One Train Later: A Memoir (52 page)

But Stewart and I, not being short of ego or our own control issues, naturally challenge all ideas or commands. Although veiled, it is obvious that ultimately this is not the way forward for Sting. He needs to control the crew or abandon ship. And in a way I don't blame him, because none of us want to be controlled. Maybe it is time to splitwe've done our work, this is as far as we can go. But what a shame.

But the vessel containing all these stratagems, intrigues, and machinations is the music we make together. Comforting myself with this fragile idea and feeling drowsy from lunch, I lie down in a patch of warm sunlight and within seconds fall asleep.

Twenty-Eight

"Come on, mate, you're onstage in five minutes." I open my eyes to see Kim standing over me with a grin on his face. "Your chariot awaits you." "Bastard," I say, stretch, and then, "okay, let's do it."

Outside in the driveway are a couple of stretch limos with their engines purring. We pile into them and begin the drive.

Shea Stadium has been forever associated with the Beatles since their historic U.S. tour of '65. We are the first band since then to play there. It seems to be a marker of our power that we can sell out such a venue in a few hours. For me it represents a personal triumph over the city of dreams.

The stadium looms over us like a giant black monolith. Is it possible that we are actually going to play here? We start an idle conversation, wondering who is on tonight, they must be big-probably a bunch of wankers-and why would we want to waste our time? Then, sighing deeply, "Oh well, if we have to, we have to," etc. But the truth is that we are excited-the atmosphere is loaded, electric.

We pile out of the limos and are taken to the stage; the crew-Danny, Tam, Jeff, and about sixty riggers, lighting men, electricians, security guards, vendors, and other worker bees-are everywhere. We are merely the band, and weirdly insignificant: simple ghosts in the machine. Danny, Jeff, and Tam are setting up and they greet us with the usual world-weary remarks. They live a grueling and sleepless existence while we are on tour, but they are a great crew and we feel lucky to have them with us. As we arrive on the stage, cameras start going off and MTV is in attendance to do a preshow interview with the usual gushing inanities about how we think it will go tonight, what we are going to play. Will there be anything special? Any surprises? What does the future hold for the Police? Despite any underlying; tension between us or thoughts about the demise of the hand, we present a united front that underscores the public success.

I stare out across the vast stadium, over the field the Beatles emerged onto, drowning in the roar and screams of their fans, their tiny Vox AC30 amps a whisper in the canyon. Was this the end for them, the leap off the mountainside, the point of no return? As if running a check on this hyperre- ality, the words stream like a banner through my head: "you are onstage at Shea Stadium." The Telecaster is in my hands, my pedal board is on the floor in front of me, the Marshalls are behind me, and my Scottish roadie stares at me from the side of the stage at the alert. This is it.

As if to defuse the tension, Sting and Stewart go into one of their mock fights and roll about on the stage for a few minutes. This is the highlight for the media and signals the end of the sound check.

Back at the mansion we disappear into our various rooms to sleep, rest, and prepare for what will be the highlight of our career. We are all in a hyped-up state, and I find it difficult to sleep, staring into the dark with thoughts drifting by in a strange collage: the immediate memory of the songs we will play tonight, the feel of the Telecaster in my hands, a couple of remarks that Tam made at the sound check, and the awareness of lying here bathed in the glow of success and yet experiencing mixed feelings about the future. I am so glutted with all of it, the sheer amount that comes at us, that I almost don't care or can't take it in; and perversely I ruminate on the little black spot that is buried within every sun.

But as I roll through these thoughts I pull back for a wider view, indulge in a "what if " game. Things change-if anyone has learned that lesson, it certainly is me; almost every band I have been in has broken up-you go on. Maybe (once again) it's just something new unfolding, the endless cycle, and if I can draw back from the whirlpool of this particular moment, I'll see that. What if this is a script-wants to play own music, needs platform, creates successful rock band, moves on to own thing-what if life doesn't end here but gets even better? You have the power, don't give it away. And maybe that is what Sting-what all of us-are thinking, consciously or not.

Maybe there is someone else in my future, maybe there are more children; life as a creative musician will continue, can become the thing I have always wanted, can play out the fantasies I imagined as a kid. This was a dream; there are other dreams. The Police will have been just one of them along the way, and whatever happens, one thing is for certain: music.

A couple of hours later we assemble downstairs and drink a glass of champagne and congratulate one another for having arrived together on this particular night. We cross the lawn, hair blowing back from the chopper blades, and take off in the direction of Shea. As we circle the stadium in the night air, it glows below us like a cathedral packed with believers waiting for us, waiting to give confirmation and sacrament.

We land behind the stage and are immediately surrounded by a mob of smiling faces, jostling bodies, a feeling of high excitement. The backstage atmosphere is electric; it's not possible to feel smug or clever, but only to experience a strange mix of inward thanks and a gut feeling that we really have to pull this off tonight. The next hour goes by like a surreal dream of dressing room banter, well-wishers, presidents of record companies, radio stations, the Telecaster being gently placed in my hands. Now we are being led to the stage. We mount the steps to the platform, the edge of the stage where darkness and light touch. We walk into the center, the luminescence, the incandescent blaze of electric power, and there is a deep roar like the end of the world. Eighty thousand lighters go on in the stadium, an incendiary salutation. Like a prayer, it is now, it is forever. I strike the first chord.

Afterword

Six months after Shea Stadium the band broke up. We performed our final show in Melbourne, Australia, to a raging crowd of fifty thousand Police fans. I remember the backstage scene after the show like a kind of hallucination. As we were accosted by one person after another raving about the band and the performance, gasping how great it must be to be in the Police, I felt I was drowning in a sea of something close to worship but could only smile back and say, "Yeah ... great ... thanks," knowing the grim truth that they had just witnessed the final gig. The feeling the next day was of an incomprehensible black reality. I got on a plane and went alone to Sri Lanka for a couple of weeks in the hope of meditating about the next step, but the white sand beaches of the Indian Ocean seemed only to emphasize the feeling of alienation. Returning to England felt depressing after the nonstop years of touring around the world, and I began drifting between L.A., New York, and London as if hoping to take root somewhere. Never short of a crowd, I found it easy enough to stick a Band-Aid on the void, to plug the ache of something unresolved. Eventually I began to record a solo album, and the act of making music and being in the studio again felt like the first steps of healing and finding the direction forward.

In 1986 a miracle happened when Kate and I-after a divorce, four and a half years apart, and attempts at relationships with other people-found our way back together. We reunited in London, and Kate became pregnant almost immediately-this time with twin boys. We started over and returned to family life. With this blessing and the feeling of getting my feet back on the ground, I felt that new things were possible. This was the real gold. Like a man returning from a long voyage, I had the treasure and finally the mind to settle into this part of my life.

A year later we returned to California, built a house, and began raising our kids. But the experience of having been in the Police and achieving that kind of success was not easily discarded because it was a life experience replete with intensity, striving, and the endless struggle in public to be the best that you can possibly be. An adventure like that-if remaining unresolved-sticks inside you like a stone in the throat. Despite my being able to move forward in a very happy way with my family and career, the memory of the group still felt like an open wound-something that would take years to heal, if ever. For a long time I dreamed about the band as if somehow trying to rebuild it, or reclaim something stolen, or make it whole again. Somewhere on the subconscious level there was need for a closure maybe impossible to obtain, and the only alternative was to live with it, do other work, and hope that maybe in time the wound would heal.

The problem with the demise of our group is that we didn't play out all our potential; we were not washed up, finished, or on a downward spiral. To compound this sense of incompleteness we never acknowledged our fans around the world with a farewell tour. Instead, we went through three years of pretense until I-at least-could not stand lying about it anymore and the truth became public.

The most exquisite moments in music are when you connect with the other players, when you fly, when you touch the spirit, and the audience is there with you. Sting, Stewart, and I experienced these moments many times. The music remains.

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