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Written on March 23, 2005, and categorized as Secret and Invisible.
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Dum De-Dum….. CHING!!! ing-ing-ing…. Dah, Dah Dum…. Dum De-Dum….. CHING!!! ing-ing-ing…. Dah, Dah Dum….

It’s hard to believe now, but once, Sting wasn’t the New Age Rainforest-Saving Aesthetically-Pompadoured Jazz-Pop-Rock Tantric Geriatric Cheekboned Geordie he is now. OK, he had the cheekbones, you could ski down them, if you fell against them you’d sever an artery, he’d take off in a cross wind. But once, he was musically respected. Once he was in a band that were considered to be the New Great Hope, The Police, and although this band never realised anything like their potential (could this have been anything to do with Stuart Copeland’s ex-Head of CIA Dad?) for a couple of years, they had the songs, the looks, the fans, and the world at their feet.

Beneath my feet, I had solid ground at least. I had grown up somewhat, was attending the local College of Art, on a Foundation course. The stresses of school and my ruined lovelife were dissipating. My social life was blossoming. Still living at home, but I had worked out my escape from Colditz Croydon. I had found a great formula to avoid everyone and get enough art done to wangle my way onto a degree course – get stoned and paint at night – and it worked. I had a really nice girlfriend, MLSNC. She was beautiful, passionate, had French-speaking parents, was a candidate for sexiest woman ever; and I was, to my great and eternal surprise, falling in love again, never wanted to, what am I to do, I can’t help eeeeeeeeeet.

MLSNC lived in a nice house in Purley a little way up the hill on the posh side of the A23, and I lived in an ex-council house in Coulsdon a little way up the hill on the less posh side. It meant a 10 minute walk home after spending the evening at hers. In the warming, scented Spring nights, I walked back down and up the hill in daze of romantic and sexual fever. This was very different to anything I had experienced. I had the soundtrack in my head – this was the last year I remember NOT having a walkman, as, dear children, they had only just been invented. Yes, we used to have to memorise music – can you credit it?

I’d grown up with rockets and spacemen, I celebrated the first moon landings at junior school, devoured everything by Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, Kurt Vonnegut, Philip K. Dick, Arthur C. Clarke, Harry Harrison… I knew all about Walking on the Moon. On Regatta De Blanc, The Police’s 2nd album, I preferred Stuart’s Does Everyone Stare? with it’s obsessive lyric and densely disturbing piano – but this was the better song, the smash hit, and the song that even now makes me attentive, expectant. It’s not just the nostalgia value – Andy Summers’ guitar, his fabulously pared-down shiny Fender 3-note top-of-the-neck chords echoing unresolved hang in the air, coast over the dubby reggae-inspired bass and drums, forming a tight skin of steel across the music… what a landscape…

Walking On The Moon

Giant steps are what you take
Walking on the Moon
I hope my legs don’t break
Walking on the Moon
We could walk forever
Walking on the Moon
We could live together
Walking on, walking on the moon

Walking back from your house
Walking on the Moon
Walking back from your house
Walking on the Moon
Feet they hardly touch the ground
Walking on the Moon
My feet don’t hardly make no sound
Walking on, walking on the moon

Some may say
I’m wishing my days away
No way
And if it’s the price I pay
Some say
Tomorrow’s another day
You stay
I may as well play

Giant steps are what you take
Walking on the Moon
I hope my legs don’t break
Walking on the Moon
We could walk forever
Walking on the Moon
We could be together
Walking on, walking on the moon

Some may say
I’m wishing my days away
No way
And if it’s the price I pay
Some say
Tomorrow’s another day
You stay
I may as well play

Keep it up, keep it up

The Police

Gordon, Stripy Sumner of the North-East, him and his bass playing jazz-tinged chipmonk-voiced black-imitation soul, lost me with his atrocious single Da-Do-Do-Do, but he got me with this one. It’s tight, sparse, moody, and unmistakable. I was walking back from her house, walking on the moon, my feet hardly touched the ground, I was walking on the moon, that was me.

Sometimes in your life, a hit is meant for you. This is one of mine.

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This thing has 5 Comments

  1. Igor McBoring
    Posted 23 March, 2005 at 11:35 am | Permalink

    god that is SO boring

  2. Lagowski
    Posted 23 March, 2005 at 3:01 pm | Permalink

    The problem with the Police for me was always Sting – he has the most irritating singing voice I’ve ever heard. Andy Summers was (and maybe still is) the cool one – the opening plucks for ‘Every Breath You Take (Every Orgasm You Fake)’ are truly genius in their delivery.

  3. Blog ho
    Posted 24 March, 2005 at 2:22 am | Permalink

    I loved that song and the Police. I am quite fond of…shit, I forget the title and the lyrics but it was the sex doll song. also forget the album. great song, though. I first heard walking on the moon in 1987 when someone was fucking w/ my love fucking it up and fucking down and fucking it right off at the end.

  4. Blog ho
    Posted 24 March, 2005 at 5:37 pm | Permalink

    be my girl. that was it.

  5. transience
    Posted 28 March, 2005 at 5:14 am | Permalink

    i will soon plagiarize you to no end. beware.

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