I'm Slaughtering Whole Civilizations

What follows is a wonderful excerpt from Stewart Copeland's (drummer for The Police) book 'Strange Things Happen.' It is sort of an autobiography, but it is more a collection of journal entries from various parts of his life. I've said many times that Copeland is my favorite drummer, but he's also had a really interesting life. He is the son of a CIA operative, so he grew up in Beirut and other exotic locales. He's been in many bands, not just The Police. He's scored dozens of films and TV shows. He is also an avid and apparently very good polo player. While all of this is covered in his book, I am still most interested in his Police adventures. He actually doesn't talk much about the eight years when they were active, but the whole last third of the book consists of a series of journal entries about the recent Police reunion tour. One of the intangible things that makes the Police so great is the volatile relationship between Copeland and Sting. This account of a show is so funny...

Oh great. Sting's got a problem. Not much mystery to it, it's the usual. Me.

...First he starts waving his bass at me-often a good thing, but not this time...Instead of playing the damned thing, he's trying to conduct me with it. I've got nothing better to do than to figure out how I may cease to displease my beloved comrade, but you know what happens next.

In my mind I'm running through the lengthy list of displeasures. There's always the tempo thing, but right now he's rushing, not me, damn it. Then there is each and every instance that I hit a drum or a cymbal Go**amn it...

Andy takes a solo...When we get back to the song Sting has to snatch at the lyrics in the brighter tempo. Well, I know that's going to piss him off. And it does; now he's got Tourette's syndrome. He doesn't want to miss a precious word to his blessed song, so he's singing like a bird, but after every line of soaring beauty, his head twitches round to spit venom. There's an urgency to it. It's really important that he get his message across to me. It's vital that I not miss any drop of his outrage. Since I'm strenuously avoiding any outward sign of acknowledgement, he must employ ever larger gestures. I'm just focused on Andy...

But I fail to completely ignore it when he half turns, takes his left hand off the frets and starts to make whacking gestures to indicate when I should hit my backbeat. What?! Now we have eye contact for the first time all night. He's mouthing curses at me, as if he thinks I'll be persuaded by this to mellow out. Pumped up as I am by the show, this strikes me as the most heinous crime imaginable in stagecraft. Particularly since there are only three of us it's important not to frag your own team. I'm stunned. My body is strenuously engaged in sacred ritual and someone is shooting at me. What?!

I'm surging. Love and adore this you f*cking piece of sh*t! I actually have the perfect tools in my hands for this sentiment. Hard wood, strong drums, and 500,000 watts of amplified rage. The stadium full of screaming frenzy doesn't calm me down much, either. You f*cking - F*cking - F*ckkkkinnng bastard!

I'm in a whiteout of fury. My cymbals are flattened against their stands and the drums are clacking because I'm hitting them too hard. There are white and red flashes behind my eyeballs. Splinters are flying off my sticks, and I'm slaughtering whole civilizations.

This show was in Italy somewhere and was on Sting's birthday. Backstage before the show, Copeland had presented Sting with a present of a big tuba he had bought. They had a great time playing the tuba together before the show. After the show, and above, Copeland marches into Sting's dressing room and demands that he return the gift. Sting says he can't, he's already smashed it up.





I don't know why in the last ten seconds of this clip some dude is trying to get his cat into its cat carrier.