Because of the civil war in Lebanon he was forced to move back to the States, where he worked for a private firm (probably computer electronics or communications) who paid him highly for his skills. He left suddenly in 1976 to come to England, where he felt the change in climate in the music scene, felt cold toward it, and immediately bought a Gibson SG, a Fender bass, a drum kit, and a couple of tape recorders, and within a month he had taught himself to play them, apparently using skills he developed from the Druze.
Ask why he persists with the masquerade, he tells you, “This is important for personal, creative, and business reasons, not to mention legal ones.” By which I infer that if the American firm knew where he was they would probably sue the ass off him, probably to give back any information he may possess that they don’t want on the loose. Still, becoming a rock star is an unlikely way to hide, isn’t it, so maybe he is just a rich prankster.
Klark Kent remains an enigma. During the course of conversation the topics included various aspects of art, religion, radio, the social security system, what Britain needs to do to survive, the sinister motive behind the Soviet arms buildup, expansion of human potential, and a thousand other nonmusical topics, and interesting as they are I can’t really go into them here. He’s a very erudite gentleman, he may or may not be a superman, but I’m sure we’re definitely going to be hearing an awful lot more of him.
—RAB
CHAPTER 8 A QUICK HISTORY OF THE POLICE
1976-78
As narrated in my film Everyone Stares.
It’s 1976,
and this thing called punk rock
has just raised its ugly head in London.
Sting, Henry Padovani, and I
have formed a group called: The Police.
We cut our hair, put on shades,
and have adopted the hostile posture of the day.
It’s a chaotic scene
so most of our gigs
are from cancellations by other bands.
We’re the only guys who know how to hire a truck
and get to the show.
Our fee is £30 sterling:
5 for the truck,
10 for the PA,
and a fiver each for the three of us.
With 400 quid from my buddy Paul,
we recorded our first single
and sell it ourselves, by the box,
to record stores around the country.
I am president of Illegal Records
and chief salesperson.
Sting has his doubts.
He gets a buzz from the energy of the scene,
but pretty much hates the music,
including ours.
So Andy shows up,
with his harmonic sophistication,
and Sting starts writing these big songs.
A sound of our own is beginning to hatch.
Problem is,
the cognoscenti are onto us.
They know that we’re just carpetbaggers.
I have a dark past with the long-hair group, Curved Air,
and Andy Summers has consorted for years with the enemy generation.
We are unloved.
But something strange is happening.
A mysterious, masked American has turned up in London
with a couple songs that got him a modest hit on the English charts.
He goes under the name of Klark Kent,
but no one knows who he is.
He plays all of the instruments,
writes, sings, and produces the songs.
So, since no one can think of anyone else who could do all that,
they are starting to point the finger at me.
Well, it’s the first time I’ve ever been blamed for a hit of any kind,
and I’m all for it.
This is the big time.
At last.
But it never would have happened like this
for that known charlatan,
The Police drummer,
so the lesson is clear.
The Police needs to regain its virginity,
to shed the leprous scab of its wretched history,
to shake loose the chains and sally forth
to the promised land of America,
where people are kind of anticipating
something new out of England.
We’ve been together for two years.
Arriving in New York City
with our gear as hand luggage,
we’re ready to start all over from scratch.
My brothers, Ian and Miles, have hatched a scheme
where they are connecting up a string of clubs across America
where un-hippie, rebellious youth can be part of a brand-new scene.
It’s 1978, and the hippie thing is way old.
Everybody’s looking at this New Wave,
which actually is mainly characterized by a new hairdo.
Short hair is the dividing line.
So Ian finds a club in every city
where we can play to the fifty or hundred kids
who have heard of this new thing.
And Miles makes sure the radio guys are there.
Out on the road,
it’s the three of us in a van
with my childhood chum Kim Turner at the wheel.
But things are picking up pretty quickly.
There’s a buzz about the band.
Shows are filling up,
The clubs are getting bigger.
Best thing about that is, roadies!
Man, I am sick of carrying
those fucking drums around!
It also means that our sound is better,
and we can play fresher.
We’re getting pretty good.
Something about the way Andy hits those chords
and the way Sting pumps that bass
just lights me right up.
And in the winter of 1978,
just as America is beginning to notice