Stung

Happy birthday, Mr. Sumner

Today, October 2nd, is Gordon Matthew Sumner’s 69th birthday. It’s hard to believe that this man, whom I’ve never met, had such an important role in my early life. In my teens, he ignited my interest in literature, from the dark comedy of Nabokov and the existential minimalism of Paul Bowles, to the classicism of Goethe. He taught me about (then) current events in Chile, the Amazon, the coal fields of England and northern Ireland. And he turned me on to the teachings of Arthur Koestler and Carl Jung. Never mind that most of this was well over the head of a 16-year old kid in suburban Milwaukee.

In case you don’t know, Gordon Sumner is the birth name of the rock star, Sting. I’ll spare you his full bio and I’m not going to pretend that I was the only kid whose life was profoundly impacted by his, or any, music. In fact, it’s a bit of a cliché that has played out over generations, just with a different cast of rock stars. For some people my age, it was the melancholy angst of Morrissey or The Cure. For others, it was the passionate anthems of R.E.M. or U2. For me, a sensitive literature nerd in a jock’s clothing, Sting’s jazz inflected music and literate lyrics were that intellectual (some called him didactic) fizz from the outside world that offset the pimply conventions of high school.

I came to Sting’s music late, after his stratospheric career as front man for The Police. So the first album I bought of his was 1986’s The Dream of the Blue Turtles, which he made with a group of jazz musicians. It was entirely revelatory to me, who previously had subsisted on Journey, REO Speedwagon, and the J. Geils Band. Yeah, I know, pretty vacuous stuff. So when I sat down to pore over the printed lyrics on the vinyl record’s sleeve, my head just about exploded: Prokofiev themes, Anne Rice vampire novels and Shakespearean sonnets. This wasn’t Top 40; this was my Liberal Arts degree prep course. 

At that age, you need a little push, an influence to point you in the direction in life you’re meant to go. In my mid-teens, I had aspirations of being an athlete. I was big and strong and fast back then and played football and basketball in high school. But a broken hand one year and a pretty serious knee injury the next sidelined me and forced me to look elsewhere for interests. Around that time I discovered Sting’s music and it recalibrated my brain. I stopped wearing sweatpants to school, starting writing poetry, took up the saxophone, and read Carl Jung, with great difficulty. By the time I got to college, I knew that words were my milieu, and that early seed planted by a few record albums blossomed into Art History and Psychology courses and ended in an English Literature degree.

I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself a gushing Sting super fan (some of my friends may differ with my assessment), though I did sleep overnight, outside, more than once to wait in line for concert tickets. And by the time I reached my early 20s, I had moved on to other musical interests, particularly so-called “world music”, ambient, house, and jazz. Sting had become a little less “edgy”, more mainstream and I didn’t follow him as closely. Of course, now he is on Instagram, an older English gentleman, who runs a winery in Italy with his wife. But he’s managed to stay relevant and age well, as I can only hope to do. Sting came along at the right time in my life, and set me on a course I’m convinced has led to where I am today. So here’s a belated thanks and a happy to birthday to you, Mr. Sumner. 

Did you have a similar experience? Was a musician or band that influenced you profoundly or gave voice to what you were feeling? If so, let me know in a comment. And, as always, thanks for reading. — JH