Читать книгу Strange Things Happen: A life with The Police, polo and pygmies - Stewart Copeland - Страница 15

As narrated in my film Everyone Stares.

It’s 1976,

and this thing called punk rock

has just raised its ugly head in London.

Sting, Henry Padovani, and I

have formed a group called: The Police.

We cut our hair, put on shades,

and have adopted the hostile posture of the day.

It’s a chaotic scene

so most of our gigs

are from cancellations by other bands.

We’re the only guys who know how to hire a truck

and get to the show.

Our fee is £30 sterling:

5 for the truck,

10 for the PA,

and a fiver each for the three of us.

With 400 quid from my buddy Paul,

we recorded our first single

and sell it ourselves, by the box,

to record stores around the country.

I am president of Illegal Records

and chief salesperson.

Sting has his doubts.

He gets a buzz from the energy of the scene,

but pretty much hates the music,

including ours.

So Andy shows up,

with his harmonic sophistication,

and Sting starts writing these big songs.

A sound of our own is beginning to hatch.

Problem is,

the cognoscenti are onto us.

They know that we’re just carpetbaggers.

I have a dark past with the long-hair group, Curved Air,

and Andy Summers has consorted for years with the enemy generation.

We are unloved.

But something strange is happening.

A mysterious, masked American has turned up in London

with a couple songs that got him a modest hit on the English charts.

He goes under the name of Klark Kent,

but no one knows who he is.

He plays all of the instruments,

writes, sings, and produces the songs.

So, since no one can think of anyone else who could do all that,

they are starting to point the finger at me.

Well, it’s the first time I’ve ever been blamed for a hit of any kind,

and I’m all for it.

This is the big time.

At last.

But it never would have happened like this

for that known charlatan,

The Police drummer,

so the lesson is clear.

The Police needs to regain its virginity,

to shed the leprous scab of its wretched history,

to shake loose the chains and sally forth

to the promised land of America,

where people are kind of anticipating

something new out of England.

We’ve been together for two years.

Arriving in New York City

with our gear as hand luggage,

we’re ready to start all over from scratch.

My brothers, Ian and Miles, have hatched a scheme

where they are connecting up a string of clubs across America

where un-hippie, rebellious youth can be part of a brand-new scene.

It’s 1978, and the hippie thing is way old.

Everybody’s looking at this New Wave,

which actually is mainly characterized by a new hairdo.

Short hair is the dividing line.

So Ian finds a club in every city

where we can play to the fifty or hundred kids

who have heard of this new thing.

And Miles makes sure the radio guys are there.

Out on the road,

it’s the three of us in a van

with my childhood chum Kim Turner at the wheel.

But things are picking up pretty quickly.

There’s a buzz about the band.

Shows are filling up,

The clubs are getting bigger.

Best thing about that is, roadies!

Man, I am sick of carrying

those fucking drums around!

It also means that our sound is better,

and we can play fresher.

We’re getting pretty good.

Something about the way Andy hits those chords

and the way Sting pumps that bass

just lights me right up.

And in the winter of 1978,

just as America is beginning to notice us,

and with pretty much the first spare change I have in my pocket,

I got this Super 8 movie camera…