The Police
– Synchronicity
Synchronicity is the sound of a band imploding in real time—and somehow crafting their most ambitious and finely tuned album while doing it. The Police had already dabbled in reggae, pop, punk, and whatever was floating around the early ’80s airwaves. Here, they sharpened it all into a jagged, shining blade. Sting’s brainy melodrama, Stewart Copeland’s restless drumming, and Andy Summers’ spidery guitar lines all snap together like a machine built to self-destruct.
Best of…
The tension is baked into every track. Sting leans into mysticism and psychobabble like a man reading Jung in a hot tub, but he sells it with conviction. His melodies are sticky; his voice, increasingly theatrical. Copeland pounds and dances around the beat like he’s auditioning for three bands at once. Summers, ever the alchemist, manages to make minimalism sound lush. Together, they create an album full of strange angles and immaculate paranoia.
It’s their swan song, but it doesn’t feel like a goodbye. It feels like three brilliant musicians trying to outmaneuver each other in the studio, throwing punches that land as hits. That they ended it here makes sense—Synchronicity isn’t just a peak; it’s a breaking point.
Choice Tracks
Synchronicity II
Pure claustrophobia set to a galloping beat. A working stiff’s apocalypse runs parallel to a Loch Ness monster’s return, and somehow it works. Sting howls like he’s trapped inside both stories.
Every Breath You Take
A stalker’s anthem dressed as a love song. Clean, cold, and creepily effective. Sting’s control is chilling, and Summers’ minimal riff slices through the mix like a scalpel.
King of Pain
Self-pity never sounded so majestic. The imagery is overwrought, but the arrangement lifts it into something nearly mythic. One of the most affecting songs in their catalog.
Wrapped Around Your Finger
A slow burn with an academic twist—full of icy distance and poetic vengeance. Sting’s voice floats through it like a ghost with a PhD.
Tea in the Sahara
Underrated and haunting. Sparse, hypnotic, and eerily beautiful. Summers and Copeland stretch time while Sting wanders through a mirage of longing and futility.