Live concert series, Pt. 15

Police from the Back

Walking behind the moon

Sometimes the sum of the parts is less than you expect or want or should want.

I didn’t exactly fall in love when The Police released their first single, “Roxanne,” but I did like the song. Being more pop-inclined, or so I tell myself now, I preferred The Cars and The Knack initially. But when that second album, Reggatta de Blanc, came out, I left behind the other bands and found another, darker side of my soul in “Message in a Bottle,” “Bring on the Night,” and especially “Walking on the Moon.”

I’ve fallen in love with so many songs, I feel like an even more jaded Warren Beatty if that’s possible. So, my love for “Walking on the Moon” imagined those nights in Knoxville, walking in the nether-land between the end of the University strip and that crazy cereal box I lived in. I’d pass under the turnpike toward Alcoa and the mountains, and it would grow intensely dark. No one ever bothered me, though on many of these nights, the giant steps I took were the bravado of a guy too stoned to understand his very real vulnerability.

“I hope my legs don’t break, walking on the moon. We could walk together, walking on the moon.”

It’s all about the light and the shadows of night, see.

My roommate du jour was a guy from Pittsburgh named Sean, getting his second degree in architecture. He’d served in the Peace Corps, in Somalia I think, and the biggest dis I ever gave him was eating all the food I cooked one night before he got home.

“It smells so good in here,” he said as he walked in.

I felt like shit.

Sean liked tripping, though, and I’d given up that nightmare after almost literally dying laughing on my second trip. He was basically a nice guy, and so when the Police announced their show at what is now The Thompson-Boling Arena, where Vol basketball teams used to thrive, Sean and I decided that we were going to camp out for tickets, which would have been fine had either of us had any camping equipment at all.

But we didn’t even have a sleeping bag to share, and that wouldn’t have mattered except that the tickets went on sale on an early February morning, and I don’t know if you’ve spent much time in Knoxville during the winter, but one April it snowed, and the year after this show, an Alberta Clipper ranged down and the temp got to -26 degrees F.

You know, once a temperature hits -5, you just can’t feel anything colder.

But I guess we’re talking lows in the upper thirties on this night — not so bad except if you’re spending it outside on the cement walkways in front of the University Center.

Sean was a hardier soul than me; so when at about 1:30 that night I looked like I might go all hypothermia on someone, Sean said,

“Why do you go inside somewhere? I’ll wait.”

Except our cereal box was two miles away, and I didn’t want to ditch him all night.

I did have an office, or rather I shared an office at something called the Alumni Center, and that building was just across the street.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah man. No problem.”

It’s amazing, or is it, just how comfortable a hard table and an old coat can be when you’re tired and cold and not even the least bit guilty. I slept for four or five hours, and got up just in time to grab some coffee for both of us from the canteen and join Sean, who was still smiling after all those years.

“We’re going to see The Police!”

“Yeah man, we are.”

Shit, he was really a nice guy.

The line snaked and snaked, and no, I’m not going to tell you that they sold out just as we got to the ticket window.

What I am going to tell you is that we had Student Activity Cards, and so our tickets had already been paid for by the $50 fee we forked over annually, which is also how I saw Vol football games (beating Notre Dame was a highlight, even though as Vol fans go, I’m an Alabama fan).

What I’m also going to tell you, and sharp readers might have guessed this already,

Our tickets were behind the stage, which we didn’t quite get until the night of the show. You might think we’d be disappointed, but we weren’t really.

Maybe because I wasn’t that huge Police guy, and maybe because while I appreciated many of their post Reggatta songs (“Driven to Tears” is pretty fine) as long as they played “Walking on the Moon,” (which of course they did) I could put up with seeing the back of Sting’s receding hairline.

Years later, a student from Atlanta told me that she had good word that when Sting came to that city, his favorite post-gig venue was The Cheetah Lounge. I’ll let you look that one up. Don’t know if it’s true, but I thought highly of this student and promised her that I’d never buy another Police record, which I wasn’t going to do anyway, since this was the 90’s and we had all moved on (she doesn’t know that I downloaded much of the old Police last year so…).

I suppose that the concert was fine. Sean and I got sufficiently stoned beforehand which made the behind the scenes seats okay enough.

Little did I know that among the other 18,000 concert goers was the woman I’d one day marry. We hadn’t met yet, but once we did, we compared certain notes.

It turns out that “Walking on the Moon” is her favorite Police song, too, though she said an old boyfriend once called her “The King of Pain.” I didn’t know how to take that, nor did she.

That summer, I moved to my own place. I saw Sean once after, but I don’t know if he completed his second year of his second degree. He, of course, didn’t know what all happened to me either, as our friendship waxed until it ultimately waned.

“Walk back from your house Walking on the moon.” Some, they say, I’m wishing my days away… And if it’s the price I pay…. Tomorrow’s another day.”

For Sean.

Hey Kevin Alexander, how was that?

Thanks to all, naturally, as you wish your days away, too. May as well play.

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