zen != punk ska

Last night we went to San Antonio to see the Police in their reunion tour. After some heinous traffic, we took at break at the Blue Star brew pub. We had some so-so beer and decent eats, then traveled the 10 minutes to the AT&T Center, where we arrived just in time to hear most of Sting's son's band, Fictionplane. Aside from the numerous times the progeny's voice hearkened back to his father's, evoking a visceral, emotional response, it was rarely more than respectable, at least in my opinion.

Seemingly endless iterations of ads (Spurs, Purina, Blue Man Group, Celine freaking Dion) blazed in LED around the coliseum, and weird interpretive video loops on the large screens accompanied snippets of songs followed Fictionplane. Then THEY finally took the stage. Stewart Copeland, Andy Summers, and Gordon Sumner. The Police. They looked happy. Separate, but that could have been an effect of the huge stage. Sting occasionally backed Andy on his solos, literally, leaning into his companion's back. more often, though, he played to the sides while Andy tore it up (damn!). Sting wore the Zen of his TrudyLife. He smiled, dressed in his sexy tight pants and tshirt, and Stood. Through songs that would have benefited from pogosticking around the stage. Stewart, who obviously likes to hit things for a living, was the most rock-n-roll of the three. Andy seemed downbeat but was hyper-concentrated on his music. And Sting, holding his well-worn bass guitar, wearing several inches of gold bracelets, well, he looked positively blissed out. And moved about as much as you would while holding a sivasana at the end of yoga class. Guess all that tantra is working for him.

And I couldn't argue with the musical skill. But peace of mind may not be very punk. And that's how I remember my Police. Punk-ska-frenetic. I don't care much for the smooth adult sounds of the Sting of Now. And, of course, Sting's current musical proclivities color the reunion's sound.

I had a great time. I heard some great music. Roy heard a band he has wanted to hear for decades. Sting is probably a lot happier than he used to be. And, with my current journey into the sources of my own rage, I feel perhaps punky freneticism is not something that follows naturally when you're, at core, peaceful and not angry. I guess it's okay for Sting that he's in the Zen zone. But it's pretty apparent that we're not going to return to the early 1980s. And I suppose that's good. In fact, it did make me look forward to getting some of that Stand Blissfully feeling for myself.

My poor blog, languishing like a neglected hydrangea. It's not as though stuff hasn't been happening. There was a music festival, a party or 4, in-law visitation. I'm taking improv and sketch writing classes! Oh yeah, and the delving into really intense brain stuff. Some day I'll go into the deep briny of the deep brainy, but not today. Today (well starting yesterday) there was the Big Shakeup at work. Having been there only three and a half months, it's more than a little disconcerting to have half of your team leave (your manager involuntarily) in the midst of a process change transition. And that shakeup is compounding the ick I feel from drudging through the dark uncomfortable, really really scary places (you know, the ones away from which you run and run--only to find yourself deeper and more lost in the fear once you actually admit that you're scared).

It has been a really tough fall. And winter looks like it will be hard, as well. But at least I'm looking for a way out, and asking for guides to help. Admitting I can't do it myself is frightening, but it also feels like a victory. And, these days, I'll take a small one of those. And, perhaps, a comforting malty beverage.