6 posts tagged “andy summers”

I am still using the Mystery Meat setting on my iPod, and not all the way through sampling every song on there.  I don't have everything I want on there yet, but what I do have keeps me pretty entertained.  So on the way back and forth to the office I hook up the thing to a crappy radio adapter, and sing along.  Loudly (as if you didn't know already).

First one on the list this afternoon was one of my own songs.  Listening to it, and realizing that I was the person who wrote it, I decided that I'd go with the idea I had for a new site redesign and start on it right away.  You can only let procrastination win for so long before it becomes boring, and you become stupid.  Now to find a flattering photo to use... good luck and godspeed on that one.

Next was Stewart Copeland's "Strange Things Happen".   I had been in the middle of pre-ordering his unreleased book by this same name last night before I was foiled by a glitch on the website, so I was actually heading home to complete that order before my computer packed it in and lost my shopping cart.

I know a whole bunch of folks who are even more thrilled about the release of this book than I am.  They have probably already predicted what strange things have happened in the story.  After Sting's rather sparse (read: non-gossipy) account of the band's history, and then Andy Summer's more rambunctious joyride through his Police memories, I'm wondering if being last to tell the tale has its merits.

And Stewart talks the way other people write.  You can never be sure just what the man will say -- you know it will be absolutely unfiltered, and chances are it will be surprising.  But while other people take some time to think up clever answers and spend time thinking about what they are writing, and what they SHOULD be writing, and the best words to say it with... well... that stuff just comes rapidfire right out of his mouth.  With no thesaurus-thumbing and really no thinking gap at all.  There's barely a chance to really take in the full meaning of what he's just said before he goes on to something else.  I'm amazed and impressed with this ability because I've never met anyone like this in my entire life.  I wish I could think in words that quickly.  But because he talks like other people write... what is he going to write?

Anyway. I've just now finished my pre-order of the book, along with a second readable copy of Andy's "One Train Later" (the autographed one from Luminato is now untouchable).  Like the rest of us, Stewart's put out some questionable stuff (and I'm willing to take my licks on that from the nutters -- plus I'm first in line to showcase some of the really horrible songs I'm forced to take credit for myself) but this book is going to be something to really look forward to and devour no matter how it turns out.  And there's always the chance of a booksigning tour :)

Last Saturday, my husband and I went to Toronto for "Shadow Notes" to hang out for an hour with some famous photographers.  One of them happened to be Andy Summers.

The photography panel was made up of Andy, Danny Clinch, and Ralph Gibson (gently moderated by Robert Enright). It was held in the Jackman Hall at the Art Gallery of Ontario, a part of the huge Luminato festival, and it ended up being very intimate and jovial.  The theatre was cozy and dark, and there were maybe 100 of us in the audience.  The staff had prepared slides of each photographer's work and these were projected above their heads during the entire discussion. 

If you aren't into photography (or famous photographers) then you might expect the whole discussion to be completely dry and about boring stuff like f-stops and other slang you have to be a shutterbug to know about.  I adore photography and I had no idea what I was in for -- the topics ranged from celebrity photos to zen koans to why digital sucks and everything in between.  The three of them were great panel guests and would have been equally entertaining if the topic had been burritos.  I was impressed by their willingness to share tips (how to get into concerts to take photos) and what drives them to do what they do (if they don't, they'll go insane). 

Andy Summers told his "Every Breath You Take" story, defended digital photography, and explained how he made lists of things to take photos of when on tour with the Police so he wouldn't forget to record everything.  One of the audience members (Bruce, who happens to be a friend of mine) asked him about how he views the 'ordinary' now and they all discussed how they see things differently than most people.  Andy can take a photo of a bowl on a hotel bed and get art... the rest of us just think "housekeeping!".

Danny Clinch had the most amazing aura, he told some fabulous stories and after the event was over he walked out the front door with a clump of us, to catch his daughter's recital.  Ralph Gibson was definitely more traditional in his views and topics and gave a very interesting perspective on digital photography (comparing it, somehow, to using the phone).  The moderator participated only to direct questions and he was splendid, letting everyone talk and laughing along with the rest of us.

After the discussion there was, of course, books offered and my husband met all three photographers.  He managed to get all of their autographs as well -- neatly stored upside down on a back page of Andy's "One Train Later" book -- and I got an incredible shot of him meeting Andy Summers.  Andy's smile was so genuine.  And then they rushed Andy out the door, because he is after all Andy Summers, and we collected our coats and books and headed out into the sunshine.

The whole bunch of us (well, almost all of us) met across the street for pub fare.  One of the art installations started -- a very loud audio and video decent into hell and fear, apparently -- and was truly a disturbing backdrop to both digestion and discussion.   But it was great to hang out with nutter friends again, and dish about book covers and ex-girlfriends and why I embarrassingly can't remember that one guy's name.  And then my husband and I walked down to the open-air photo exhibit, giant photos from the panel mounted on freestanding structures among the throngs of people in Yonge and Dundas square, to take photos of the photos (and take photos of me with the photos of photos -- or something).

This weekend is the last of this year's Luminato festival, and if you can make it down to the Harborfront Centre you'll be treated to a free Cirque du Soleil concert.  We're going to go if the weather holds... if you're going to be there too, let me know :)

There are rules for this list, such as one that controls your choices, but I'm not playing by them.  In a way these lists remind me of the Bill McNeil character from NewsRadio selecting his walking sticks: "I don't like this one, it displeases me.  You, I like -- I keep" sort of thing.  So I'm just going to pick some favourites and then you get to read why.  Or not.

 

1) Bed's Too Big Without You (Mono Version)

This has been my favourite Police song since the very first time I heard that bash... you know the one.  I remember where I was, what I was wearing, and I remember how fierce the sun was shining on me when I turned up the volume knob.  Sometimes I sing this in the shower or in the car, and it becomes a very mournful jazz tune when it's a cappella, and I miss the harmonies.  But that groove, that groove that flips inside out and back again, I will never forget.  Not to mention some very fine stickage from Monsieur Copeland.

 

2) Does Everyone Stare

Sometimes it's painful to remember feeling like this towards someone.  And sometimes it's painful to think that no one will ever feel this way towards me ever again. 

 

3) Don't Stand So Close To Me

Yep, I grew up listening to this song, just like everyone else.  I listened to it a thousand times, if not more, I'm an 80s girl and I did have a radio and friends with radios.  But the first time I really heard it was in July 2007, when I first saw the Police in Toronto.  Sting sang it like he was sharing a secret with you, and it was positively erotic, which was just unbelievable to me at the time -- and thank God for it, because although I saw three other concerts in that tour it never happened again.

 

4) Can't Stand Losing You

Or as I spent the last couple of years seeing it, "CSLY".  I love the fierceness of this song.

 

5) Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic

When we got home from the concert we saw together, my husband said his favourite moment of the entire night was the first chorus of this song.  "The whole place... the crowd, the entire venue... just LIT UP when they played this", he told me.  Yep.  

 

6) De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da

I can't believe I just typed that out. 

 

7) Hungry For You (J'aurais Toujour Faim de Toi)

Well, again we are back to the whole thing about how it's unlikely anyone will ever murmur these types of things to me in my lifetime.  No more first-love thrills for me.  But also my husband and I have this running joke where one of us will sing or say something pretty obscure, and the other will say "How could you possibly KNOW that?  You don't know THAT" when obviously we do because we just sang it.  This song is one of those inside jokes for us.  I know -- things get convoluted when your best friend is also your spouse.

 

8) Next To You

I adore the recorded, album version but it's always fun to listen to the live ones to see how fast Stewart can play this, and how he pushes the tempo even further.  Also the live ones have hysterical backup singing, and a better song ending.

 

9) Masoko Tanga

Ahhhhh.  I have no idea of any lyrics in this song, I don't know what it's about and I don't know how it was recorded.  Because I'm a composer I tend to pull songs apart and peer into them to see how they work, but I can't with this song and that's why I love it.  Listening as a passive, non-competitive sport can be nice, too.

 

10) On Any Other Day

Because the other ones were complete bullshit.  And because yes, it is true -- I wanted something corny and I got it.

 

I can't name five more songs without thinking that I would have to name five more after that, so I'll leave it at ten (in case you needed even more proof that I'm a badass I disregarded that rule too).  But two others on my iPod that get a lot of Buttercup love are Man in a Suitcase, Driven to Tears, and Canary in a Coalmine, for the boring reason of I just like them.  And all of them make me so very thankful for the time I got to spend soaking up the second-hand joy or even better -- experiencing it first-hand myself, holding a well-traveled green flag.

 

[ if you got here through one of my tags but didn't find what you were looking for... this is the explanation why ]

It's really very simple.

Being a writer is a shitty job.  People think that writers should just write for the pleasure of it, and therefore writing is a job they won't pay you for.  Not true.  People think they can just sit down and decide one day to be a writer.  Not bloody likely.  People also think they can control what other people write.  You can't.

I've always said that if you know a writer, you will eventually find yourself in one of Mork's reports back to Orson.

Does Mork care if you are in the report?  Nope.  Does Orson think it's wrong for people to interfere with Mork filing his report?  Hell, yes.

So I'm going to admit it.  I'm sick to death of the scrutiny.  Quite frankly, I'm embarrassed for you -- that you think you have the right to control the things I say, what I do, what I think, and what I write about.  I'm tired of feigning respect for, and continuing to smile and nod at, the people who just want to judge me.  Worse: when they communicate these judgments to me and then expect me to change to fit their ideas.

I'm taking my control back.  Here's what I've left for you:  your scrutiny, your judgments, and your ideas.  You can have them.  They are, after all, just yours.  I've never shared them.

This is not my first VOX blog post.  I've moved almost everything into "neighbourhood only" so that I can select who sees what, and when.   How's that for showing some lady balls?   I hope you aren't feeling threatened.  All I'm doing is living my own life.  Which is, like it or lump it, the life of a writer.

If you need access to one of my previous posts, whether through a Google search or a link that one of my friends has shared, just message or contact me, and I'll hook you up.

You already know that I'll have a lot to say about the whole experience, but for now (because I'm desperate for some sleep) I thought I'd share this photo from fourth row at last night's Police concert:

Yes, Stewart, that green blur you saw was me.  Thank you for pointing at the flag, and especially for the big smiles and eye contact.  Thank you for the opportunity to meet such incredible people.  Thank you, Kellie, for letting me be a part of this crazy Kryptonite history.

[ ETA: Friends in my VOX neighbourhood can read about the entire adventure here. If you get a dead link, it's because you aren't on VOX and will have to deal with my privacy settings. ]

Okay.  I got home too late and screamed-out to write about seeing The Police on Monday night, and when I went to blog about it the next day Vox was down.  Huge bummer.  So I'm just getting to it now, which is fine, because it gave me a chance to pull the photos off of my phone (heretofore a process unknown to me).

Anyway... as they always said on the Great Space Coaster... "Off We Go!"

 

We got to the Air Canada Centre, and there were almost as many ticket scalpers as there were people flooding in to see the concert.  We found out later (from one of the people sitting next to us) that a tickets had been going for $800 a pair if you bought them in the street.  The crowd was mostly people over the age of 25, no surprise there, although I did see one mom- and one dad-type person each with a kid around 12 or so.  The opening band was showcasing a little nepo-tizz -- one of the members is Sting's son.  Still, they did a great job and had tons of energy, so they deserved to be where they were, namely on tour with one of the biggest names in the biz.

After getting to our seats, which were at stage left and on a vertigo-inducing angle, we made a quick exit back outside where I tried to stop shaking and make the room stop spinning.  It was NOT good, I was unable to sit in the seat without a panic attack for very long, and had to almost crawl back down and out of the theatre. 

Note to venue builders:  Don't build places where people feel they are going to fall straight down someone's parted hair and force them to look down at the show, you fools.  There's a reason why people who are up really high say to themselves, "Don't look down". 

My husband coaxed me down to talk to the seat show-er person, who directed us to customer service, who were incredible.  The young fellow there was like, "Oh, yeah... you have a problem with vertigo?"  And I'm just... exhaling... saying, "YES!" because he completely understood.  So the woman smiled and gave us new tickets, which were just about parallel to the stage, still at stage left, and very close to the floor.  I will be forever thankful to the customer service at the Air Canada Centre.

Once we were sitting down, the vertigo was still haunting me, because once it's kicked in it's very hard to find the deactivation sequence.  Soon our row filled up with people, which seemed to be people who had also been given tickets in exchange for what they'd had (one fellow, a very drunk fellow, was there with his sister and the seat he had was broken).  The lights dimmed.  Stewart Copeland was raised from the depths of the oval stage with a big gong, and then... baby... it was ON.

Even though the stadium was packed (about 15-20K people) the whole concert seemed very, very intimate.  More like a private bar sitting than a giant venue like this.  It was definitely Sting's attitude that made it this way.  He was very relaxed, and turned most of the songs into a huge karaoke event.  He seemed to be in this space that said, "Yes, we're all friends here... let's sing this together".  And we did.  We freakin' sang karaoke with Sting.

Now, I must say, Sting looked as hot as you might imagine... he was wearing this t-shirt with little cut out holes in it, tight black leggings, and Doc Marten boots.  But he had chicken-waddle arms and it made me feel like he was a little more human.  Andy Summers wore red shoes and had a "They Killed Kenny" guitar strap.  Stewart Copeland looked even better as an Aged P. than he ever did in his youth, gangly and energetic but white-haired and more intense now.

They did a few songs as orchestral versions, which was absolutely thrilling, but most of them were missing the harmonies (which really made me feel something HUGE was missing) so I just sang them myself and everything was copacetic.  Sting totally messed up some of the lyrics, and doing it repeatedly, and then when he realized it the camera had him BIG on the front screen and you could seem him blush a little, and shrug, like, "What the hell... I wrote the fucking thing, who cares?" And then he went over to Andy to laugh about it.  I might be one of a handful of people who even noticed, so if that's what he was thinking... he's right.  We were only all to happy to be basking in the songs of our youth, live, with other people who totally dug the music too.

Unlike the concerts of my youth, there were no lighters for the slow songs, just a lot of picture phones and backlit LCD displays; although my husband said he smelled pot I only smelled people who were unable to deal with their nic fit for the full two hours. 

The pictures we got were crappy, to say the least.  All we had were our cell phones because we were afraid we'd have our camera confiscated if we brought it in.  But really, we didn't need that camera.  Every moment of that concert will be in my mind forever, I don't need photos for a clearer memory of the time we spent there, singing with Sting and wondering when Andy will jump around and watching Stewart throw drumsticks up and very theatrically miss catching them.  It was a great show, one of the best I'd ever seen, and now I'll have to find a support group for my husband that deals with People Who Are Depressed The Police Concert Is Over, all while sighing heavily, and squinting over the grainy photos we took.