinner, me flying at land speed records through the 128 corridor and having to sit through Fiction Plane. The singer was tall, lanky and British (just how I like 'em). The music wasn't bad, but the lyrics were trite and not at all poignant.
"This sucks," Deb said.
"No kidding."
"Sting must know these guys or something and is doing them a favor. It's not horrible. It's just not good."
"Maybe it's his son," I said. "He kind of looks like him."
Guess what? Fiction Plane's lead singer is none other than Joe Sumner. HA! Nepotism at work. After Deb and I loaded up on more crappy food (oh doughboy, you taste so good going down and add a lustrous sheen to my hair for weeks due to all the oil you carry) we took our seats as Sting took the stage.
That man could be a quadriplegic and he'd still find a way to be dead sexy. He took the stage in exquisitely tailored black pants, a long black blazer and his beat-up bass guitar. I screamed like I'd just seen Johnny Damon without clothes on. The stage lights went black and Sting's fake-accented voice wafted through the Dunk. "Helloooo Providence," he cooed. I grabbed Deb's arm so hard that she winced and said, again, "Eee! Sting!"
He launched into "Demolition Man" for the first song, and I'd forgotten how much I love it. The usual entourage of renowned jazz musicians he usually tours with was replaced with two guitarists, a drummer and Sting on bass. Everything was simple and clear, much like it was when the Police played the songs as a trio. The other musicians were glad to be playing the songs and I think much like the taste of Aramark mass-produced pizza for me, the Police songs bring Sting back to his younger days. As I said in my previous post, when I saw him at the Tweeter Center (motherfucking Great Woods!) he had no balls. He was there playing music because he was being paid an obscene amount of money and he owed it to the crowd. Last night he worked the stage, walking to the corners, dancing, bobbing his head enthusiastically. He talked with the crowd a lot, which he didn't last time. Touring with younger musicians and playing songs that remind him of his twenties got him into it, which left me with the dopiest grin on my face for the duration.
Then he played "Synchonicity II," which I argue is an even better song than the hit "Synchronicity." The lights were amazing during this number-- the rigs slid around, blinking like the lights on a soundboard. The Dunk was smoky so the path of the spotlights was easy to follow as they rotated around. The arena was lit well enough so I could see that any run I'd make for the stage would have me full-body tackled by the security guards, so I contented myself with watching Sting from a distance.
After a few more Police songs, he got into his solo stuff. He played "I Hung my Head" which Johnny Cash apparently covered before his death. I never cared much for that song: I think it's too antiseptic and clean for the subject matter (something about perfect rhyme and accidental killings doesn't mesh for me) but I'd be curious to hear the Man's interpretation of it. He played "If I Ever Lose my Faith in You" which completely rocks my socks off. He then played "Fields of Gold" which is a happy song, but for some reason always makes me tear up. I never had this play after/during sex, never had a guy sing it to me, but for some reason it's so lovely and simple, but is poignant (ahem, little Joe of Fiction Plane) enough to make me all schmoopy.
I never realized that I knew so much about Sting's work until last night. Deb would ask me what the songs were, and I could tell her the names of the songs, what album they came from, when they were released and what part of his life Sting was in when he wrote them. I felt like Kristen with the Red Sox. It made me feel like my brain is not filled only with reams of knowledge about who was eliminated when on Top Model or the lyrics to Ashlee Simpson songs. So if you need to know about Sting, ask me. I'll fill you in.
The only thing I didn't like (other than $6 beer) about the show was the performance of "Roxanne." I know he's been singing that song since before I was born, but it's his big song. It's like the Indigo Girls with "Closer to Fine"-- the audience isn't going to feel like they've seen a proper live performance without it. So he sings the first verse and the chorus, then starts throwing in lyrics to songs I like better, such as "The Bed's too Big Without You" and "So Lonely" and then scats for a while, then finishes "Roxanne." Just play the fucking song, Sting. Don't muck it up, don't throw in other songs that I'd rather hear and then not sing them, don't mess with the time measure, just play it.
After closing with "Mercury Falling" (wow, way to leave 'em wanting more, not) Deb and I left the Dunk to walk back to the mall. I basically skipped the whole way back to the big white minivan, singing "Demolition Man" and thanking Deb effusively for buying the tickets. I wouldn't have bought them for myself but I'm glad I went. It's probably the closest I'll come to a Police reunion tour until I die and live in a heaven full of '80s punk pop.