The Police, Synchronicity

By Jemiah Jefferson

This is the first music that I ever bought in a record store (or, I should say, that I begged my mom to buy for me—I had absolutely no money of my own at the age of eleven, since I never got an allowance as a child. . . or a teenager, for that matter). I bought this on cassette, probably from a Sam Goody or something similar, in a mall. I bought it months after its release, in the fall, after a punishing summer where “Every Breath You Take” kept its stranglehold on the Billboard #1 slot for what seemed like forever. I have always quite disliked that song, and after seeing so many other worthy songs attempt to break through and fail (most particularly “Is There Something I Should Know?”, Duran Duran’s vastly superior single, which topped out at #4, much to my rage and frustration) I learned to hate it, and I still hate it.

Not to say that it’s a bad song, though far more simplistic than the rest of the brilliant songwriting on Synchronicity. This wasn’t the first album on which really amazing musicianship had fascinated me, and taught me to study each part of the song separately; that honor rests with Men At Work’s Business as Usual, which I memorized so thoroughly that I still remember every guitar-string scrape and Colin Hay vocal yelp. But what Synchronicity has that Business as Usual doesn’t is the persistent intellectualism in both its lyrics and its musical arrangements. It’s smart music for smart people.

Two different tracks share the album title. Both songs are incredible, of course, and I used to wonder which was the better of the two. “Synchronicity I” is synth-heavy, hostile, and propulsive; “Synchronicity II” is has bleak lyrics and viciously cheerful music. Who wouldn’t love great lines like “The secretaries pout and preen like cheap tarts in a red-light street, but all he ever thinks to do is watch/And every single meeting with his so-called superior is an humiliating kick in the crotch”? I still haven’t decided which is my favorite.

This album (and, of course, its videos) made me fall in love with every member of the Police, each in his own way. Andy Summers, my first love, short, bug-eyed, intense, blokey; I remember being shocked that he was so old (forty-one at the date of the album release! Older even than my parents!) and yet I was overwhelmingly attracted to him. His song, “Mother”, was my early favorite; such a nasty little track. My mom hated it. . . And then there’s Stewart Copeland: lanky, cow-eyed, American, creator of another favorite track, “Miss Gradenko,” which tells a fascinating little story of which I’m still tempted to write a fan fiction expansion. Stewart is my favorite member of the band now; he’s done some amazing soundtrack work since then, and whenever I see a guy on the street that resembles him I get excited. The man is hot.

But then there’s Sting. Once upon a time, before his embarrassing tantric sex TMI, his persistent musical mediocrity (broken here and there with a really stellar song), and his general air of moneyed liberal smugness, Sting was the shit. Bleached blonde hair, sick body, a violently handsome face, and that voice like pebbled glass. Not to mention his skillful bass playing. And songwriting. And the fact that he had been a teacher. God, I had it bad.

Due to the presence of Sting, I watched Dune, which warped my mind in the best possible way, and then I realized that one of my favorite childhood movies, The Elephant Man, was also directed by David Lynch. Blue Velvet followed in short order. Suddenly I was a cinephile, too, and watching movies according to the director, not just the actors. But, seeking more Sting on the screen, I also saw The Bride in the theater with my mom (we both loved it) and rented Brimstone and Treacle, and then, another game-changer, Quadrophrenia. I like Sting as an actor almost more than I do as a musician.

I still have my original cassette of Synchronicity, though I never play it anymore; the tape is worn thin, especially at the beginning of side two thanks to my habit of fast-forwarding past “Every Breath You Take” and sometimes “King of Pain,” too. (Singles ruin everything.) Nonetheless, whenever I get a chance to hear the album (which I really ought to get out of the cut-out CD bin at my local dying record emporium) I am amazed at how well it not only holds up today, but that I appreciate it more and more as time goes on. “Murder by Numbers”? “Tea in the Sahara”? “O My God”? No, it never gets old.

Click to read. . .

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