Sting reflects on Together At Home
Jokers. Fucking jokers.
Look, it doesn't matter to me that I personally wasn't on the telethon or whatever the fuck they're calling it, I don't give a shit, my main concern is the music, you know? It's all about the performance for me, it's all about the sanctity of the musical bloody sacrament. How can you ask us to heal if the music is bollocks? Sorry, it's true. We can't soothe the masses if their fucking ears are melting off.
Think I haven't got a quick acoustic version of Message In A Bottle just hanging around that I could have played at the drop of a flatcap? I wrote to them and I said, look, these people trapped in their houses because of the plague, some of them without gardens or maybe even without kitchens, I don't know, but these people, what they want is they want some fucking good music, something to take them out of their diseased bodies, you know? And this song I've got, right, S.O.S., that means help - it's about helping. I sang them a bit of it on my telephone and the kids helped me put it in the email. You know, "I'll send an S.O.S. to the world". It means help. Dumb fuckers probably don't know that so I put it in italics in the email.
As I say it doesn't matter to me if I "made the cut" or whatever, it's not about my image, but it doesn't help some poor nurse from Rotherhithe whose mum died last week if Paul fucking McCartney is massacring fucking Penny Lane or whatever it was on the Hammond organ. Who's that helping? You get Sting on, you know you're getting some real music at least. You can't tell me that the guy who did a whole album of John Dowland compositions on Deutsche bloody Gramophon with a Bosnian lutenist, really lovely bloke by the way, isn't going to deliver music-wise. Check out "The Lowest Trees Have Tops" from that record, I mean, love it or hate it, that's musicianship. I'm sorry, I love the guy, but Elt's just sitting there at his grand piano - what's that doing for anyone? For art? It's bullshit. I've got a whole fucking room full of vintage bouzoukis.
And honestly, it's not about celebrity, but Jesus. Some of these people, I don't even recognise them. They had some girl on there called Delta Goodrem. I put her in google afterwards and turns out she's from Neighbours, the Australian TV show. Fucking jokers. I said to Trudie, "Delta Goodrem? Dealt a bad hand more like!" and she sprayed out her green tea. They actually did a study about this, right, it said that 21% of people associate the word 'sting' foremost with me - that's above bee stings or nettle stings, or organised operations to catch a felon red-handed. So yeah, I am "famous" whatever that means, and to be honest, yes, it probably does help, actually, for all those people stuck in their houses, to be able to say, oh yeah, I recognise that guy doing the really good musical performance. It's Sting.
And I've got a fucking nice house, better than some of these shit-heaps we saw on the box last night. Trudie got some fella in just last year, lovely gay bloke, and he did a bang-up job on the place in no time. Sorry, but they had John Legend sitting on his staircase. That's not what these people want to see, when they're stuck in their houses without even a balcony. What they want is a fucking good musical performance where none of the notes are wrong and all of them are good, by somebody they recognise immediately, in a room whose cornicing pays tribute to the interior design work of William Haines. That counts for something. I've been to Paul's gaff, and trust me, he's got nicer rooms than that one. Give the people some fucking beauty in their lives! Jesus.
Anyway, they're doing a few more of these, and to be honest, with some of the people they've had on there they'd be fucking mad to miss out on this. Charlie Puth, one of them was called. I didn't even bother looking him up, you could tell by his hair he's from the internet. I sent them a follow-up email because it's been ages actually and they haven't got back to me. But my daughter knows someone who's friends with Lady Gaga - god love her, at least she can sing, fair fucking play to the girl. We loved her tribute to Julie Andrews, that was class. Anyway, I sent another email to this new address and copied in the old guys, with a new idea, this time it's me doing Don't Stand So Close To Me on the harp. Don't tell me you don't want that, that's fucking quality that is.
Look, it doesn't matter to me that I personally wasn't on the telethon or whatever the fuck they're calling it, I don't give a shit, my main concern is the music, you know? It's all about the performance for me, it's all about the sanctity of the musical bloody sacrament. How can you ask us to heal if the music is bollocks? Sorry, it's true. We can't soothe the masses if their fucking ears are melting off.
Think I haven't got a quick acoustic version of Message In A Bottle just hanging around that I could have played at the drop of a flatcap? I wrote to them and I said, look, these people trapped in their houses because of the plague, some of them without gardens or maybe even without kitchens, I don't know, but these people, what they want is they want some fucking good music, something to take them out of their diseased bodies, you know? And this song I've got, right, S.O.S., that means help - it's about helping. I sang them a bit of it on my telephone and the kids helped me put it in the email. You know, "I'll send an S.O.S. to the world". It means help. Dumb fuckers probably don't know that so I put it in italics in the email.
As I say it doesn't matter to me if I "made the cut" or whatever, it's not about my image, but it doesn't help some poor nurse from Rotherhithe whose mum died last week if Paul fucking McCartney is massacring fucking Penny Lane or whatever it was on the Hammond organ. Who's that helping? You get Sting on, you know you're getting some real music at least. You can't tell me that the guy who did a whole album of John Dowland compositions on Deutsche bloody Gramophon with a Bosnian lutenist, really lovely bloke by the way, isn't going to deliver music-wise. Check out "The Lowest Trees Have Tops" from that record, I mean, love it or hate it, that's musicianship. I'm sorry, I love the guy, but Elt's just sitting there at his grand piano - what's that doing for anyone? For art? It's bullshit. I've got a whole fucking room full of vintage bouzoukis.
And honestly, it's not about celebrity, but Jesus. Some of these people, I don't even recognise them. They had some girl on there called Delta Goodrem. I put her in google afterwards and turns out she's from Neighbours, the Australian TV show. Fucking jokers. I said to Trudie, "Delta Goodrem? Dealt a bad hand more like!" and she sprayed out her green tea. They actually did a study about this, right, it said that 21% of people associate the word 'sting' foremost with me - that's above bee stings or nettle stings, or organised operations to catch a felon red-handed. So yeah, I am "famous" whatever that means, and to be honest, yes, it probably does help, actually, for all those people stuck in their houses, to be able to say, oh yeah, I recognise that guy doing the really good musical performance. It's Sting.
And I've got a fucking nice house, better than some of these shit-heaps we saw on the box last night. Trudie got some fella in just last year, lovely gay bloke, and he did a bang-up job on the place in no time. Sorry, but they had John Legend sitting on his staircase. That's not what these people want to see, when they're stuck in their houses without even a balcony. What they want is a fucking good musical performance where none of the notes are wrong and all of them are good, by somebody they recognise immediately, in a room whose cornicing pays tribute to the interior design work of William Haines. That counts for something. I've been to Paul's gaff, and trust me, he's got nicer rooms than that one. Give the people some fucking beauty in their lives! Jesus.
Anyway, they're doing a few more of these, and to be honest, with some of the people they've had on there they'd be fucking mad to miss out on this. Charlie Puth, one of them was called. I didn't even bother looking him up, you could tell by his hair he's from the internet. I sent them a follow-up email because it's been ages actually and they haven't got back to me. But my daughter knows someone who's friends with Lady Gaga - god love her, at least she can sing, fair fucking play to the girl. We loved her tribute to Julie Andrews, that was class. Anyway, I sent another email to this new address and copied in the old guys, with a new idea, this time it's me doing Don't Stand So Close To Me on the harp. Don't tell me you don't want that, that's fucking quality that is.
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