#not that i'm terribly interested in smig's childhood

[ray-rabies]

highlights after today’s live reading of Broken Music by Sting Smig It is around this time that I first meet Miles Copeland, the man who would become our manager, Svengali, mentor, and agent provocateur. Miles Axe Copeland III, the eldest of the Copeland brothers. Intimidating, intelligent, opinionated, and utterly serious. Miles had a reputation even then for being sharp, arrogant, and ruthless. I like him immediately. Though It was a year before he could remember my name. "Listen to me Stewart," he would shout in his nasal drawl just loud enough to be in earshot in the corridor outside his office. "Gene October is the real deal. He can't sing for shit but he's got that street thing. He's a real punk. You got this guy in the band, whatsisname, Smig? He's a goddamn jazz singer." "His name's Sting," Stewart would reply huffily. "Yeah, Yeah!" Miles would say waving his brother away. Ian, the middle brother, agent, amateur bass player, and Vietnam veteran, had become my favorite Copeland over these first few months. Less fanatically driven than the other two to succeed, he had the easygoing, relaxed philosophy of a man who'd been under fire and survived, as if the violence he'd witnessed had given him a broader perspective on the important things in life. Very little seemed to faze him; his agreeable humor became a constant that could be relied on as a counter to the often hysterical rantings of his siblings. He would call me Leroy, just as he called everyone else Leroy. For the sake of consistency, he even called himself Leroy. "Sting huh?" "Yes sir," I reply. "Sting," he says again savoring the word in his mouth like a gob of spit. "You've got the biggest fuckin head in the world." his voice is no more than a malevolent whisper. I'm a little shaken by this to say the least. "What exactly do you mean er Miles [Davis]?" "Saw ya in a fuckin movie man and your head filled the whole fuckin screen." x

"And lastly, Sumner 2- yes that's right 2 percent. Do you know why you got 2 percent in the maths exam lad?" "er no I don't sir." "Because you managed to spell your bloody name right." "Thank you sir. Stewart's swanky Mayfair address that so impressed me has turned out to be a squat. He and Ian and Sonja have only been there a few months. The flat is actually owned by an American lady named Marcia McDonald, Muhammad Ali's publicist. She lent the flat to a friend who then refused to leave, this is George, the large lady who almost knocked me down the stairs when I first arrived. On the suggest of Miles Copeland Jr, Stewart's and Ian's father and a friend of the owner, the Copeland brothers have been brought in as ... subsquatters to make life as uncomfortable as possible for Georgina, so Marcia could regain possession of her flat.If this sounds like a ridiculously convoluted CIA plot, it's probably because it is. The RCA pressing plant in County Durham is a shrine to Elvis Presley. His picture seems to be on every wall in every corridor in the place. We are led into one of the listening rooms, and through a common glass window is another listening room with six ladies all in advanced middle age. They sit like religious devotees under their portrait of Elvis with a blank look of people in a trance. They could be listening to Puccini or Ziggy Stardust but they don't care. I feel like I've walked into some obscure suburb of hell and must force myself not to look at them. 'it's a goddamn classic, its a fuckin smash' [Miles][[Copeland]] moves to kiss me and I instinctively recoil, sinking in abashed gratified modesty. I receive copious slaps, as if I am one of his pet mastiffs. Wayne is a shy, sensitive, complex individual and I like him very much, although with songs like "If You Don't Wanna Fuck Me, Fuck Off" he clearly isn't from quite the same romantic tradition as I am when it comes to songwriting, but he is a fascinating performer. Me caterwauling at the top of my range over Henry's approximations of the chords and the indigested panic of Stewart's drumming. He is a superb drummer and quite capable of driving a small power station with his energy, but he needs to relax more. Andy has a youthful, intelligent face, framed with angelic golden locks. He is urbane, good-humored, something of a dilettante in things artistic, well dressed, and alert to any slightly that may be directed towards him intentionally or otherwise. When I get to know Andy better I will appreciate how well read he is. He has a large collection of books, with a leaning toward the esoteric, an encyclopedic knowledge of film, and is highly opinionated in all matters cultural. All of this might have made him a terrible bore but for his excellent and often absurd sense of humor. He can be the best company and having been on the road most of his life has learned the survivor's knowledge, that to maintain a modicum of sanity when everyone else is losing theirs, you need to occasionally send yourself up.He does this with the same ease and grace that he displays as a guitarist. Stewart and I will dub him the 'art monster' which he will accept as the greatest compliment. i don’t believe i need to share the unremittingly horny anecdote of Smig’s first time with Stew, i feel we’ve all already seen it. for those who haven’t, well.