The audio track above is
presented entirely without
permission, however it is
also used specifically to
remind readers -- who tend
to be a rather dry lot -- how
great The Police sound. If
its actual owners would like
it removed, they need only
say, and it's down, pronto.
Otherwise, enjoy.
presented entirely without
permission, however it is
also used specifically to
remind readers -- who tend
to be a rather dry lot -- how
great The Police sound. If
its actual owners would like
it removed, they need only
say, and it's down, pronto.
Otherwise, enjoy.
Boys Meet World
Ride along with The Police in Everyone Stares.
BY GREGORY
Recently, I was compiling a list of The Greatest Things In The Universe, Ever, and when I reached #1, the decision
was easy: Stewart Copeland’s Drumming.
Honestly, I cannot think of anything more purely terrific. (A time-machine and Kate Bush as my prom-date, possibly --
but that’s the only real contender.)
This celebration of the Rhythmatist is not, however, without its catalysts, most notably the new film Everyone Stares:
The Police Inside Out, which is fanciful, fun, funny, and frenetic -- all the great things about New Wave music brought
gloriously into focus for posterity. Assembled and sleekified by Copeland (in recent years, one of Movie Town's finest
composers) from his innumerable reels of Super-8 footage shot between nearly the beginning of The Police and the
band’s fallout as their Synchronicity album took over the planet, the movie is only nostalgic in that its footage is pushing
three decades old; otherwise, it is quite a bit livelier than material springing from the swarm of bands since, all of whom
could stand to learn a little something about style and delivery from these three fellows.
While it is difficult to separate the musical legacy of The Police (everything right up to that dreadful re-do of “Don’t
Stand So Close to Me” was total pop magic) from a bunch of old home movies run through Final Cut Pro, I think it’s
fair to say that Everyone Stares is, in its own right, a sensational rockumentary, absolutely all meat, no fat (this metaphor
courtesy of long-term moderate-vegan me). I have noticed online that some fans are already bitching about the lack of
searing insight into the soul of Gordon “Sting” Sumner…and (wait for it!)…WHO CARES? I would much, much, much
rather watch the guy calling his bandmates “cunts” and pretending (or is he?) to attack them on board a speeding train
than to struggle to choke down even one more iota of his increasingly crappy New Age gunk.
Fitting, really, that this film follows almost exactly twenty years after Bring On the Night, er, challenged us to watch
Gordon “risking it all on a dream” (or whatever) by leaving one of the greatest bands ever, in order (wow, what a risk!)
to go to the French countryside to mess around with established jazz musicians whilst his girlfriend gave birth on
camera. I’ve felt kinda sick since 1986, and now I don’t have to feel sick anymore, because in this film we get The
Police as we loved them: Raucous, unpretentious (for a while, anyway), and very, very talented. Granted: A. It’s rock’n’
roll; and B. It’s a bunch of home-movies of a rock band -- but within that context, the film is sublime, a real renaissance
of that je ne sais quoi that made me love pop music in the first place.
What actually happens? You will see the band forming. You will see them living relatively lean and staying in Holiday Inns
across the U.S. You will observe Copeland’s brothers Miles and the late Ian (a respectful farewell) working a bit of
magic behind the scenes. You will watch Stewart setting up his own kit -- and, later, letting other people set it up. You
will marvel at Andy Summers -- according to the director, possibly the star of the movie (he considered calling it Behind
Andy’s Camel, since Summers came up with the band’s most exotic titles) – struggling to find his contact lens after
encountering a massive throng of Japanese fans. (Summers really does steal the show, transforming a goof in a
convenience store into pure Vaudeville.) In between, Copeland adds very amusing narration, as well as, near the end,
some sensitive poetry: "Hollywood's knocking on Sting's door; Andy wants to play with his cameras more; And I want to
know what this life is for." I grok it. Plus there are quite a few jumping Police tracks presented in various forms and
remixes -- adding their distinctive trademark to the imagery as the band’s circle of influence expands beyond tiny clubs
to encompass – temporarily, but pretty much literally -- the whole world. (Even for people upset by all that racket the
kids are making, the film works rather well as a makeshift travelogue.)
As for kids of today, you really had to be there, but The Police were so much better than Radiohead it isn’t even funny.
Here’s how I saw the movie the first time: I noticed that it was playing as a one-shot, in the middle of Hollywood and
Headache, and when I finally got there it was sold out, so I acted like I knew what I was doing and I walked in anyway.
It worked. ("These aren't the droids you're looking for." This method of moviegoing gets Two Thumbs Up.) I stood on
the side for half of the movie – almost as if at a concert (for the energy was that high!), then found an empty seat. There
were some horrid bills in my bag and I scribbled notes of what I was seeing and what Stewart was saying throughout
the movie -- and then I promptly lost them, which really is best when it comes to bills.
Also, prior to the afterparty, a musician I used to know approached me in the courtyard and made a huge deal out of us
getting together and making things together and etc., and we basked in the glow of Actual Members Of The Police in our
midst (for Summers showed up as well as Copeland), and then this guy proffered his email and MySpace page and band
website and etc., and got all excited about us working together, and we made plans to meet that Sunday -- Sunday being
entirely his idea -- and then…nothing. Zip. Never heard from him again.
I mention this because This Is How L.A. Really Is, and -- tellingly-- it’s how musicians often are. This chronic
disappointment accidentally associated with the movie discouraged me enough to keep from reviewing it until now. Now
imagine, if that is the average level of flakitude among musicians who claim they want to "work together," just how
remarkable it is that three talents (not to mention egos!) like Andy, Stewart and Gordon managed to hold things together
for as long as they did. It’s truly nice to see.
I think what really makes the film work, though, is enjoying the footage through the prism of Copeland’s sensibilities.
There’s an open and honest wistfulness as he reveals his personal transitions from his “hometown” of Beirut to Rock’n’
Roll cities like London, L.A. and Tokyo, to simply filming himself the way young men do or recalling being cooped up in
hotels in the Twilight Zone of the touring musician, kept under close wraps by concerned management. Feeling like
we’re really along for this journey, the audience becomes all the more receptive to the film’s many funny bits, with
Copeland dryly offering his latter-day reflections as through some comedic time-warp. I laughed out loud at his admitted
awkwardness -- being the drummer ("a dick") standing around shooting a music video in the snow with nothing, really,
to do; and I grinned countless times at his asides (“One good thing about being a three-piece -- more room in the car.” --
Hey Femmes, hey Rush: So that’s your secret!) The jokes easily disengage from this particular band and become -- as in
the best documentaries -- part of the time, the place, the people.
Actually, a lot of Everyone Stares is about just that: The people. The fans. I shudder just thinking about the release-forms
(and shudder more at the likely lack thereof), but there are a whole lot of fans here (thus the title), and catching them
from the band’s perspective is a real kick.
It’s funny -- or maybe it isn’t: When The Police broke up, I felt a bit betrayed. A lot of people probably did. Rolling
Stones, still out there; Police, gone -- it just ain’t fair. That Greatest Hits collection was like a death-knell, and twenty
years ago, I let the boys go. Seeing this movie, though -- and you’ll please pardon my fervor -- it was like a revelation:
“Oh yeah, that’s right, things don’t have to suck!” I immediately hit eBay and landed Message In a Box, and these discs
(three of them scratched, thanks, eBay-bitches) became my jogging music, fresh as new (for the tracks that would play
properly, anyway). The coup was finding Klark Kent’s Kollected Works, though -- another catalyst for Copeland’s
Drumming being The Greatest Thing In The Universe, Ever.
At the movie's second screening in Hollywood, Copeland was very pleasant about signing Kollected Works for me. Ray
Davies happened to be in town at around the same time. I am now officially cured of Fanboydom. Thanks, Stewart.
That really was a weird week, though, for the first screening.. Although my “friend” flaked, I made the best of that April
Sunday and went to a couple of Australian films in a film festival, after which, in the same cinema, Les Claypool’s
"Amusing!" jam-band mockumentary, Electric Apricot: Quest for Festeroo would be screening. In the doorway, I
suddenly and quite surprisingly found myself face to face with Stewart Copeland again (he’s a friend of Claypool’s). The
following dialogue:
ME
(mildly stunned)
Hi, Mr. Copeland!
STEWART COPELAND
Uh…hi.
ME
Your movie’s not doing too great on Rotten Tomatoes,
but I’m going to point out that it’s not as bad as they think it is.
(fights urge to slap hand over own mouth)
STEWART COPELAND
(bemused/annoyed/oblivious)
Uh…thanks.
The Reviewer then wondered for the next several weeks how to rectify this ultimately irrelevant faux pas. Until now:
Everyone Stares is a great movie. Check it out.
Everyone Stares: The Police Inside Out
Entertainment Value: 13/13
Style: 12/13
Philosophical Insight: 11/13
-Gregory Weinkauf, August or something, 2006?
Ride along with The Police in Everyone Stares.
BY GREGORY
Recently, I was compiling a list of The Greatest Things In The Universe, Ever, and when I reached #1, the decision
was easy: Stewart Copeland’s Drumming.
Honestly, I cannot think of anything more purely terrific. (A time-machine and Kate Bush as my prom-date, possibly --
but that’s the only real contender.)
This celebration of the Rhythmatist is not, however, without its catalysts, most notably the new film Everyone Stares:
The Police Inside Out, which is fanciful, fun, funny, and frenetic -- all the great things about New Wave music brought
gloriously into focus for posterity. Assembled and sleekified by Copeland (in recent years, one of Movie Town's finest
composers) from his innumerable reels of Super-8 footage shot between nearly the beginning of The Police and the
band’s fallout as their Synchronicity album took over the planet, the movie is only nostalgic in that its footage is pushing
three decades old; otherwise, it is quite a bit livelier than material springing from the swarm of bands since, all of whom
could stand to learn a little something about style and delivery from these three fellows.
While it is difficult to separate the musical legacy of The Police (everything right up to that dreadful re-do of “Don’t
Stand So Close to Me” was total pop magic) from a bunch of old home movies run through Final Cut Pro, I think it’s
fair to say that Everyone Stares is, in its own right, a sensational rockumentary, absolutely all meat, no fat (this metaphor
courtesy of long-term moderate-vegan me). I have noticed online that some fans are already bitching about the lack of
searing insight into the soul of Gordon “Sting” Sumner…and (wait for it!)…WHO CARES? I would much, much, much
rather watch the guy calling his bandmates “cunts” and pretending (or is he?) to attack them on board a speeding train
than to struggle to choke down even one more iota of his increasingly crappy New Age gunk.
Fitting, really, that this film follows almost exactly twenty years after Bring On the Night, er, challenged us to watch
Gordon “risking it all on a dream” (or whatever) by leaving one of the greatest bands ever, in order (wow, what a risk!)
to go to the French countryside to mess around with established jazz musicians whilst his girlfriend gave birth on
camera. I’ve felt kinda sick since 1986, and now I don’t have to feel sick anymore, because in this film we get The
Police as we loved them: Raucous, unpretentious (for a while, anyway), and very, very talented. Granted: A. It’s rock’n’
roll; and B. It’s a bunch of home-movies of a rock band -- but within that context, the film is sublime, a real renaissance
of that je ne sais quoi that made me love pop music in the first place.
What actually happens? You will see the band forming. You will see them living relatively lean and staying in Holiday Inns
across the U.S. You will observe Copeland’s brothers Miles and the late Ian (a respectful farewell) working a bit of
magic behind the scenes. You will watch Stewart setting up his own kit -- and, later, letting other people set it up. You
will marvel at Andy Summers -- according to the director, possibly the star of the movie (he considered calling it Behind
Andy’s Camel, since Summers came up with the band’s most exotic titles) – struggling to find his contact lens after
encountering a massive throng of Japanese fans. (Summers really does steal the show, transforming a goof in a
convenience store into pure Vaudeville.) In between, Copeland adds very amusing narration, as well as, near the end,
some sensitive poetry: "Hollywood's knocking on Sting's door; Andy wants to play with his cameras more; And I want to
know what this life is for." I grok it. Plus there are quite a few jumping Police tracks presented in various forms and
remixes -- adding their distinctive trademark to the imagery as the band’s circle of influence expands beyond tiny clubs
to encompass – temporarily, but pretty much literally -- the whole world. (Even for people upset by all that racket the
kids are making, the film works rather well as a makeshift travelogue.)
As for kids of today, you really had to be there, but The Police were so much better than Radiohead it isn’t even funny.
Here’s how I saw the movie the first time: I noticed that it was playing as a one-shot, in the middle of Hollywood and
Headache, and when I finally got there it was sold out, so I acted like I knew what I was doing and I walked in anyway.
It worked. ("These aren't the droids you're looking for." This method of moviegoing gets Two Thumbs Up.) I stood on
the side for half of the movie – almost as if at a concert (for the energy was that high!), then found an empty seat. There
were some horrid bills in my bag and I scribbled notes of what I was seeing and what Stewart was saying throughout
the movie -- and then I promptly lost them, which really is best when it comes to bills.
Also, prior to the afterparty, a musician I used to know approached me in the courtyard and made a huge deal out of us
getting together and making things together and etc., and we basked in the glow of Actual Members Of The Police in our
midst (for Summers showed up as well as Copeland), and then this guy proffered his email and MySpace page and band
website and etc., and got all excited about us working together, and we made plans to meet that Sunday -- Sunday being
entirely his idea -- and then…nothing. Zip. Never heard from him again.
I mention this because This Is How L.A. Really Is, and -- tellingly-- it’s how musicians often are. This chronic
disappointment accidentally associated with the movie discouraged me enough to keep from reviewing it until now. Now
imagine, if that is the average level of flakitude among musicians who claim they want to "work together," just how
remarkable it is that three talents (not to mention egos!) like Andy, Stewart and Gordon managed to hold things together
for as long as they did. It’s truly nice to see.
I think what really makes the film work, though, is enjoying the footage through the prism of Copeland’s sensibilities.
There’s an open and honest wistfulness as he reveals his personal transitions from his “hometown” of Beirut to Rock’n’
Roll cities like London, L.A. and Tokyo, to simply filming himself the way young men do or recalling being cooped up in
hotels in the Twilight Zone of the touring musician, kept under close wraps by concerned management. Feeling like
we’re really along for this journey, the audience becomes all the more receptive to the film’s many funny bits, with
Copeland dryly offering his latter-day reflections as through some comedic time-warp. I laughed out loud at his admitted
awkwardness -- being the drummer ("a dick") standing around shooting a music video in the snow with nothing, really,
to do; and I grinned countless times at his asides (“One good thing about being a three-piece -- more room in the car.” --
Hey Femmes, hey Rush: So that’s your secret!) The jokes easily disengage from this particular band and become -- as in
the best documentaries -- part of the time, the place, the people.
Actually, a lot of Everyone Stares is about just that: The people. The fans. I shudder just thinking about the release-forms
(and shudder more at the likely lack thereof), but there are a whole lot of fans here (thus the title), and catching them
from the band’s perspective is a real kick.
It’s funny -- or maybe it isn’t: When The Police broke up, I felt a bit betrayed. A lot of people probably did. Rolling
Stones, still out there; Police, gone -- it just ain’t fair. That Greatest Hits collection was like a death-knell, and twenty
years ago, I let the boys go. Seeing this movie, though -- and you’ll please pardon my fervor -- it was like a revelation:
“Oh yeah, that’s right, things don’t have to suck!” I immediately hit eBay and landed Message In a Box, and these discs
(three of them scratched, thanks, eBay-bitches) became my jogging music, fresh as new (for the tracks that would play
properly, anyway). The coup was finding Klark Kent’s Kollected Works, though -- another catalyst for Copeland’s
Drumming being The Greatest Thing In The Universe, Ever.
At the movie's second screening in Hollywood, Copeland was very pleasant about signing Kollected Works for me. Ray
Davies happened to be in town at around the same time. I am now officially cured of Fanboydom. Thanks, Stewart.
That really was a weird week, though, for the first screening.. Although my “friend” flaked, I made the best of that April
Sunday and went to a couple of Australian films in a film festival, after which, in the same cinema, Les Claypool’s
"Amusing!" jam-band mockumentary, Electric Apricot: Quest for Festeroo would be screening. In the doorway, I
suddenly and quite surprisingly found myself face to face with Stewart Copeland again (he’s a friend of Claypool’s). The
following dialogue:
ME
(mildly stunned)
Hi, Mr. Copeland!
STEWART COPELAND
Uh…hi.
ME
Your movie’s not doing too great on Rotten Tomatoes,
but I’m going to point out that it’s not as bad as they think it is.
(fights urge to slap hand over own mouth)
STEWART COPELAND
(bemused/annoyed/oblivious)
Uh…thanks.
The Reviewer then wondered for the next several weeks how to rectify this ultimately irrelevant faux pas. Until now:
Everyone Stares is a great movie. Check it out.
Everyone Stares: The Police Inside Out
Entertainment Value: 13/13
Style: 12/13
Philosophical Insight: 11/13
-Gregory Weinkauf, August or something, 2006?
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