Why you should care
The opening of Sting’s play The Last Ship reminds us in terms undeniable why he’s as sucky-great as he is.
It’s rare — make that extremely rare — that a public figure manages to amass a record of fame and infamy that so simultaneously repels and attracts us. Gordon Sumner, better known the world round as Sting, is one such celebrity.
His unenviable “it” factor?
Sting opens his mouth, and suddenly there are hornets in our heads.
A chemical formula for shocking and delighting us in measures so equal that we still can’t decide whether we love the media figure that is the man, or hate the man that is the media figure. This skill/talent/gift/prenatural ability…is so singular it should be trademarked.
Whether it’s the recent promise that his own children won’t see a cent of his earnings, or the still echoing claims and subsequent disavowals of 16-hours, in a row, of tantric sex, the undoubtedly talented musician never ceases to test our taste for him. His just-opened play The Last Ship seems delightful, and reviewers are giving it warm, if not exactly glowing, reviews.
But then Sting opens his mouth, and suddenly there are hornets in our heads.
And yet why do we still care? Because — Walking on the Moon — that’s why.
Yes, the same could be said about half of the musicians out there. The Red Hot Chili Peppers are, we think, very easy to hate/hate. And though Madonna is deserving of a whole separate sub-category of singer who we’d feel justified getting a restraining order against (we’re looking at you, Lady Gaga), it’s Sting who most steadfastly runs the rail between total love and hate.
Sting. We look around, but you are the only you and it’s this you we can’t replace.
And our confusion/satisfaction? On full display, which is to say: Watch our video to see just how vexed and devoted you’ve made our muddled minds.