One Train Later: A Memoir

by Andy Summers;The Edge (Introduction)

  As a reward for enduring the Disney experience, Miles decides that we should now go to prison (or rather, go to a prison and play for the inmates), as it will help keep up our gritty street image-POLICE PLAY IN PRISON, COPS BEHIND BARS, that sort of thing. In fact, we have a gig booked at the Terminal Island prison in San Pedro, Los Angeles County.

  We drive at night to the prison from Hollywood, where we are staying at the Chateau Marmont. We are not sure what to expect: a riot, gunfire, searchlights, or mere indifference. Someone makes a joke about cutting out a couple of bars and tries to throw the stub of a joint out onto the road, but the confluence of speeding car and wind blow it back in and we spend five minutes leaping about like idiots, trying to extinguish the renegade sparks.

  My mind races through various prison scenes: Riot in Cell Block 11, jailhouse Rock, White Heat, Cool Hand Luke, Caged Heat, I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang. This will be my second time in a California prison. The irony of my visiting as a Policeman this time is not lost on me.

  We arrive in San Pedro, a small coastal town, and it's like something out of an old Bogart movie. Like monstrous shadows, the ships look as if they might have come from the Far East, might contain vast quantities of heroin or falcons from Malta. We find the prison and, after a complicated ritual at the gate, drive into the yard, ready to entertain the inmates as "the Police." The truth is that in this prison they have a music program but are very short of instruments, so as well as thrilling the detainees with our sounds, we are also donating five thousand dollars toward buying them some-music being the medium that soothes the savage beast. We are led into what appears to be a holding room; the gear has already been set up on the stage for us by the crew in the afternoon. We stare at the walls of bare concrete. A life inside is a chilling thought, and when I think that I almost ...

  It's time to hit the stage, and we shuffle forward. "Take no prisoners," says Miles with a smirk. This is different: rather than arriving onstage to thrill the audience with our very presence, we troop out onto a stage that is at one end of a dingy room and it feels more like being on the gallows. There's no applause. Out beyond the stage, small groups of men stand huddled together as if in the middle of a drug deal. This is a situation in which it's difficult to be positive, get people smiling, or tell them to cheer up. These men are doing time, some of them for crimes of a violent nature; they aren't moved by three white guys, aren't going to have a sudden revelation and see where they have gone wrong on life's path. So, we do our set without saying an awful lot and try to at least play decently, but the pogo'ing and leaping about the small stage all feel painfully artificial when faced with the reality of a darker caste. In the end we slink off stage, mumbling platitudes like good luck, see you next time, etc.

  We spend the rest of November crisscrossing the country like a game of snakes and ladders, tours always being planned to be as circuitous and physically demanding as possible so that the artiste only ever performs in a condition of shell shock.

  Houston, Dallas, Tulsa, Lawrence, St. Paul, Chicago, Detroit, Milwau kee. Again it all turns into a kaleidoscopic journey of freeways, truck stops, invitations to parry, motel rooms, discarded paperbacks, high pressure fronts, altostratus, cirrocumulus, urban whiteout, dew, frost, low clouds, and solar flares-the central motif being the shows and the familiar backstage aroma of beer and marijuana and the taste of jack cheddar stuck on a wheat thin. We are winning, but it's inch by inch by inch.

  Back in Europe we continue straight on by touring in Germany as if it's another U.S. state, and on the autobahn to Aachen someone remarks, "Surely that must be Detroit just ahead." As we travel up and down the Ruhr Valley, "Walking on the Moon" is released and enters the British charts at number one. It feels good to be back in Europe and we decide to cap the year off with a double gig in Hammersmith on December 18, the end of another U.K. tour.

  Miles sets up both the Hammersmith Odeon and the Hammersmith Palais just half a mile down the road. We will start at the Odeon and then travel slowly by a heavy armored military vehicle in full public view to the Palais. It will be a brilliant publicity stunt-a night full of glitter-and the tickets will probably sell out in a few hours. This is one more crafty underlining of the word Police, which Miles never seems to tire of. As he was brought up in military circumstances, anything paramilitary seems to get him going, and for much of our existence we are presented in dominant male power terms, almost to the point of parody.

  The night arrives and is a spectacular success, with all sorts of wellwishers and celebrities turning up backstage before the show, the Police gig now being the place to be. We play to an audience that just can't get enough. One of the regular features of our U.K. performances now is the attendance of the St. John Ambulance Brigade, as we have large numbers of girls passing out and getting removed on stretchers by the men in blue. It reaches almost absurd proportions, and there is a nonstop chain of stretchers going by the stage for the duration of the show. Some of the girls are faking their swooning just so they can get to the front of the stage, and they grin up at us as they pass below us. We get to know the faces of the men and eventually can just call down: "Evenin', Sid. Everything alright?" The St. John Ambulance men add a nice touch of normalcy to the proceedings, which is sometimes absent in other countries. They are usually at the sound check, scoping out the venue for possible mishaps, and we talk to them about their job, and our job, and over communal cups of tea agree that we are all in it together. "Nice lads, those p'lice," you hear them murmur.

  After the show, with cameras flashing like a snowstorm, we pile out of the Odeon and climb into the half-track army vehicle to make the journey up the street to the second show of the night, at the Hammersmith Palais. As we cruise up the street with three or four thousand cheering fans surrounding the vehicle, it's like Moses parting the Red Sea and feels like a great joke that we and our fans are in on together. It is absurd but great rock-and-roll theater, a splash of surrealism in the drab English winter; as we grin out across the camouflage paint of the half-track, we see nothing but smiling, cheering faces giving us the hero's welcome home. They do love a parade in Blighty.

  1979. Thatcher is in power, the Ayatollah is back in Iran, the Yorkshire Ripper has run riot, Saddain Hussein has become president of Iraq, the Soviets have invaded Afghanistan, and the British public has bought a band called "the Police." We are a pop success. With two number one records and a huge number of shows performed, we deserve a long rest. We get two weeks.

  Eighteen

  BRIDGEHAMPTON, AUGUST 18, 1983

  I stare across the room to where my guitar leans against the wall with the light still glinting off the strings. It's worth a shot. I get out of bed and pull a Nikon FE from my camera bag and start photographing the collision of light and strings from several angles, being careful to expose for the detail in the shadows. The second time we arrived in New York I went to B&H Photo on Thirty-fourth Street with a rock photographer who offered to advise me and then took pictures while I made the purchase of a Nikon FE and a 24mm lens.

  I begin photographing everything around me and quickly learn to hate the distortion of the wide-angle lens. Realizing I have been given bad advice, I move to a standard 50mm lens and began getting better results. I love the feel of a camera in my hand-it feels like a gun: I shoot the world. Inspired by Walker Evans, Diane Arbus, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Lee Friedlander, and Ralph Gibson, I begin wandering around at night trying to photograph in the dark with fast film and no flash. Everything in America seems like a photograph, and as my head becomes crammed with black-and-white imagery, my hands are always around a camera. As the heat grows around the band it becomes a private world I can retreat to, one in which I am alone. Gradually the road, the hotels, the groups of fans, the long lines of a limo in the Arizona night, become constructs of seeing; my relationship to touring shifts, now not only playing music but dreaming through the camera.

  Nineteen-eighty. The year begins with a quick visit to Hamburg for a TV sho
w that we barely notice: we are about to set off for a world tour that will take in thirty-seven cities and nineteen countries, including Hong Kong, Japan, India, and Egypt. We have a film crew that will travel everywhere with us to capture our exploits, eventually to be released as a video called Police Around the World. But before we get to the more exotic countries, we have to take yet another pass through the U.S. just in case we could have possibly overlooked a hamlet or two. We arrive in Buffalo to play at Clark Gym. Outside, the ground is covered in deep snow and the temperature is below zero, and with the Niagara roaring in the background, we enter another round of the American Dream. Arriving back in the U.S. always feels like a comedown after the mayhem back in Europe, but Clark Gym is packed and we melt the snow surrounding the building.

  Buffalo, Cleveland, Ann Arbor, Madison, St. Louis, Memphis. Being rock historians, we know that Elvis was born just down the road from Memphis in Tupelo, Mississippi, and we have to pay homage. We rent a car and drive south to Tupelo. As you enter the small township, it is as if you have come to a weird religious site. Signs, pictures, and messages line the side of the road with the kind of devotion to El that normally is reserved for Jesus. Naturally, there are also more commercial messages that encourage a fine dining experience at the Elvis Inn or to get your Elvis T-shirt at Arnie's. There are arrows pointing to the birthplace of the King just down the road apiece, and in three minutes flat we are outside the miniscule shack where he was born. Surprisingly, you just walk up to it and knock on the door, which we do. The door is opened by a very, very old lady who might have been El's mother (except that she is dead, as we all know). It is a tiny shack not much more than ten feet square. It can truly be described as humble, but knowing that from this small patch arose greatness, we are reverent. Like visiting Magi, we stand in silence for a few minutes and feel the vibes-my mind drifts back to the shag rug of Carl Hollings's mum, the fake coal fire, and the King crooning "Teddy Bear"-there's a lot of love in the shack. Sighing, we leave and begin the drive back into Memphis without speaking, just pulling over once to get a burger or six in honor of the King.

  New Orleans, Oklahoma City, Denver, Salt Lake. We arrive on an afternoon flight and after we have checked in I take a walk because I want to see how peculiar the city really is. I am always interested in photographing these places anyway. Dominated by its massive tabernacle, the city sits in a valley surrounded by mountains and salt flats. Salt is one of those things that people and cities get turned into when they raise the wrath of God, and like a warning sign, there is plenty of it around here. Here in underground vaults the Mormons keep the records of everyone who has ever lived (according to them). One of the richest organizations in the world, they sent preachers to Africa, where they were able to get plenty of practice in the missionary position. All this leads one to speculate on how the gig will go tonight. Will there be a protest at our profanity? An arrest by the sheriff's department, or what? But we come offstage a few hours later, having just played to one of the wildest, most out-of-control crowds of the tour, the local girls coming up to us with wads of gum in their mouth and blowing large pink bubbles in our faces, the message implicit.

  Seattle, Vancouver, Portland, Honolulu, and on to Narita Airport in Japan, where a flood of memories come rushing back. What if those guys are still around? What if they want to settle an old debt? What if? I decide to let it go and hope that the new promoter has the wherewithal to protect his investment. Before we are actually let into the country, we get a rigorous checking by small grim-faced Japanese men with sniffing dogs that conduct searches of our bodies, equipment, suitcases, guitars, and amplifiers. Clearly disappointed and slightly mystified to have come up with nothing, they finally let us go and we wearily climb onto the bus to make the excruciating three-hour drive to Tokyo.

  We are working for the Udo Organization, and Mr. Udo himself, a rotund and charming middle-aged man with a gentle manner, meets us in the lobby of the hotel. He speaks English and has an urbane manner but runs his organization with a fist of steel. As usual with the Japanese, it is difficult to tell what is actually going on-emotions tend to be hidden behind an impassive mask-but with us Udo is never less than cordial. Accompanying him at all times in all shapes and sizes are his boys, who have names like Moony, Snake, Bullseye, and Tommy, who seems to be the leader. There are several of them, and all double as bodyguards and roadies wearing dark blue bomber jackets with UDO ORG in large white letters on the back. Carrying little walkie-talkies that they mutter into in rapid-fire Japanese, they communicate nonstop with one another from positions of scout and rearguard. Wherever we are, they are too; and if they think we are going somewhere, one will be there ahead of us. When we retire for the night, one stands guard outside until you wake in the morning. On rising for breakfast, you are greeted at the door with a bow from Snake, who politely asks you where you are headed. "Breakfast," you yawn, "ground floor." He immediately communicates this information downstairs to Moony, who will stand outside the breakfast room while you eat. It is faintly claustrophobic but also flattering, as if we are some sort of precious cargo. The truth is that Mr. Udo is protecting his investment, and we perambulate down wellmarked corridors.

  Outside the breakfast room, watching us eat, is a mob of schoolgirls who, whenever you cast a look in their direction, burst into giggles, cover their mouth, and take a step back. It is amusing and it turns into a little piece of theater as you stare down at your cornflakes and then suddenly looking up with milk and cornflakes falling out of your mouth. This drives them insane, and they fall back again as if on a set of invisible threads.

  After these intellectual diversions it is time to go shopping in Tokyo with our photographer friend Watal Asanuma. He takes us down to the Yodobashi camera store, the band and about a hundred schoolgirls trailing behind us like a navy blue cloud. Yodobashi has five floors of photographic equipment, audio devices, and every gadget that the Japanese mind can invent, it's half the price and twice as small, stuff you don't see anywhere else. And for half an hour we become rabid consumers, buying things we don't need just because they are so small. As we walk around the store we are assaulted about every five minutes by a very loud track coming through the PA system. It is a song about Yodobashi cameras sung to the tune of "John Brown's Body"; it is incredibly irritating and irresistibly funny, and becomes a theme song for the rest of the tour.

  The tour in Japan turns out to be more fun and less lonely than some of our stateside touring. Anne Nightingale of BBC fame joins us, and we go around in a large entourage with the film crew, our stage crew, Mr. Udo and his boys, and an ever growing mob of schoolgirls. We travel on the bullet train, stare out the window at Mount Fuji and visit the Zen gardens and temples of Kyoto. We create out-of-control hysteria for Mr. Udo everywhere, and honor is satisfied. But we like to leave the stage at the end of the show with its bursting-to-the-roof audience and apologize to Mr. Udo for not doing better business, and we'll try again tomorrow night. Udo greets this with a faint Buddha-like smile.

  The culmination of this trip to Japan is when I agree to a fight to the death with a champion sumo wrestler in a house on the outskirts of Tokyo. We drive out on a cold January morning to the sumo hostel; it turns out that they all live together (at least when in training). We pull up in an anonymous-looking suburb, I make the sign of the cross, and we enter. After five minutes of mutual bowing and smiling, we are led into an anteroom and I meet my adversary. Imagine Captain Ahab up-close with Moby Dick the great white whale. A vast sea of blubber confronts me in all directions; I slowly raise my eyes, and looking down with a beneficent smile is Yaki San, my opponent. "He doesn't stand a chance," I say, my voice muffled by the folds of his flesh.

  Because there is a spiritual side to the art of sumo wrestling, we have to sit down and eat together as a bonding ritual. We will acknowledge the eternal spirit in each other before trying to beat each other's brains out. I notice that while I take up one space at the table, Yaki takes up twelve. I try not to let
this deter me but keep a mean look on my face. I have by this time been dressed to appropriate sumo standards, which means tying my hair in a knot and wearing a skimpy loincloth. I look like a wimp version of Tarzan. The house is freezing, as central heating is not part of the sumo credo, and I sit slurping noodles through chattering teeth. As I suck down the noodles I recycle samurai flicks through my head, desperately trying to remember Toshiro Mifune's greatest movies, The Seven Samurai, Yojimbo, Rashomoan, a black-and-white pastiche of flashing swords and grunting soundtrack, but it is to no avail-this is flesh and bone, unarmed combat, and I will probably have to finish him off with my secret armadillo lizard lock.

  The moment of truth comes and we are led into another concrete room with a circle marked out in chalk. After another seventeen or eighteen bows it is time. We snarl at each other, I perceive a small look of fear pass over his face, and then we're across the ring and at each other's throats. Dazed and confused, I pick myself up about five minutes later on the far side of the room, wondering how I got there. I stare across the concrete: he is still there with a large Jackie Chan grin lighting up his mug and pity in his eyes. Right, I think, and shoot like a bullet across the ring, to be rolled up like a rag doll in the arms of a giant and gently placed upside down at the side of the ring. We go at it again in a flurry of grunts and slippery moves. Sting, Stewart, and Miles stand ringside, and their shadowy forms merge into the smirking mums and dads at Summerbee school as the Welsh boy Evans pummels me into a near coma. I stagger up from the concrete and bury my head like an ant in the folds of Yaki's vast gut, to be repelled like a pebble from a catapult. One thing I notice as I continue to be tossed like a cork on a rough sea is how sweet he smells. My face is squashed time and time again into his big soft chest, and a sweet perfume wafts over me that is intoxicating and otherworldly. With a voluptuous resignation, I feel myself falling in love with him even as he smashes me back and forth on the concrete. I have no other explanation for this other than the thought that I may be a latent masochist or that in fact I like boys. It finally comes to an end and I grumpily cede the victory on points; meanwhile, in the freezing temperature I have caught the flu.