Sting - Lyrics
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- Book:Lyrics
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- Publisher:Random House Publishing Group
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- Year:2009
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Lyrics: summary, description and annotation
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Publishing my lyrics separately from their musical accompaniment is something that Ive studiously avoided until now. The two, lyrics and music, have always been mutually dependent, in much the same way as a mannequin and a set of clothes are dependent on each other; separate them, and what remains is a naked dummy and a pile of cloth. Nevertheless, the exercise has been an interesting one, seeing perhaps for the first time how successfully the lyrics survive on their own, and inviting the question as to whether song lyrics are in fact poetry or something else entirely. And while Ive never seriously described myself as a poet, the book in your hands, devoid as it is of any musical notation, looks suspiciously like a book of poems.
So it seems I am entering, with some trepidation, the unadorned realm of the poet. I have set out my compositions in the sequence they were written and provided a little background when I thought it might be illuminating. My wares have neither been sorted nor dressed in clothes that do not belong to them; indeed, they have been shorn of the very garments that gave them their shape in the first place. No doubt some of them will perish in the cold cruelty of this new environment, and yet others may prove more resilient and become perhaps more beautiful in their naked state. I cant predict the outcome, but I have taken this risk knowingly and, while no one in their right mind should ever attempt to set The Waste Land to music, in the hopeful words of T. S. Eliot, These fragments I have shored against my ruins.
Sting, from the Introduction
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Publishing my lyrics separately from, their musical accompaniment is something that Ive studiously avoided until now. The two, lyrics and music, have always been mutually dependent, in much the same way as a mannequin and a set of clothes are dependent on each other; separate them, and what remains is a naked dummy and a pile of cloth. Nevertheless, the exercise has been an interesting one, seeing perhaps for the first time how successfully the lyrics survive on their own, and inviting the question as to whether song lyrics are in fact poetry or something else entirely. And while Ive never seriously described myself as a poet, the book in your hands, devoid as it is of any musical notation, looks suspiciously like a book of poems.
So it seems I am entering, with some trepidation, the unadorned realm of the poet. I have set out my compositions in the sequence they were written and provided a little background when I thought it might be illuminating. My wares have neither been sorted nor dressed in clothes that do not belong to them; indeed, they have been shorn of the very garments that gave them their shape in the first place. No doubt some of them will perish in the cold cruelty of this new environment, and yet others may prove more resilient and become perhaps more beautiful in their naked state. I cant predict the outcome, but I have taken this risk knowingly and, while no one in their right mind should ever attempt to set The Waste Land to music, in the hopeful words of T. S. Eliot, These fragments I have shored against my ruins.
Next to You
So Lonely
Roxanne
Hole in My Life
Peanuts
Cant Stand Losing You
Truth Hits Everybody
Born in the 50s
Visions of the Night
Our first album as the Police was recorded piecemeal in a run-down studio above a dairy in Leatherhead. We had been together as a band for roughly a year by then. Some of the songs had been written for my previous band, Last Exit, and adapted for the new one. Others had been composed while touring, and some were created during rehearsals or while recording.
We werent signed to a record company yet, and none of us had any money, so we used some secondhand tapes that we found in our managers garage and recorded very late at night, for an even cheaper studio rate: moonlighting only after another band had left.
Wed work until the coffee ran out and we were bleary-eyed and delirious with exhaustion and the absurdity of our arguments.
Id drive back to London in my battered old Citron in a kind of euphoria, with these tunes thundering in my head, yelling improvised lyrics at the top of my voice to the empty road and the stars twinkling sceptically above the rooftops.
Id get back to my flat in Bayswater just as the sun was coming up through the trees in Hyde Park, thinking that these were some of the best days and weeks of my life. Id try to scribble down whatever Id been declaiming in the car and then go to sleep for the rest of the morning.
The afternoon would be spent trying to make sense of these fragments and working on them until early evening so that I would have something presentable that night.
I was happy because Id dreamed about this, this making of an album, for as long as Id owned a guitar, strummed my first chord, and rhymed my first couplet. It was almost too much to absorb.
Theres no grand concept at work in this album, just a loose collection of dreams, fragments and fantasies, low doggerel and high dudgeon, sense and nonsense, anger and romance, all welded together by the bluff and bluster of a new band.
We were insane in our optimism, and we were never happier.
I cant stand it for another day
When you live so many miles away
Nothing here is gonna make me stay
You took me over, let me find a way
I sold my house
I sold my motor, too
All I want is to be next to you
Id rob a bank
Maybe steal a plane
You took me over
Think Im goin insane
What can I do
All I want is to be next to you
What can I do
All I want is to be next to you
Ive had a thousand girls or maybe more
But Ive never felt like this before
But I just dont know whats come over me
You took me over, take a look at me
What can I do
All I want is to be next to you
What can I do
All I want is to be next to you
All I want is to be next to you
All I want is to be next to you
All I want is to be next to you
So many times I used to give a sign
Got this feeling, gonna lose my mind
When all it is is just a love affair
You took me over, baby, take me there
What can I do
All I want is to be next to you
What can I do
All I want is to be next to you
What can I do
All I want is to be next to you
What can I do
All I want is to be next to you
All I want is to be next to you
I wrote these lyrics while I was in Last Exit and then grafted them shamelessly onto the chords from Bob Marleys No Woman, No Cry. This kind of musical juxtapositionthe lilting rhythm of the verses separated by monolithic slabs of straight rock and rollpleased the hell out of me. That we could achieve it effortlessly just added to the irony of a song about misery being sung so joyously.
It was something of a coup when someone pointed out to BBC television that, because of my poor diction, I seemed to be singing the name of a popular TV presenter, Sue Lawley and not So lonely. It was played on national television as an homage to Sue, but we didnt complain. Blessings are often unexpected.
Well someone told me yesterday
That when you throw your love away
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