Stewart Copeland - Strange Things Happen - A life with The Police, polo and pygmies

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Title Page Strange Things Happen A Life with the Police, Polo, and Pygmies Stewart Copeland

PART I STRANGE THINGS HAPPEN PART I STRANGE THINGS HAPPEN

CHAPTER 1 A LETTER TO A CHILDHOOD FRIEND 2009 CHAPTER 1 A LETTER TO A CHILDHOOD FRIEND 2009 Dear Iskandar, A lot has happened since we broke that branch off of old Abu Tannous’s olive tree, behind the Tarazi Palace. Do you remember our little town in the Lebanese hills overlooking Beirut? That was back in 1965. The Russians had just made it into outer space and I was playing in my first band. I wonder what you and your mom are up to now. We parted rather suddenly when my dad evacuated us after his CIA cover was blown. Do you remember that English kid, Harry Philby? Well, his dad’s cover was blown, too—as a double agent for Russia! So we got pulled out of the American Community School in Beirut, and I was packed off to boarding school in England. Out in the misty wilds of Somerset, at Millfield School, I kept on blasting on the drums whenever I could. It was difficult because of the noise they made. Wherever I could find a cellar or an attic, or a distant outbuilding I would drag in my four big heavy cases, unpack my kit, and blaze away like fury. It never lasted. Someone was always annoyed by my art, and I would be cast out again. But I got pretty good at it. By the time I left college, I could get into a semifamous group, and pretty soon I could break out with a little band of my own. We were called The Police and ended up playing huge stadiums. Our songs were glued to the charts. It was a blast! We struggled for two years, surged for four years, and then just sat there at the top of the world for another two years before walking away. So now I’ve got a real job, a real family, and a real life! I write and record the music you hear in Hollywood movies. I have seven kids! No idea how that happened. Life is pretty settled now, but I keep having these strange adventures. Odd opportunities are attracted to celebrity, even when it’s much faded. As I write this Lebanon is rebuilding. Again! Last time I checked, the old palace was still standing. But that was one war ago. If you get a chance, could you check it out for me? You’re probably a banker in Dubai by now. Best wishes, Stewart

CHAPTER 2 WARDROBE

CHAPTER 3 LEBANON 1957-67

CHAPTER 4 MUSIC

CHAPTER 5 CURVED AIR 1975

CHAPTER 6 TAGGING LONDON 1977

CHAPTER 7 KLARK KENT 1978

CHAPTER 8 A QUICK HISTORY OF THE POLICE 1976-78

CHAPTER 9 POLICE RULE 1979-84

PART II LEARNING TO BE NORMAL

CHAPTER 10 CONGO

CHAPTER 11 HORSES

CHAPTER 12 OPERA HOLY BLOOD, CRESCENT MOON

CHAPTER 13 BAKE-OFF IN FORT WORTH 1990

CHAPTER 14 HORSE OPERA 1992

PART III STILL NOT NORMAL

CHAPTER 15 OYSTERHEAD

CHAPTER 16 HALL OF FAME

CHAPTER 17 LA NOTTE DELLA TARANTA

CHAPTER 18 INCUBUS THE HYBRID

CHAPTER 19 DANCING WITH THE (POLL)STARS

CHAPTER 20 SCORING WITH ANJELICA

CHAPTER 21 FOO FLYING WITH THE FLY FOOS

CHAPTER 22 GIZMO

CHAPTER 23 JUDGE HARD PLACE AND THE BBC (NICE VERSION) 2006

CHAPTER 24 THE GRATEFUL DAD 2007

CHAPTER 25 SUNDANCE

PART IV ABNORMAL AGAIN EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT; NOTHING HAS CHANGED

CHAPTER 26 LOCK UP YOUR MOTHERS: WE’RE BACK

CHAPTER 27 WILL THIS FLY? 2007

CHAPTER 28 EBERHARD SETS US FREE 1978

CHAPTER 29 A MIGHTY WIND IN THE MAGIC STINGDOM

CHAPTER 30 THE DISASTER GIG

CHAPTER 31 ANGRY IN EDMONTON

CHAPTER 32 CONQUERING HEROES INSIDE THE EXPLOSION

CHAPTER 33 MALIBU

CHAPTER 34 HOW BIG IS MY AMP!

CHAPTER 35 AFTERSHOW RITUAL

CHAPTER 36 TUBA IN TURIN

CHAPTER 37 FOUR BEERS AND THE PRESIDENT

CHAPTER 38 RAGING KUMBAYA

CHAPTER 39 SLAV ON A SLAB

CHAPTER 40 BURNING THE GOLDEN GOOSE 1984

CHAPTER 41 SINGAPORE SHOWDOWN

CHAPTER 42 TOAST IN THE MACHINE

CHAPTER 43 ELVIS IS LEAVING THE BUILDING

AFTERWORD THE GREEN FLAG 2009

APPENDIX

STEWART COPELAND’S RAP SHEET

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Copyright

About the Publisher

Dear Iskandar,

A lot has happened since we broke that branch off of old Abu Tannous’s olive tree, behind the Tarazi Palace. Do you remember our little town in the Lebanese hills overlooking Beirut? That was back in 1965. The Russians had just made it into outer space and I was playing in my first band. I wonder what you and your mom are up to now.

We parted rather suddenly when my dad evacuated us after his CIA cover was blown. Do you remember that English kid, Harry Philby? Well, his dad’s cover was blown, too—as a double agent for Russia!

So we got pulled out of the American Community School in Beirut, and I was packed off to boarding school in England. Out in the misty wilds of Somerset, at Millfield School, I kept on blasting on the drums whenever I could. It was difficult because of the noise they made. Wherever I could find a cellar or an attic, or a distant outbuilding I would drag in my four big heavy cases, unpack my kit, and blaze away like fury. It never lasted. Someone was always annoyed by my art, and I would be cast out again.

But I got pretty good at it. By the time I left college, I could get into a semifamous group, and pretty soon I could break out with a little band of my own. We were called The Police and ended up playing huge stadiums. Our songs were glued to the charts. It was a blast! We struggled for two years, surged for four years, and then just sat there at the top of the world for another two years before walking away.

So now I’ve got a real job, a real family, and a real life! I write and record the music you hear in Hollywood movies. I have seven kids! No idea how that happened. Life is pretty settled now, but I keep having these strange adventures. Odd opportunities are attracted to celebrity, even when it’s much faded.

As I write this Lebanon is rebuilding. Again! Last time I checked, the old palace was still standing. But that was one war ago. If you get a chance, could you check it out for me? You’re probably a banker in Dubai by now.

Best wishes,

Stewart

One fine morning, I step out of the shower, peer into my wardrobe, and realize that my life is over. I’m looking at an exotic collection of leather pants, hostile shirts, and pointy shoes. Problem is, I’m a forty-something father of four, and I’m feeling kind of mellow. I’m not angry about anything, and as a tax-paying, property-owning, investment-holding lotus-eater, I am in disagreement with what my clothes are saying to the world. The thrill has gone from frightening the natives. I care not that the world be unruffled by my passage through it.

So what do I wear? What have I got in my closet that doesn’t say “FUCK YOU! I’M GOING TO BURN DOWN YOUR WORLD!” For so long, I have had to be worthy of the stares and furtive glances that follow rock stars. It would be unprofessional of me to walk out of my hotel room looking like I’d be safe with children. But now what?

All my life I have lived in self-imposed exile from the normal world. My arty friends and I feel like we are the only humans in a world of robots. A business suit is like the carapace of an insect. Conformity is surrender. Even long hair is a cop-out. Mine has had all color peroxided out of it—heaven forbid that I should be mistaken for a nice hippie.