Strange Things Happen
A Life with the Police, Polo, and Pygmies
Stewart Copeland
![Contents Strange Things Happen A Letter to a Childhood Friend 2009 - photo 1](/uploads/posts/book/39586/Images/00001.jpg)
Contents
Strange Things Happen
A Letter to a Childhood Friend (2009)
Wardrobe (Late 1980s)
Lebanon (195767)
Music (1968)
Curved Air (1975)
Tagging London (1977)
Klark Kent (1978)
A Quick History of the Police (197678)
Police Rule (197984)
Learning to be Normal
Congo (1984)
Horses (1987)
Opera: Holy Blood, Crescent Moon (1989)
Bake-Off in Fort Worth (1990)
Horse Opera (1992)
Still Not Normal
Oysterhead (April 2001)
Hall of Fame (March 2003)
La Notte Della Taranta (August 2004)
Incubus: the Hybrid (December 2004)
Dancing with the (Poll)Stars (February 2004)
Scoring with Anjelica (March 2005)
Foo Flying with the Fly Foos (June 2005)
Gizmo (2005)
Judge Hard Place and the BBC (2006)
The Grateful Dad (2007)
Sundance (2006)
Abnormal Again
Lock Up your Mothers: Were Back (February 2007)
Will this Fly? (2007)
Eberhard Sets Us Free (1978)
A Mighty Wind in the Magic Stingdom (May 2007)
The Disaster Gig (May 2007)
Angry in Edmonton (June 2007)
Conquering Heroes (June 2007)
Malibu Fey Choir (June 2007)
How Big is My Amp! (June 2007)
Aftershow Ritual (July 2007)
Tuba in Turin (October 2007)
Four Beers and the President (October 2007)
Raging Kumbaya (January 2008)
Slav on a Slab (June 2008)
Burning the Golden Goose (1984)
Singapore Showdown (February 2008)
Toast in the Machine (August 2008)
Elvis is Leaving the Building (August 2008)
The Green Flag (2009)
Who
What
Strange Things Happen
![Tarazi Lennie me Aragoosie 1965 Tarazi with UN bunker 1998 A - photo 2](/uploads/posts/book/39586/Images/00002.jpg)
Tarazi, Lennie, me, Aragoosie (1965)
![Tarazi with UN bunker 1998 A LETTER TO A CHILDHOOD FRIEND 2009 Dear - photo 3](/uploads/posts/book/39586/Images/00003.jpg)
Tarazi with UN bunker (1998)
A LETTER TO A CHILDHOOD FRIEND
2009
Dear Iskandar,
A lot has happened since we broke that branch off of old Abu Tannouss olive tree, behind the Tarazi Palace. Do you remember our little town in the Lebanese hills overlooking Beirut? That was back in 1965. The Russians had just made it into outer space and I was playing in my first band. I wonder what you and your mom are up to now.
We parted rather suddenly when my dad evacuated us after his CIA cover was blown. Do you remember that English kid, Harry Philby? Well, his dads cover was blown, tooas a double agent for Russia!
So we got pulled out of the American Community School in Beirut, and I was packed off to boarding school in England. Out in the misty wilds of Somerset, at Millfield School, I kept on blasting on the drums whenever I could. It was difficult because of the noise they made. Wherever I could find a cellar or an attic, or a distant outbuilding I would drag in my four big heavy cases, unpack my kit, and blaze away like fury. It never lasted. Someone was always annoyed by my art, and I would be cast out again.
But I got pretty good at it. By the time I left college, I could get into a semifamous group, and pretty soon I could break out with a little band of my own. We were called The Police and ended up playing huge stadiums. Our songs were glued to the charts. It was a blast! We struggled for two years, surged for four years, and then just sat there at the top of the world for another two years before walking away.
So now Ive got a real job, a real family, and a real life! I write and record the music you hear in Hollywood movies. I have seven kids! No idea how that happened. Life is pretty settled now, but I keep having these strange adventures. Odd opportunities are attracted to celebrity, even when its much faded.
As I write this Lebanon is rebuilding. Again! Last time I checked, the old palace was still standing. But that was one war ago. If you get a chance, could you check it out for me? Youre probably a banker in Dubai by now.
Best wishes,
Stewart
WARDROBE
SUMMER, LATE 1980s
O ne fine morning, I step out of the shower, peer into my wardrobe, and realize that my life is over. Im looking at an exotic collection of leather pants, hostile shirts, and pointy shoes. Problem is, Im a forty-something father of four, and Im feeling kind of mellow. Im not angry about anything, and as a tax-paying, property-owning, investment-holding lotus-eater, I am in disagreement with what my clothes are saying to the world. The thrill has gone from frightening the natives. I care not that the world be unruffled by my passage through it.
So what do I wear? What have I got in my closet that doesnt say FUCK YOU! IM GOING TO BURN DOWN YOUR WORLD! For so long, I have had to be worthy of the stares and furtive glances that follow rock stars. It would be unprofessional of me to walk out of my hotel room looking like Id be safe with children. But now what?
All my life I have lived in self-imposed exile from the normal world. My arty friends and I feel like we are the only humans in a world of robots. A business suit is like the carapace of an insect. Conformity is surrender. Even long hair is a cop-out. Mine has had all color peroxided out of itheaven forbid that I should be mistaken for a nice hippie.
But I have discovered that some humans are merely disguised as robots. Under cover of conformity strange personalities can emerge. I have started to experiment with other uniforms and disguises. My main circle of friends is the polo set of Gloucestershire. Its only natural that my first attempt at a new mufti would start here. They wear the same clothes that I used to wear in boarding school. Problem is, my career was fueled by a desire to burn down my old school. I get even stranger looks than usual when I show up at the club bar in a blazer, with handkerchief in the pocket. Out on the street, the usual double take is followed by a look of confusion.
The fact is that my dream of lapsing into the countryside in my postrock star years is not panning out. The flashbulb-popping, tabloid-screaming, chart-topping, crowd-roaring express train of fame may have blazed off over the horizon, but strange adventures still befall me. From dancing the Ndele Banga with the Kamba of Tsavo to elbowing royalty on the polo fields of Cirencester, to sweaty jam sessions in Havana clip joints and black-tie curtain calls at my opera premieres, stuff still keeps on happening to me. Only now that Im off the train, I can play with these things as they go by.
Here follows a collection of strange tales about the things that can happen as I walk in the constant company of a distantly remembered mythical being. Twenty years ago there was this kid with my face up there on the screen, the whole world got a pretty good look at him, and he still hovers just over my shoulder. Hes mostly invisible after all these years, unseen by passersby, but in some settings, everyone can see him. In fact they see him and not me. And the strangest things happen.
![Happy in leather Copyright 2009 Lynn Goldsmith LEBANON 195767 Life and - photo 4](/uploads/posts/book/39586/Images/00004.jpg)
Happy in leather.
Copyright 2009 Lynn Goldsmith
LEBANON
195767
Life and times of a diplo-brat in Beirut: