Strange things happen: a life with the Police, polo, and pygmies by Stewart Copeland

Author:Stewart Copeland
Format: mobi
Tags: Copeland, Rock musicians - England, England, Police (Musical group), Entertainment & Performing Arts, General, Personal Memoirs, Rock musicians, Music, Rock, Biography & Autobiography, Genres & Styles, Composers & Musicians, Biography, Stewart
ISBN: 9780061791499
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-10-06T07:00:00+00:00

The drummer prepares.

Brat-un, Brat-un, Brat-un, Brat-un, Brat-un, Brat

da Dada Dada

Chug, chug, chug, chug…

Ouch! Fuck!

My left knuckle slices the hi-hat on its way to the front tom. My right stick snags the ride cymbal on its way to the floor tom. I can hardly hear the band through the din of the house monitor system. The seat is so low that my right ankle is at an uncomfortable angle on the bass drum pedal. This all seemed comfy enough tapping around earlier backstage, but now that there are twelve thousand people in front of me who have been revved up by an energetic band, larger gestures are required.

“Plug and play,” I mutter to myself as I shake off the adversities and put up as much of a fight as I can. I just have to unleash the hounds, even if they’re going to crash into things. At least I’ve been in training for my upcoming summer shows, so I’ve got enough juice to bluster through the song with enough energy to drive the band. I’m actually beginning to enjoy the show when suddenly we’re at the end of the tune. I’ve got four Foo Fighters staring at me with an urgent look that says, “Oh Sun God of the Immaculate Rock Valhalla, you idiot, we’re at the end of the song!” So we hit the grand washing-up and crunch to an orderly halt. “Thank you very much!” And I’m headed back to the dressing room. Well it wasn’t a performance worthy of legend, but if I worried about that, I wouldn’t ever play.

We get five minutes to yuck it up in the dressing room. The lads are bitching about the house monitors, but with postshow endorphins kicking in, they are laughing as they bitch. Of course they all tell me how great I was (what else are they going to say?) and I razz Taylor about his potential as a front man (I was actually too deep into my private Idaho to notice how he did on the mic). This is on the bus back to the plane; Gus has us moving pretty briskly along the itinerary. We’re on our way to New York.

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