Monthly Archives: Jun 2026

Sting: Bring On The Night @ 40

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Sting’s Bring On The Night, released 40 years ago this month, seldom makes it into the pantheon of ‘classic’ 1980s live albums (usually including Stop Making Sense, Alchemy, Under A Blood Red Sky, No Sleep Til Hammersmith, Exit…Stage Left).

But it probably should if you like brilliant playing, good singing and an interesting setlist, apparently with no post-production ‘sweetening’ too (even Rush admitted to some studio retakes after the event).

Former Police live mixer and occasional road manager Kim Turner spent most of 1985 recording Sting’s world tour (this writer was at a Royal Albert Hall gig of January 1986).

The result was probably his most underrated album, out of step with pretty much anything else released in 1986, the one that let his superb Dream Of The Blue Turtles band loose.

Sting was obviously fond of it too, designing the cover and writing copious notes on each song which even allowed for a little self-criticism (‘Children’s Crusade’). In a contemporary interview, he even claimed that he shared all the album’s songwriting royalties with the band (is that even possible? Must ask the PRS…).

They certainly do his music proud. You can set your watch to Kenny Kirkland’s vamps and countermelodies. Sting worked very hard with backing vocalists Dolette McDonald and Janice Pendarvis (demonstrated on the tour doc directed by Michael Apted, of which more another time…) and their voices mesh beautifully.

Drummer Omar Hakim is at his absolutely peak with delicious, flowing fusion and funk playing, fresh from classic albums with Weather Report, John Scofield and Dire Straits. Bassist Darryl Jones gets on with his work fairly anonymously, but embellishes the back end of ‘Consider Me Gone’ with a few remarkable bebop lines.

Some Police material is improved. An atmospheric ‘Tea In The Sahara’ gets the tempo right, Kirkland resplendent in Herbie mode and Sting doing a decent Andy Summers impression. The ‘One World’/’Love Is The Seventh Wave’ medley is brilliant, with weird key changes and Sting’s Wes Montgomery-style guitar break.

He apparently always hated the chorus on the Police version of ‘Bring On The Night’ so it gets a makeover here with some major-seventh chords and nice, breezy R’n’B feel. Kirkland’s epic solo is one of the great piano statements of the 1980s.

The B-side ‘Another Day’ is effervescent and funky (in a different key to the studio version) despite some of Sting’s most depressing state-of-the-world lyrics ever.

But a lot of the softer stuff is underwhelming: ‘Moon Over Bourbon Street’ barely registers, while ‘I Burn For You’ comes sans Omar’s blowout from the doc. ‘Been Down So Long’ is a light-hearted, corny blues with ill-advised ‘sexy’ Sting vocals, despite another beautiful Hakim performance. ‘We Work The Black Seam’ adds little to the leaden studio version.

In general, the album maybe could have done with more up-tempo reggae, and it’s surprising the A&M bosses didn’t demand the inclusion of some bigger Police hits.

Many critics were quick to label the album as ‘fusion’, but if you listen to what Branford Marsalis is actually playing, his chief influences seem to be King Curtis and Grover Washington Jr. The Wayne Shorter/Coltrane licks only really come out on ‘Children’s Crusade’.

Upon its June 1986 release, Bring On The Night only hit #16 in the UK, didn’t chart in the USA (?) but 18 months later won a Grammy for Best Pop Vocal Performance, Male.

Meanwhile Sting was becoming the Sting we know today. He had presented Quincy Jones his Grammy for Record Of The Year (‘We Are The World’) in February 1986. In June, he duetted with Mark Knopfler at the Prince’s Trust Wembley gig and did the Artists Against Apartheid Clapham Common gig organised by Jerry Dammers. He then reformed The Police for the Conspiracy Of Hope Amnesty tour leading, of course, to the disastrous ‘Don’t Stand So Close To Me ‘86’ single.

The next stop was the Bahamas to record …Nothing Like The Sun, another career high point and a return to the bass. He would never record with Omar Hakim or Darryl Jones again…

Tales Of The Unexpected: The Flypaper (1980)

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If you were a British kid of a certain age circa 1980, there was plenty of spooky material around on TV: ‘Hammer House Of Horror’, ‘Armchair Thriller’ and those Public Information films warning about stranger danger, fireworks and water.

And the occasional episode of ‘Tales Of The Unexpected’.

Based on Roald Dahl’s short-story book of the same name, it was an absolute British TV staple between 1979 and 1988 across 112 episodes of varying quality. These days it’s probably best remembered for Ron Grainer’s brilliant theme music and the dancing credits lady.

But it wasn’t especially known for truly disturbing episodes – until your correspondent came across ‘The Flypaper’ recently. Broadcast on 9 August 1980, it was based on Elizabeth Taylor’s short story of the same name (she died in 1975) and adapted rather well by Robin Chapman, who went on to write episodes of ‘Maigret’ and ‘Dalziel And Pascoe’.

It’s a tight, tense 22 minutes, shot entirely on location in Ely in Cambridgeshire – no dodgy studio stuff here.

A young girl has been found dead on the outskirts of a provincial English town. Shy, sensitive, withdrawn Silva (Lorna Yabsley, who went on to appear in 1981’s ‘Day Of The Triffids’) is particularly afraid, not helped by the fact that her parents (her mother in the short story) have died in a car crash two years ago and she’s now living with her somewhat cold grandmother.

Lorna Yabsley as Silva

Meanwhile a creepy man seems to be watching her, finally cornering her on a bus with intrusive, incessant, over-familiar chatter. You can imagine many children experienced similar in the 1960s, ‘70s and ‘80s.

We won’t give away the horrible, rather bold last three minutes, which very well epitomise ‘the banality of evil’.

Suffice it to say that it tapped into a hot-button topic in 1980, with the Yorkshire Ripper still at large and lots of parental advice about not talking to strangers (tragically, our heroine does NOT talk to the weird stranger in ‘The Flypaper’…).

Director Graham Evans does an excellent job, ramping up the atmosphere and cutting back the dialogue. There are disturbing echoes of ‘The Offence’ and ‘Don’t Look Now’.

Ron Grainer supplies a nicely sludgy synth soundtrack and there’s the (initially) amusing sight of actor Pat ‘Fawlty Towers’ Keen – she played Sybil and Basil’s pushy friend in ‘The Anniversary’, but is used to much more disarming effect here.

With all the endless current talk of how far we should go to protect our children, ‘The Flypaper’ provides a cold slap in the face. Here it is, sadly with rather dodgy picture quality, if you dare…

Book Review: Stay Alive (The Life And Death Of Stuart Adamson) by Scott Rowley

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Here’s another missive from the darker side of the music industry.

Author Scott Rowley has obtained the full cooperation of Stuart Adamson’s family, friends and bandmates to tell the gripping, sometimes troubling, sometimes sad, sometimes funny story of the Big Country frontman and Skids guitarist who took his own life in 2001 after struggles with alcoholism and depression.

A brave, unsettling opening takes us right into Adamson’s head just a few days before his death. From there it’s an unflinching look at his troubled life, and Rowley finds plenty in Adamson’s background pointing to mitigating circumstances (his father was jailed in 2004 for abusing children).

‘Stay Alive’ also takes an unusual approach with fairly detailed biographical detail about all the members of The Skids and Big Country. They are a huge part of this story – Richard Jobson and Tony Butler in particular deliver strikingly candid observations on Adamson, as do several family members.

This is also very much a Scottish tale, complete with unedited dialects and much fruity language, from Adamson’s childhood in Cowdenbeath (novelist Ian Rankin went to the same school) onwards.

Adamson makes an almost immediate musical impact during the punk era with The Skids. The Strangers’ JJ Burnel takes an interest as does John Peel, calling Adamson ‘Scotland’s answer to Jimi Hendrix’. Virgin Records sign the band but indulge in various questionable business decisions; the book is extremely good on the machinations of the post-punk record industry (as is this ‘Play At Home’ documentary from 1984).

Adamson’s relationship with vocalist Jobson starts well – Adamson is particularly protective towards the singer when he finds out about his epilepsy – but the friendship becomes increasingly strained as the band gain some success.

Adamson flees The Skids and hooks up with young guitarist Bruce Watson and the hot West London rhythm section of drummer Mark Brzezicki and bassist Tony Butler (who had already played on Pretenders’ ‘Back On The Chain Gang’). It was Tony who was blown away by the musical chemistry after their first jam session, insisting that he and Mark join Big Country.

But even as the band achieve almost immediate success and create a great bond with their many fans (it’s often forgotten how popular Big Country were in the UK, enjoying 12 Top 40 singles during the decade), Adamson can’t ditch the serious drinking. More and more difficult behaviour ensues, including a disappearing act around the time of Live Aid which, to this day, Butler deems almost unforgivable.

But Adamson regroups and enjoys 14 years of sobriety after that difficult summer of 1985. A 1988 reunion leads to a bidding war between Virgin and Warners – they go with the latter, head honchos Russ Titelman and Lenny Waronker apparently marvelling at the band’s musicianship. But it all goes wrong again, Adamson jumping ship in 1989.

Big Country were one of the most musically-literate and distinctive rock bands of the 1980s, and we get plenty on just how they achieved their sound: Adamson’s first wife Sandra was a dancer, and her practice tape featured a piper named Willie Law. Adamson would often try to play along, probably the original source of the ‘bagpipe guitars’ tag that followed Big Country around.

Meanwhile Brzezicki based his style around military rudiments (his Polish father insisted that he work through a RAF drum book) and jazz/rock legends such as Billy Cobham and Lenny White.

The book is excellent on the literary sources of Adamson’s lyrics – even hardcore Big Country fans will probably be surprised how many there are. There are plenty of pertinent, poignant details about him too. A regular five-a-side player, his football friends report that his nickname was Inspector Gadget, because he always had his legs wrapped around someone.

But there’s no getting away from the fact that the last third of ‘Stay Alive’ is a gruelling portrayal of alcoholism and attendant family breakdown, as Adamson begins a new life in the US and Big Country limp on with varying degrees of success.

Still, this excellent book covers all the bases – it’s an essential read about the 1980s music scene, and also somewhat of a cautionary tale which should be read by every agent, manager and PR person.

Of course it’ll also be rather a heartbreaking book for Big Country fans. Their excellent performance of ‘King Of Emotion’ on the Channel 4 show ‘Wired’ (this writer’s first real exposure to the band) came complete with Adamson’s cheeky grin and nod to someone in the front row around 0:25. Hard to think of any other 1980s pop frontmen who were so inclined.

Author Scott Rowley discusses ‘Stay Alive’ in this podcast.