This is a very personal review, wrote rather with the heart than with the hands, as I was under the strong impression of the concert, late that night.
The Sting Miracle - Leaves of Diary
A miracle has happened in Bucharest, tonight. The Sting miracle.
Since I discovered him, his music has gone straight to my heart, touching its deepmost vibrations, digging up a side of me that I did not know before - a sort of hunger to breathlessly collect audio tapes, video tapes, compact disks, switch TV channels in a marathon search for him. A secret communion that words are too poor to cover, my magic weapon against becoming the iceberg that most people living in today's society have turned into. Over five years of sailing in a sea of emotion, asking myself how much longer before we could finally leave aside all the cold, impersonal media, and communicate without barriers, guiltily hoping to join him on the stage and sing with him some time. It took just one article in a newspaper, last winter, for all these rebel, fluid thoughts to shape up: Sting was coming to Bucharest on May 20. Is this true, or is it another one of those journalistic charades?, wondered my sense of self-protection. I couldn't believe until the tickets were actually issued, in mid-April. The remaining days before the concert were ecstatic. The thought of Sting coming to my town suddenly set things into a different perspective.
May 20. I could hardly stay still at the office, dreaming to meet him, touch his hand, look into his eyes, make sure he is real. The idol who, without knowing, has brought a touch of order to the five most hectic years of my life, educating and refining my musical tastes, teaching me how to weigh and value sounds, how to interpret symbols, in one word - what real art is. At 7:30 pm, while getting ready, I am nervously switching channels on my living room TV, trying to catch the first news and images of his arrival. Finally, after 20 minutes, I see him getting off his small private plane. A brief report, from six hours ago, but how reassuring. So, my dream has come true, he did arrive, he is here! I drive to the concert hall in the most incredible excitement. It is so hard to even find a parking spot! All the spots around the Royal Palace Auditorium are full. Even those by the Romanian Athenaeum. I panic a little. Don't, see, there's a good spot for you, over there! Groups of people are migrating towards the hall, from all directions - the Sting community. I begin to analyze them, as we are walking side by side. To tell the truth, I was curious to see what they looked like - my unknown friends, sharing my Sting, capable of grasping the deepest meanings of his music. Their faces are so pleasant and open. Their dresses are of a simple elegance. So, I'm out of the dark isolation: I can communicate at last! I finally feel at ease. A feeling of white entities bringing deep peace to my spirit, the kind of peace that I've only found listening to his songs, which I almost know by heart. Getting closer to the hall, this heart starts to beat quicker. I finally get by the entrance, on the stairs. But... oh no, so many, they are so many! And, though the weather is so hot, and they are literally crowding, their radiant faces are smiling.
The security guards have a hard time trying to search every bag for forbidden devices. For a second, I am afraid he might start without me. Be still my beating heart! And, thank God, at 9:10 I manage to get inside and find my seat. Pretty good. I've seen better... The hall inside is OK, the air is a little more breathable then outside, but they are still coming... At 9:20, the audience is kindly asked to take their seats, and the lights fade. The band gets on the stage, and the drums start to beat. To my delight - "The Hounds of Winter", the first song on his new album, Mercury Falling. I am thrilled. And they are still coming... Thousands of them. But where is he? In a moment of confusion, a figure resembling his can be seen by the right side of the stage. They start to cheer and call his name. Could it be him?, I asked myself. No, it's impossible, his hair is not so grey! Can't be! And how right my senses were. As, out of the confusion, when our heartbeat meets his, he appears from nowhere, running to the microphone. The real Sting. With his black leather pants and a black and white tiger-striped shirt. His short hair, his gait, his voice, his whole appearance - there is nothing about him other than I expected, nothing that could alter his perfect image, as projected in my mind. Everything is in place, up to the minor detail. The real Sting, at last - the mysterious, solitary figure. He starts to sing and all my doubts, if any left, fade away in less than a second. It is him, all right - my Sting. Singing most of the time eyes closed, less for the public and more for his innermost urge to express himself, feeling every sound, every word, breathing art thru every pore of his skin. The magic has started. Then, "I Hung My Head", "I Was Brought to My Senses". No word to the public yet. When, suddenly, to the general amazement, we all hear him saying "Multumesc" (Thank you) and "Buna seara" (Good evening), both in a perfect Romanian. (Foreigners, especially native English language speakers, usually have a problem with the Romanian t [tz], a [ ], ea [ a] and many more "funny" sounds. Not Sting - he is one of us on May 20. Breathing with us, singing for us, abandoning himself to us...) He than sings "Let Your Soul Be Your Pilot", after which over 4,000 Romanians jubilate at the first beat of the famous "Set Them Free" (The Dream of the Blue Turltles, 1985), which opens a journey through the landmarks of his career. Finally, most of them say, the real thing. Then, the spell-casting "Mad About You" (The Soul Cages, 1990 - my favorite), that lifts us from our seats, in a sweet levitation. How happy I am to discover that my love for this song is shared. And there's more magic yet to come: "If I Ever Lose My Faith in You", "Seven Days" (Ten Summoner's Tales, 1993), "Roxanne", "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic", former Police hits... (I remember some of my lively debates with different friends about Sting's career. Some, Police nostalgic, think that it was over with the separation of Police. My feeling is somehow different: in fact, from what I could see and hear, from that moment on, Sting's evolution has exploded so dramatically. He has grown up, come of age, turned into a great poet and musician. His style has gained substance, become more mature, more elaborated - an incredible and mostly valuable blending of all that is best in today's music: classical, jazz, rock, pop, country, reggae, ballad, all merging to build his unique, refined musical personality, that breaches the dull limits of categories. His wide palette of themes and concerns range from love to politics, society, religion, history, fiction, pamphlet, film music - rounding up his art, making it complete - all very carefully selected to shape tonight's repertoire. The Police was nothing like the sun that Sting now is - the last genuine romantic on the threshold of the 21st century.)
The public is perfect. Perfect public for a perfect artist - a secret marriage that never can be broken. They all sing with him, cheer, dance, feel as if nothing else mattered anymore - so much for the fears and worries tormenting us, Romanians, for over 50 years. They are all gone now, like a bad dream. And how thankful we are for this bright awakening... Everything about him is magic. He wraps us in his spell and sings. Doesn't stop for a moment. Doesn't need to speak or move to communicate with his public: his art does it all. When he does move, however, every step he takes, his feline, sensual gait, only come to complete the intimate feeling built by his music, by his very presence. His voice is in excellent shape. The microphone settings make it velvet-like. He reaches every sound, high or low, without difficulty. He plays with everything: voice, rhythms, tunes, words, instruments. He's a wizard. The light system and the slides behind him magically illustrate the lyrics of his songs, changing with every symbol and meaning, adding to the perfect atmosphere.
During some kind of a jam session, where every member of his crew has the chance to convince the audience of his indispensable value, Sting introduces them to us. And finally, as if to remind us of his human nature, that we almost forget, he stops to take a sip from the glass of water that has been waiting there all the time for him to yield. The only moment of human weakness in two hours of divine perfection.
Finally, the time comes for us to part. I have a painful premonition, with the first chords of "Lithium Sunset", the epilogue of his new album. Of course, how else could it be? I expected him to think symmetrical. But people won't take this for a fact, simply won't let him go. He walks out of the stage together with his band. Yet, the applause is vehement. It's a mutiny. We want STING! We want STING! We want him back! What? It's over? Back to our bleak isolation? So soon? No, it must be a mistake, he's probably just taken a short break! And... wait a minute...YES! He did resonate with our selfish love, there, at the back of the stage: he shows up again, to sing "Every Breath You Take", one of his great classics. The audience is charmed. But he leaves the stage one more time. Hey, come back, where are you going? Is this some kind of a joke? Leaving wasn't part of the deal... Not before we touch you, not before you give us all! We want STING! We want STING! Yes! Yes! He's coming back, folks, look! Unplugged, this time, he plays the divine "Fragile" (...Nothing Like the Sun, 1987), as if to teach us the lesson of the frailty of all things, the delusion of the moment. The public finally grasps the meaning: it is really the last song. He reminds us the names of his band members, shakes hands with those in the first row - how jealous I am not to be there -, crosses the stage to touch as many hands as he can, waves, and vaporizes like a ghost. The cheers could go on forever, but this time it is too late. "He's probably on his way to the plane already", some say. I hear bits and pieces of conversation from the public. "His schedule is so full", a young woman whispers, "I wonder how he can possibly manage. I hear he is flying to Italy for a live TV show, tonight, then back to Budapest, Hungary, tomorrow, for another concert"...
Sting left Bucharest and I'm lost without him, already. Someone rushes to my car and turns on the tape player. Oh, it feels so much better... "The Hounds of Winter", as if everything is only starting, whirling in an arc of sadness, never ending... I ask myself who could it be - the solitary hands that came to set me free. It's good to say it, I love to say it: it's probably me...
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