In 1980, I was a producer and the director of photography for a nationally syndicated TV show, and I interviewed The Police.
I worked at KTBC-TV (which was the very first TV station in Austin, and owned by LBJ himself). Our sister FM station was KLBJ-FM (notice a pattern?).
One day, we got a call from KLBJ to let us know that The Police would be performing that night, and were we interested in producing a feature about them for our show. We politely explained that we produce a new feature no earlier than four weeks out from any given day. So, no, we couldn’t possibly produce something on such short notice.
But the KLBJ guy was almost frantic on the phone. “This is a great opportunity! You guys HAVE to jump on this!”
So, after some discussion with our Executive Producer, we said OK and agreed to meet at the Holiday Inn (Holiday Inn?!) at 12:30pm.
When we arrived with all our lighting and camera gear, we were directed to a certain room, where we were met by The Police’s road manager, a chipper dude who told us that, apparently, groupies had found out what hotel the band would be staying at and, well…the boys were running a little late.
Okay…
Turns out, the room was actually just a regular room at the Holiday Inn: bed, small round table and chairs in the corner, closet, bathroom. No great shakes, at all. In fact, there really was no clear space for me to set up my camera and tripod, so I set up in the short hallway next to the front door, between the closet and the bathroom. The associate producer and the road manager had to perch on the edge of the bed.
I got my camera fired up and ready, and we waited.
After a while, there was a knock on the door. Being closest to it, I opened it. Standing there was Stewart Copeland and Andy Summers, looking like they had just gotten up. Which they had.
But, wait a minute…no Sting?
I introduced myself, and the guys squeezed past my camera to sit at the small table in the corner. After a few minutes, the road manager nervously said, “Well, we might as well get started!” I shot a look at my associate producer that said “WTF?”, but we went ahead and started the interview with only Stewart and Andy.
The guys were affable, witty and charming, but a big something was missing from the equation here. What the hell happened to Sting?!
As the only musician on our show’s staff, I wrote all the questions for the interview. I did NOT want to ask the usual, stale crap that bands always get asked: What kind of instruments/strings/amps/mics/etc. do you use? You prefer blondes or brunettes? Blah, blah, blah. My intent was to talk music with these guys, and only music.
Stewart and Andy seemed genuinely happy to answer anything we threw at them. Then there was a very soft knock on the door. I said “Cut," and I squeezed my way to the door.
There was Sting.
Looking extremely disheveled, sporting radical pillow hair, and scowling blearily.
I directed him to the table, where he slumped into a chair and promptly crossed his arms tightly across his chest. His body language was deafening. But his words were not. He said nothing.
We resumed the interview with my camera now framed on a three-shot, but I watched Sting closely. As he listened to the nature of the questions, about music, he slowly straightened up in his chair, uncrossed his arms, and leaned forward on his elbows. His hair was still fucked up, but his eyes started to sparkle.
The question that got him going was, “Why the West Indies beat?”. At that point, it was as if a switch had been thrown and Sting sprang to life as the leader and spokesman of the band. In fact, the other two guys never got to say another word.
Sting expounded on how The Police never set out to be a Reggae band, but the core heartbeat of West Indies music, with its African rhythms, spoke to him and inspired him. He said his jazz background and love of World music greatly influenced what he wrote as the band matured. The interview went on like that, with every question evoking a long and passionate response from Sting.
When we were done, Stewart and Andy took off their mics and filed through the crowded hallway, past me and my camera, cordially thanking me as they walked by. Sting brought up the rear. Even though he was entirely disheveled, he walked like a king in bare feet: back straight, head held high.
As he made his way past my camera, eyes forward, he stopped directly in front of me and pivoted on his heel to face me. After a beat, he slowly extended his hand to me. Surprised, I shook it, and he looked me in the eye and said, “Thank you.” He then pivoted back and walked out the door.
The road manager then told us the guys had been interviewed all over the world, but our interview had been the most intelligent one he’d seen.
He then asked if we would like to go to the sound check for the show that night.
HELL, YEAH!!!
Later, at the sound check, the road manager asked if we’d like to shoot the show from the stage.
OH, HELL, YEAH!!!
So he introduced me to “Larry.” Larry was an all-leather-clad giant mofo of a man. Imagine a guy the height of Josh Fosgreen, but weighing 275 lbs. of solid muscle. Larry was the band’s security.
“Larry will escort you backstage before the show so you can follow the band onto the stage. Then, you can shoot the show from the stage. Just do everything Larry says.”
Yes, sir.
The night came and I got to be ten feet away from Sting thoughout the show. The band was on fire. The crowd was whipped into a lather. Holy shit! This is the fucking Police!
About an hour into the show, my associate producer tugged frantically on my T-shirt from his crouch by our 1” video recorder. “What?!”, I yelled to be heard over the music. “We’re out of tape!”, he yelled. “Shut the fuck up!”, I yelled and went back to my camera. I wasn’t about to let a little thing like running out of tape get me off that stage.
Finally, the show’s set ended and the guys ran off the stage. I followed behind them, “shooting” the whole way to their dressing room door. Larry whipped in front of me and planted himself in front of the door. OK, message received.
The band came out for two encores before leaving the stage again. When they came out to do the third encore, they didn’t play. Instead, Sting stood in the spotlight, staring at the crowd, because he had something to say.
He told the story of how The Police had started, how they became big in the UK, and how they couldn’t get their music played in America. He said they had sent out records to all the big market radio stations and nobody would play their stuff. He went on to say, “Then a little radio station in Austin, Texas…KLBJ-FM, took a chance on us and was the first station in the country to play our music."
(Pause for raucous applause)
"So when we play Austin, it’s not just another gig…it’s a fucking homecoming!”
And The Police broke into Roxanne.
The place exploded.
I’ve seen tons of concerts in my time, but never from the vantage point I had that night, feeling the stage vibrate and inundate from the thunder those amazing artists created as easily as you and I breathe. Being able to watch and listen to Sting play and sing - as he danced and hopped all over the stage in the prime of his life - was transformative. Yeah.