STING  Brand New Day

Gordon Summer has chosen a wrong nick-name. A wrong one, yes. The sting stinks into your flesh, it poisons, it hurts, it leaves a distinct mark on your skin, on your soul. But no, what we've got here...

Gordon Summer has chosen a wrong nick-name. A wrong one, yes. The sting stinks into your flesh, it poisons, it hurts, it leaves a distinct mark on your skin, on your soul. But no, what we've got here is just slight flirt, swift touch, no visible marks, no pain. Anyone can have a black yellow-striped sweater.

"Brand new day" is a result of frivolous and not very productive dalliance with all thinkable styles. Take some Rap, add a dash of Arabian tunes, a pinch of New Age to taste, garnish with standard virtuoso harmony, chill, serve chilled. A torte with whipped cream, sort of. Decorated with green kiwi slices and lemon wedges - just for a change, not letting your vita being too dolce. Honestly, we've been expecting something more mature from an act who's going to celebrate 15th anniversary of his solo career next year.

The main part of the album is pure, concentrated Sting. "He climbs up through the darkness//No weapon, but his surprise//The greatest thief in the high Sahara//Enters the room, where the sleeping princess lies". That's it. Prince of Persia revised.

The most easily digested song is "Desert Rose": endless gliding, calling for no intensions from the audience. This song will enter you and fix itself inside you. And then it will bundle and leave you - if you get bored of it. The most pretentious one is "Perfect love...gone wrong". Kind of "Pariah-Dogs Blues", but much lighter, of course, 'cause we concern about the audience, no pressure, no strain. And, sure thing, no strong emotions, never.

Sting, without doubt, is an excellent musician. He is a wonderful composer. The arrangements are wondrous. But he's so tired... you can't imagine. He's sitting in a vast studio in the East-end, staring on the white wall and eating a torte with whipped cream. The sky is grey, "A thousand years" haunts him. He does not feel like doing anything. Does not want to. Or maybe it's time to compose a song? Sure, why not?

The sweater has been frazzled. Too bad.

30.11.1999, (ЗВУКИ РУ)