Sting, out of The Police, staggers back with a slender and caring new disc packaged in the gaudiest of covers as if to say “Yes world, I have recorded more songs to remind us all of the ridiculousness of piety and the angst that makes our children use guns instead of words”.
We need to know what’s contained in these here songs, but are we just babies frightened to hear the truth because it hurts like toothache? Or buggery.
The sound is unmistakeable - and almost impossible to pigeon-hole. It’s reminiscent, perhaps, of the distinctive grunting, gurgling and clicking that emerges from a photocopier being heated in a furnace after being filled with the blood of the blue whale, the tears of Mother Earth and the wank-piss of a little otter that’s all cute and eats fishes whilst floating on his back.
Stop the war. Stop the rainforests. Don’t hurt me Daddy.
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