How many times can a man listen to Sting and Peter Gabriel before he’s declared clinically insane?
Back at Emerson College in the ‘90s, my friends and I would congregate at John and Leo’s room. Like a lot of times when men get together, we’d talk about women. There were also many conversations on music, movies, theatre, literature, and Miami Vice. We’d even bust out the occasional Charles Bronson or Sean Connery impression. Every available space was covered with film posters or ripped out photos of directors, actors and musicians. Leo had a series of Twin Peaks posters that spotlighted the actresses Sherilyn Fenn, Lara Flynn Boyle and Mädchen Amick looking very alluring. It was the film school equivalent of those Budweiser Bikini posters prevalent in other colleges at the time. A manically perplexed John Turturro from Barton Fink, looking as if he were grappling with some complex philosophical query, was placed next to Amick so it would appear he was reacting to her. In that context, he simply looked horny.
The 5-Disc CD Player was in constant use, with acts ranging from Pearl Jam, Cypress Hill, Kate Bush, Marvin Gaye, Warren Zevon, John Coltrane, Steely Dan, the Beastie Boys, and on and on providing sonic sustenance. John and Leo had home-field advantage, so we mainly listened to their collection, which for the most part overlapped with everyone else’s. Once in a while though, some of us would bring our own music. If the mood was slightly tense, I’d put on Soundgarden, Van Halen, Sex Pistols, Thin Lizzy, Buddy Guy, James Gang, The Who, ‘70s Aerosmith or any other heavy, guitar-oriented act that seemed appropriate.
When things reached DEFCON 1 levels, it was, as Jim coined, “Time to break out the Pantera.” Even John, whose hatred of hard rock/heavy metal was only surpassed by his disgust for sports and jeans, appreciated the humor in the genuine therapeutic value within Dimebag Darrell’s scorched Texas desert Randy Rhoadsish guitar, Vinnie Paul’s treadmill run amok drums, and Phil Anselmo’s blood-curdling screaming and rumbling, which could either sound like the Cookie Monster or William Hurt as Randy “Macho Man” Savage.
If you happened to pass by the room and merely heard the threatening opening drums of “I Don’t Care Anymore” by Phil Collins, it would be apparent that circumstances had moved to the nuclear winter phase. Like the time Sean got rejected by his crush, a dancer who resembled the young Isabella Rossellini, in favor of the fat, dirty, stinking caveman-looking guy best known for recently sitting on and breaking one of the toilets, a fitting symbol for Sean’s obliterated ego.
But the two acts that were heard from the most were Sting and Peter Gabriel. Between the solo careers and their time with The Police and Genesis, we listened to them so often, it’s like we were getting paid to. It started early. Most of us first met in the beginning of September ’92. A few weeks later, some of us took a midnight march though the chilly Autumn gas lamp lit streets of Boston’s Back Bay to pick up Gabriel’s Us at the Tower Records on Newbury the moment of its release. The album in part dealt with broken relationships, exuding a soulful, wounded romanticism. We recognized that this somber, at times celebratory record illustrated how Gabriel could make blissful art out of pain and failure, but as 18, 19-year-olds, too young to personally relate to the adult situations inspiring it.
The songs on the first few albums from The Police fit our stage of maturity. “So Lonely,” ”Hole In My Life,” “Be My Girl – Sally,” The Bed’s Too Big Without You,” “It’s Alright For You,” and the others connected with us on a more primitive level. Sting and Gabriel’s work are equally intellectual, spiritual and physical. With the Merchant/Ivory vibe of Sting, it’s easy to forget about the last aspect. One of the more cultured and articulate writers in rock’n’roll, this former teacher also expertly communicates through reggae chants and wordless vocals that sound exotic.
One of our favorite examples was the title track to 1979’s Reggatta de Blanc, an expanded version of the simultaneously spirited and poignant dub-funk instrumental break from the previous year’s “Can’t Stand Losing You.” A couple of times we’d replicate The Police’s dorky dance moves from their videos, chanting along with Sting, “JAH!” and “RIOOOOOOOOO-RIAYYYYYYYY-RIAAAAAAAAAAYO!” However, they made being goofy look cool. We did not. But God (or in this case, Jah) that was fun.
John once took goofy to extremes when we were listening to the last album Gabriel did with Genesis, their 1974 magnum opus, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway. During “The Colony of Slippermen,” I’d noticed something odd and asked, “Did Gabriel just say shoobedoobe? That’s pretty silly.” It shouldn’t have been too surprising. After all, the song was titled “The Colony of Slippermen.” Not looking too amused by my comment, John proceeded to give an earnest, thorough examination on the significance of the “shoobedoobe.” Even for a music obsessive like myself, that was excruciating.
Sitting at Madison Square Garden, waiting for the Sting/Peter Gabriel show to start, it was difficult not to be bombarded with all these songs and memories. After one left, another immediately took its place, like my cerebral cortex had staged a college reunion. The Police’s “Bring on the Night” was next. It suddenly occurred that the song, or more specifically the title, befitted our lives back then. After classes, we’d meet up and talk, oftentimes until the sun came up, or go out and partake in the peak of independent film, and the resurgence of guitar-based rock’n’roll, the last time it would influence the mainstream on such a massive scale. There’s such a preponderance of colleges in Boston, it was akin to living in a science fiction movie where the adults have disappeared.
My friends and I are now the adults, having experienced birth, death, war, disease, weddings, making movies, being in Manhattan on 9/11, long-term unemployment, mediocre goatees, reunions of Van Halen and The Police, the Red Sox winning the World Series three times, having your ads greet you throughout the city, falling in love, shattered relationships, and all the good and bad life throws at you. Astoundingly, the most painfully shy of us joined the Marines and ended up losing a foot in service to his country.
I would soon turn 43, a year older than Gabriel was when Us came out. Predictably, with the passage of time it’s a completely different album, no longer an abstract work of art to marvel at. It had become real life. These thoughts then dimmed when the lights did, signaling the crowd to focus on the present with these songs of the past that were about to be performed.
It was time to bring on the night.
Matt Leinwohl