an arresting impression

The Police. Fenway Park. Saturday night, July 28.

My boss bought tickets for our team, as a thank-you for our successful fiscal year. He had been so psyched to score these tickets and to arrange a night out for all of us to celebrate — and yet, at the last minute, he couldn’t make it due to a family emergency! Bummer, dude.

But the show goes on, and 11 of us got to rock out. It turned out to be a really great show. Thought I wouldn’t know enough of their songs to endure a two-hour gig, but there were only about 5 or 6 I didn’t know. Especially liked how they thrashed through some of their hits, like “So Lonely” and “Can’t Stand Losing”. Considering this is just a trio and that Sting and Stewart Copeland are in their mid-50s, Andy Summer is 64, these guys can really kick it.

However, either to stretch things out or to make themselves look like musical geniuses, they inserted some jazz-fusion interludes (queue Anne’s exaggerated eye-roll with an exasperated “PUL-leaze”) and weird percussion solos, with Copeland at times clanging on what appeared to be glass windchimes. Overindulgent, load of shite.

Anyway, they did two encores and the shebang was over by 10:15. Exit massive crowd. Inched out of the Park, up to Comm Ave. Figured if I got to Mass Ave, I could more easily hail a cab. Couple thousand other people had the same idea. Ok, then – fine, I’ll walk home. Not a big deal, it’s only a couple miles.

But holy hey-zeus, it was muggy. My mission became: make it to Toscanini’s and cool down with some taste-tee ice cream. As I near, I see 3 young dudes standing outside the shop’s door, smoking. One has really long dreads. The other two appear to be breaking some child labor law. [sidenote: I know I’m getting old, but really, these guys looked like they just hit puberty.] Anyway, my thought becomes, “shit, is the place closed?” But wait, there are customers inside, enjoying ice cream. Hopeful, eyebrows raised, I point at the door and ask the young dudes: “still open?” In unison they tell me “no.” I look at my watch: 11:05pm. goddammit! I missed it by 5 freaking minutes. Bummer man.

10 minutes later I’m home. Disgustingly sweaty. Peel off clothes, get in shower, flick through tv, then head for bed — a bigger Police fan than I was that morning.