How I Overcame The Shudder & Cringe Factor And Learned To Enjoy The Music Of Sting Dept.

 

Sting at the launch of his scrotum-scented candle range, yestiddy

It's his grinding, slatey-faced humorlessness. The leaden, witless, pompous self-seriousness. Can you imagine a worse person to be stuck with at a party than Gordon Sumner? As this was never even remotely likely, you'd think this wouldn't be an issue, and I could appreciate his music for what it is, but no. I've always loftily advocated art, not the artist, but made an exception for Sting. Something about his unique wonderfulness - singlehandedly saving the rainforest, marrying a posh bint (c.f. easygoing funsters Elvis Costello and John McLaughlin), dabbling in thespianism and vagina-scented Buddhism, bringing Jungian philosophy to the masses. All the while fending off unwanted advances from schoolgirls.

His interviews have that effortless quality of making you want to grab a lungful of fresh air. There's a doozy on Rick Beato's YewChewb© channel. Rick understands just how deceptively clever and sophisticated Sting's songs are, revering the guy as a composer and performer, but not as much as Sting, who has a Chapman stick up his ass and an expression on his pan that would do credit to a Merovingian emperor.

But I find myself suddenly enjoying his albums much, much more than I feel comfortable with. They're just so damn ... musical? And there's a bunch of tunes in there I find myself singing along with, such is their compelling melodic heft. Today's loaddown consists of Turtles, Nothing, and Tales, which is probably as deep as I want to wade. I'll still be looking over his shoulder at parties for someone more interesting to talk to - perhaps that insurance salesman keen to contact me about my extended car warranty - but I'm pleased that art, not the artist has passed its perhaps most stringent test.