Stinger and the Rats
The summer my sister turned thirteen, I was an impressionable young lad of seven: whatever tasty morsel of pop culture she digested, I desired a few nibbles, myself. Thus did I develop an early appreciation for Wham!, and thus did I memorize all the lyrics to “Careless Whisper” — if there was going to be any music in the house, my mother and sister had to agree on it, and they happened to agree George Michael was cute.
Because, in 1984, George Michael wasn’t gay yet. As far as he knew.
Of my sister’s favorite bands, The Police ranked highest — if not because of their reggae-inspired, post-punk pop, then because she adored Sting. She LOVED Sting. Hell, everyone loved Sting. If one were so bold, back in 1984, to publicly state, “His name’s Gordon, and he secretly yearns to play the lute,” that guy would be torn asunder by a pack of rabid women. Sting was a demigod.
Of course, my father found all this ridiculous, so he’d torment my sister by constantly referring to The Police as “Stinger and the Rats.” It’s so perfect, in its paternal simplicity: Stinger and the Rats. Who could be offended by that? Does is denigrate their music? No. Is it a witty play on words? Shit, no — it’s silly. It’s Dad Humor. Stinger and the Rats? Jeez, who could possibly feel the sting (pardon the expression) of that barb?
A thirteen-year-old girl: that’s who. Every time my father called them Stinger and the Rats, a small part of my sister died, and she’d stomp and curse and threaten violence unto herself and others. So, of course, my father gleefully continued calling them Stinger and the Rats all summer long, and it kinda got lodged in my head — along with the lyrics to “Message in a Bottle,” “So Lonely,” and “King of Pain.”
(You know, looking back? I was a tremendously emo child. But if George Michael wasn’t the least bit queer, then neither was I.)
But here’s the thing: The Police broke-up two years later, and now there’s talk of a reunion for the Grammys. Well — why? I mean, I know why: twenty years since the band split, nearly thirty years since “Roxanne” — their first big single — hit the charts. But, still, can’t we just leave these guys alone? They’ve already “reunited” twice before: first, in ‘92, at Sting’s wedding (by all accounts, a boozy and particularly unfriendly affair); and again in ‘03, for their induction into the Music Hall of Fame (see previous parenthetical comment). Now, doesn’t the latter seem like an appropriate venue to call it quits? Why follow that up at the Grammys, of all places? Might as well do a MacDonald’s commercial.
What’s more, these guys clearly don’t like each other. Personally, I’ve always thought Stewart Copeland looks like a world-class dick, and Andy Summers should be judging a reality show, somewhere (tell me he’s not a friendlier Simon Cowell). And Sting? Frankly, if you’d come up through the ranks with Sting, wouldn’t you be sick of this joker by now? There’s the lute, sure, there’s the whoring for Disney — but mostly, I’d be furious that someone named Gordon had convinced the entire world to call him “Sting” for the past thirty years. If you had a co-worker named Elmer, but he convinced the entire office to call him “Viper” — I mean, for years and years and years, right up until his retirement party, where people are sniffling, “I don’t know if we’ll ever have a better Vice President of Sales than Viper, here” — wouldn’t you quietly loath him?
Finally, I don’t want The Police to enjoy this moment in the spotlight because they personally failed me when I needed them most, back in 1990. That was the year I turned thirteen; see, my early knowledge of music was starting to pay off, both what I’d learned from my sister, and the old records I’d borrowed from my parents — if I wasn’t already familiar with a song, I could scoff at how it was derivative of Dylan, or the Beatles. (Consequently, derivative is a word that belongs in every thirteen-year-old’s vocabulary.) So imagine how pleased I was to find myself at a party, one night, sitting next to Laura P. when “Every Breath You Take” came on.
I knew this song! I knew the lyrics, I even remembered the video! Laura P. was sure to be impressed! (And she had breasts!!!) So I turned to her, all suave and worldly, and murmured, “Ah — Stinger and the Rats. I’ve been listening to these guys for years.”
And she said, “Uh, no? Like, The Police?”
Not to be un-done, I quipped, “Uh, no? Stinger and the Rats? Hello?”
Needless to say, I confirmed my mistake the next day at Tower Records. Technically, my father’s responsible for ruining my chances with Laura P. (who, as it turns out, was not a very nice person), but it’s far easier to blame a guy named Gordon. Who convinced everyone to call him Sting. And the two guys who first went along with it, being all like, “Sure, Gordon, we’ll call you Sting, if you’d prefer. Why not? It’s your name.” Screw the whole lot of them.
