One Train Later: A Memoir

by Andy Summers;The Edge (Introduction)

  I get hold of an old Echoplex, which is basically a device to create echo by using a piece of quarter-inch tape that revolves in a spool around two tape heads. You can speed up or slow down the number of repeats by sliding a little metal arrow up and down the length of a metal bar that runs along the top of the spool. It's crude but it works and adds a rich harmonic sound to the guitar and a spatial dimension to the group sound that sets us apart. I begin to use it all the time and create a churning double-rhythm effect with it-in other words, I can play a rhythm in eighth notes against the drums and get a sixteenth-note pattern, which, colored by dissonant harmonies and accented syncopation, results in a guitar sound that becomes huge and prismatic, like a rainbow arcing over the band.

  The use of this device is seminal in changing and pushing the group into a unique direction. Creating a curtain of space, it appears to act as a catalyst to set us free. Sting is able to wail and vocalize over the ambience as if he is Miles Davis brooding his way through a solo-and with Miles being a major influence, it's a natural result. Against these jams the reggae bass line is held in place, while Stewart inverts the rhythm, and I add biting little dissonances that are not standard rock. Suddenly a set of natural responses converge to bring about a sound that no trio in rock has possessed before, but we are too buried in it to hear it ourselves. Strangely enough, other people recognize it before we do. But eventually we raise our heads and begin to see the territory we have arrived in and recognize it as if we have known it all along. With this information in place, we are able to codify it to the point where we can take almost any song and, as we say, "policify" it-even a piece of material by Noel Coward or a folk song from the Scottish Isles. From an instinctive and unself-conscious journey, we discover a sound for which there is no previous formula, a space jam meets reggae meets Bartok collage with blueeyed soul vocals.

  After a few months we wonder if we can rise to the almighty task of making an album, but as usual we have no money to pay for a studio and no record company to get us one. At this point Stewart's big brother Miles steps into the picture and gets us into a studio a few miles south of London. It's called Surrey Sound and is in a town called Leatherhead. Miles makes a funky deal with the owner, a local M.D. with aspirations to be a record producer. His name is Nigel Gray.

  Twelve

  In January 1978 we start going out to Surrey Sound whenever the studio has an afternoon free, or if some important rock stars like Godley & Creme cancel their session. We begin with the material we have in hand, but as we listen back in the new environment of the studio, we recognize flaws and imperfections and begin the process of abandoning songs and writing new ones. Gradually we find our feet in the studio. Though arguments are a feature of our sessions, they are always about how a song should go down on tape; this friction is a contributing factor to the tension that is part of the Police sound-it might be described as the sound of tight compromise.

  Over a period of about six months, borrowing days and jumping in when other people's sessions are canceled, we cobble together an album that ultimately is the distillation of about three albums' worth of material. Miles pays an occasional visit to see how we are progressing, but most of his remarks are of a caustic nature. Although visionary, he is not loaded with small talk (or tact, for that matter), and often we are afraid of playing for him what we have recorded because we know in advance what he is going to say. Like Stewart, Miles too has the punk light in his eyes and can't really hear anything else at this point, or so in our paranoia we think.

  One night he turns up wanting to hear what we have been doing, and as usual we play him the fast and furious stuff, thinking that's what he wants to hear. Finally after he offers a series of grunting responses but no enthusiasm, we play him a new song we have recorded that day. We are scared to play it because we are certain that he will hate it; for all intents and purposes, it's a ballad and about a million miles from the current party line. The track plays and the three of us stare off into the distance as if slightly embarrassed. The song ends and for a few seconds there is a pregnant silence, which seems to confirm our worst suspicions. And then Miles stands up, smiling. "That is fucking great-I'm taking it to A and M tomorrow, gimme a tape." We're stunned. He loves it. We were sure he would hate a ballad, but Miles-like one of the old-time kings of Tin Pan Alley-hears it, smells money, and begins plotting. The song is "Roxanne."

  We drive back through the night into London, jabbering away at one another like maniacs, very excited that one of our tracks is actually going to make into the office of A and bloody M, a real record label. It's fucking miraculous. Feeling expansive, we celebrate our vision of the future by dropping in at the Happy Eater for a sausage sandwich and a cup of tea.

  A&M are enthusiastic, and "Roxanne" is released in early April '78. It gets reviewed by John Pidgeon in Melody Maker. The general consensus is that we are a band to watch. It's a great track but it's not a hit, and our excitement fizzles like a dying party balloon. We have indulged in dreams of glory, but right now "Roxanne" isn't going to give us the ladder we thought she would.

  We read the reviews. The critics think we are good, but it seems that we are still suspect; despite the classic pop brilliance of "Roxanne," the myopic partyline concerns of the hacks override the ability to hear the incisive edge and ultimate staying power of the song. However, one of the side effects of getting a single released by A&M is that we get into a relationship with the office on the Kings Road. It turns out that our timing is propitious, as A&M has just recovered from a nasty and highly publicized moment with the Sex Pistols. Like everyone else, the label has tried to jump on the punk bandwagon and has managed to get its hands on the Pistols, who are signed to great fanfare outside Buckingham Palace. Unfortunately, one week later the group went into the Kings Road office and terrorized the entire place by pissing on the furniture, ripping gold records off the walls, and overturning desks in a lurid moment colorfully illustrating the punk credo. Derek Green, the head of A&M UK, immediately tore up their contract, and that was the end of the deal.

  Shortly after the Sex Pistols debacle we arrive like good little boys able to engage in a more reasonable discourse. We are struggling, and having a single out with a major record company means a lot to us. We want a situation in which we can develop, actually have albums released and he a band. "Roxanne" hasn't made it, but after what it has just been through, A&M breathes a metaphorical sigh of relief and gives us an unusual amount of latitude. We begin to develop enough of a relationship to get a second shot with another single, "Can't Stand Losing You."

  An interesting situation develops with this song. The record company thinks that it's a great track but that it needs remixing-and they know how to do it. There is a slight attitude of "let the professionals take over now, boys, we'll get this right for you." We are slightly miffed, but there isn't a lot we can do: they are the almighty label, and we need them more than they need us. They disappear with the track for three weeks but eventually come back to us looking mildly embarrassed, saying that they have tried five different mixes but can't get it better than ours, which is honest at least. This is a minor triumph for us and establishes a precedent that proves of considerable worth over the next few years because from this moment on, A&M never interferes with our recording process again.

  Between March and August we have very few gigs to sustain a belief in our own future. But we get a few opportunities as a support group-a couple of appearances with the American group Spirit, another with the reggae group Steel Pulse at the Roundhouse in London, and another in Germany with Eberhard on his Laser Theater tour. Finally on August 14 "Can't Stand Losing You" is released and gets to forty-two on the British charts. We are so elated by this small success that it's as if we have actually gone to number one. Unfortunately, the BBC won't play it because it's about suicide. Although it's tongue-in-cheek, they believe it might cause a rash of suicides and cannot take the responsibility. Besides, the cover has Stewart standing on a melting block of
ice with a rope around his neck. So, without the power of the BBC behind us, we get stuck at forty-two and our hopes fade again. But still, we have a hit (even if a small one); as a result, A&M agrees to release our album in October, which feels like eons away. But it is going to happen.

  We drag our way through the summer, managing only two shows as a support act for Chelsea and one on our own at the Rock Garden in Covent Garden. We are not exactly a roaring success. Every time we play on our own, no one comes and we end the night dividing two pounds between the three of us and then usually start pushing the van back down the street. Stewart alone keeps the spirit with calls to go out and graffiti our name up on a wall somewhere, but I get depressed. The long summer evenings drag on with a buttery glow, the TV flickers on and off with cricket test matches, and happy people go to the pub. For me this summer is turning into a test of faith. Like a permanent solar eclipse, this-the summer of '78-is the thinnest, the most tenuous, point of our existence.

  In September things take a slight upward turn when we play gigs at the Nashville Room and the Marquee. We get a substantial turnout at both gigs, and it seems that maybe things are progressing slightly. These events are capped by an appearance on October 2 (Sting's birthday) on The Old Grey Whistle Test, a very popular television pop music program. Anne Nightingale, the host, announces us as an exciting new group who look like angels, and then we play "Can't Stand Losing You." This event should be a big break for us but is slightly marred by Sting's having had a can of hair spray explode in his face just before appearing on camera. By incredible luck there is an eye hospital right around the corner from the studio, and they manage to wash all the chemicals from his eyes. This takes time and by the skin of our teeth we just make it onto the show, with Sting wearing a large pair of dark sunglasses. Two weeks after this we leave for a three-week tour of the U.S., Miles having decided a few weeks earlier that we have to do something to save the band. If we can't really break through in the U.K., maybe we'll have better luck over there. Miles is always espousing the opinion that if you make it in America, the rest will follow-and he turns out to be right.

  In '78 there is a company by the name of Laker Airways that has been conceived and masterminded by the redoubtable Freddie Laker, who in rebellious opposition to the mega-airlines has set up a cheap and fair-minded airline. On the Laker Skytrain it's possible to get a round trip to New York and back for sixty dollars.

  Ian Copeland, the brother of Miles and Stewart, is an agent working out of Macon, Georgia, with Capricorn/Paragon Production and he books us into a series of clubs on the East Coast, starting with CBGB's in New York's Bowery, which is already the legendary mecca of punk and New Wave. Ian and Miles work out the finances: with the small fees we will get paid for the gigs, we can do a three-week tour and just about break even. It's a bleak financial scenario but it represents a chance. CBGB's-the beating heart of the new music-is the coolest place to be. By so doing, we would naturally acquire a few more points of street cred, something we are not seen as having back home. But for me it's risky because Kate is now eight months pregnant, and I am going to disappear as the baby is about due. We talk about it and agree that it is the path we're on, that I should go, and that as long as we stay close, we can deal with the situation.

  To help us with this tour we have hired a former drummer by the name of Kim Turner. Kim played in a group called Cat Iron that Stewart worked for as road manager a few years back before deciding at a young age that he would rather be on the management side of rock. Kim becomes almost a fourth member of the group.

  On October 20, 1978, Sting and I fly to New York; Stewart is already there, visiting his father. We arrive at around 10:30 P.m. and are supposed to be on stage at midnight. Kim meets us at Kennedy and we drive hell for leather into the city and straight into the Bowery. As we drive into Manhattan I have a slight sense of deja vu.

  CBGB's is surrounded mostly by industrial buildings and places known in the United States as flophouses. The exterior atmosphere around the club is one of seediness and violence. In this part of New York the streets contain many derelict and homeless people; mugging-or jack rolling, as it's known-is commonplace. Started in 1974, CBGB's actually means country, bluegrass and blues, which was the favorite music of the owner, Hilly Kristal; but by the time of our appearance in 1978, it has become the shrine to punk and New Wave-a melting pot and laboratory to try out new music. With bands like Television, Blondie, the Talking Heads, Richard Hell and the Voidoids, the Heartbreakers, Patti Smith, and the Ramones, it has become a club with a pedigree. But physically, just like the clubs in London, it's not much more than a filthy hole. With graffiti everywhere, nowhere to change, a dressing room with no door and practically in the toilet, it's what we are used to and we start setting up our gear. I am renting Marshall cabinets for this tour but have brought along my Echoplex. We do a quick rough sound check in front of the audience and then are ready to go. No one there knows who we are, or have ever heard of us-we have to prove our worth, and knowing this makes us all the more determined to blow the audience away. We're tired from the long plane trip, but somehow New York comes in off the street to fill us with adrenaline and we play a hard and edgy set that rivets the audience, who haven't heard anything like it before. The Echoplex-reggae jams and Sting's high vocals cut through the tawdry atmosphere like a knife, and by the end of the first set the audience is on its feet and literally howling along with us. Despite the small numbers, it feels like a raging success.

  We come offstage and disappear into the dressing room to wrestle our sweat-sodden clothes to the floor; as there's no door, most of the audience walk right in too. We're asked a lot of questions about our style: "Where d'you get that from?" "How you doin' that?" "You guys rock-yeah." This is very different from the London scene-these people really seem to like us for the music we are making and don't seem bothered about punk credibility. Less hung-up on fashion and more musical, they catch on to the music as it organically happens onstage. As time goes on I realize that the U.S. audiences are nay favorite because they have the most natural appreciation of the music. They get it on a gut level. Maybe in the dark gloom of CBGB's they are more receptive to us. They know nothing about us-we stand or fall on the music alone, a clean shot without the "proto-hippes on the other side of punk" smear courtesy of Sounds magazine back in England.

  Our second set at CBGB's starts at about two-thirty in the morning, and we repeat the first one with almost no variation. We are so short of material that we don't have much choice except to jam and extend all the instrumental sections in the middle of the songs. This lack of material becomes an important factor in the creation of our style because it means we have to extract as much as possible from each song just to play the required time. Although we have rehearsed a lot in London, playing in front of an audience every night for three weeks will be a different experience. The energy of an audience gives us the power to take our jams all the way out. We start meshing and pushing toward a new edge in our playing that simply doesn't happen in a rehearsal room, proving the axiom that one gig in front of an audience is worth ten days of practice.

  Some people refer to our music as space jams. We are able to hit a place where with a combination of tape delay, Trenchtown beats, dissonant harmony, and Sting's soaring tenor over the top, we start sounding like a punk version of Weather Report. But with no formal agreements or rigid arrangements up-front, the playing develops naturally and we find our way by pushing, pulling, and reacting to one another. From a tight little repertoire of six or seven songs-"Landlord," "Roxanne," "Can't Stand Losing You," "Nothing Achieving," "Next to You," "Truth Hits Everybody," "Hole in My Life"-we are forced into a new freedom and a way of playing that becomes our style. We leave CBGB's that night with the sound of the crowd in our ears and a sweat-soaked sense of renewal.

  We work our way up the East Coast, playing places like Willimantic, Philadelphia, Syracuse, Rochester, and Buffalo. One night we turn up in a town called Poughkeepsie to play
at a venue aptly called the Last Chance Saloon. It is bitterly cold and we unload our gear from the van into deep snow. It looks like a decent place, but obviously tonight we are not going to get an audience. There are four people. These are hardy or insane souls who have braved the bone-numbing cold to see an unknown English punk band called the Police. Four? For a moment we feel a sense of doom-maybe we are fated to go under, even in this country, and suddenly the success of CBGB's feels a long way behind us. But we set up our gear and after getting something to eat are recovered enough to say, "Oh fuck it, let's play, we need the practice and at least we'll keep warm." And we hit the stage in front of our almost invisible ticketholders and give a full-on show, leaping about like maniacs, strutting, parading, and jamming our asses off. The four recipients of this mayhem respond in kind with vociferous applause, and in a perverse way we have enjoyed ourselves-there's a nice fuck-you about it, a raising of one finger to the gods. After the show everyone joins us in the dressing room and tells us how much they dug it. The manager tells us he was blown away by the performance and would love to have us back despite the pitiful turnout. We return to the motel feeling rather pleased with ourselves.

  In Boston we have a booking for four nights at the Rat club, a cellar with a German theme in the middle of the city. A&M US, despite initial protes- rations to Miles not to bring us to America, is now getting interested. Just because we are signed to the U.K. label doesn't mean A&M US wants to get involved or put up any money. But now, after having seen us play and how we are received by U.S. audiences, they do an about-face and turn up at the Rat wearing cop outfits and sheriff's badges and handing out all manner of police items like handcuffs, rubber truncheons, whistles, and badges. This is the start of cop shop as we think of it, a pathetically literal translation of our stupid group name. It will go on for a couple of years with some of the most inane Police promotions imaginable, until we finally put our collective boot down and tell them we won't be appearing if they pull anymore of that Police shit. Along with this, of course, we have to put up with endless review headlines like ITS A FAIR COP, ARRESTING PERFORMANCE, COPS BLOW THE WHISTLE TO THE POINT OF DESPAIR.