One Train Later, a memoir by Police guitarist Andy Summers, is one of those rare books which takes my breath away by sight alone. I haven't had that feeling since I first laid eyes on Hemingway's True at First Light, published in 1999 on the centennial of his birth (and I knew that one was coming). For everyone who once believed in something called...well, you know what it was called...this is candy of the best kind. It's more than candy, of course. It's a refresher course on the relentless excellence of The Police, and a poignant reminder of that magical summer of 1983 when "King of Pain," "Wrapped Around Your Finger," and "Every Breath You Take" ruled our hearts just as they ruled the airwaves.
This...this book was totally unexpected. I don't believe that anyone can rationally refute the premise that The Police had the most premature demise of any band of the rock era. Walking away after the critical and commercial success of 1983's Synchronicity (an album accomplished enough to be the greatest pop masterpiece since The Beatles' Abbey Road) was the musical equivalent of a pitcher retiring after throwing a perfect game. It still hurts; there are still some of us who didn't want them to go.
By that point, The Police were in "a state of seige," Summers writes, "encircled twenty-four hours a day by lawyers, record companies, fans, and the yawning maw of the press."
From this elevation, with its weird brew of light and claustrophobia, you see why the Beatles finally blew apart. We seem to be following the same route, with the saurian roar of the media filling our ears, drowning out our beautiful songs.
Summers, it seems, has a good ear for prose as well as immortal guitar phrases. One Train Later is published by Thomas Dunne Books, an imprint of St. Martin's Press. I'm tempted to begin reading it tonight. But then I wouldn't sleep at all.
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