This today from The Guardian’s Marina Hyde. Hilarious.
Although I will be accused once more of being “Angry of Brognon”, an epithet I honestly seek to avoid, Sting has long bumped irritatingly along the very rough and gravelly bottom of my estimation.
Latterly because of an entirely predictable association with James Suckling. Diving the very abyss of Euro trash.
Mediocrity, and worse its acceptance and success, is deeply upsetting.
But two salient points; one, he is eighteen years older than me, so sixty-five. In this photograph, that oh so 2012 (sic) beard accessory is entirely un-grey. Surely dying your beard is an ultimate expression of vanity?
Secondly, and in utter contradiction to his success, his lyrics have always been lighter than light. Talentless.
Remember The Police’s Doo- Doo- Doo (or was it Da- Da- Da?), or one of his first solo efforts, “Tea in the Sahara”? no? well, you shouldn’t, they were crap.
And here’s Sting’s song writing principle, in full…
“If I can make it rhyme,
I will make a dime.
If it makes no sense it does not matter,
It’s all just idle chatter.
If it’s just about in time
I will take that shiny dime.
I will still be very happy,
Despite my songs all being very crappy.” Repeat, preferably ad nauseam.
And there, my friends, is a simple formula for getting £180 million in your bank account, plus estates. And £1 million gigs with Russian gangsters…
Live the dream; Sting is.
- And if you are a real sucker for punishment, the truly, excuciatingly bad lyrics to “Tea in the Sahara” here.