Sincerely Stinging - "Songs From The Labyrinth"

"Cleare or cloudie sweet as April showring,
Smooth or frowning so is hir face to mee,
Pleas'd or smiling like milde May all flow'ring,
When skies blew silke and medowes carpets bee,
Hir speeches notes of that night bird that singeth,
Who thought all sweet yet jarring notes outringeth."

Indeed, ladies and gentleman, the one and only Sting. Identically Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner, him and his bedazzling talent paid us a visit tonight.
Released in 2006, his album "Songs from the Labyrinth" contains songs written by various medieval singers. Accompanied by Edin Karamazov's leute, he sung us all into awe.
You would never believe how, in an hour and fourty-five minutes, one man can mix his very enticing British wit, his sly handling of a leute, his mesmerising voice and fantastic originality to create what was just about the most wonderful concert I've ever seen.

To tell you the truth, I hadn't done much research about the new album, so I was basically walking into the concert hall with "eyes wide shut". I saw about six instruments propped up on an uncanny Persian rug, four anorexic microphones in the back and...that was about it. I expected an average concert, doomed by the fact that it was held indoors, marred by its lack of instruments and cursed by the amount of over-sung pieces of music about to be heard.
Never did I imagine that by stepping onto that stage, Sting will have single-handedly topsy-turveyed my idea of a concert.

The minute - no, the moment! - Sting sat down and spoke to us, in his mellifluous voice, of John Dowland, I was charmed, enchanted and blessed never to be able to take my eyes off him. John Dowland, one of the fifteenth century's foremost lutenists and composers, wiggled his melancholic tunes into Sting's playlist: Come, heavy sleep, Come again, Flow my tears, In the darkness let me dwell - all of them and more were revived, renewed and re-gifted to an unexpectant auditor: me. Each song had a story, each song was preceded by a fragment of one of John Dowland's letters to the Queen. His reading made my blood stand still, his singing painted this open-mouthed, idiotic grin on my face which I was not capable of getting rid of until well on my way home. I reached the conclusion that everything - and I'm not exaggerating - was impeccable. Even the lighting gave everything an intimate touch: soft copper colours hit against the sombre darkness of the singers' attires from every angle. Simple, but not plain.

What I saw, for once, on a concert stage, was the naked reality of the performer in front. A history lesson, a revival and renewal of the past, a wonderful idea brought to the world by two very modest men, a choir of young and talented singers - all without the useless paraphernalia involving a concert for someone as famous as Sting. Without a touch of tiredness in his voice, or in Edin karamazov's fingers, they were able to create such a warmly electric atmosphere than I have seen anyone do. By their spirit, making me enjoy every moment of the concert for its uniqueness, its grace, dignity and warmth.

It was well worth skipping my last class - which was, coincidentally, History -, I realised. I needed a walk in the "Fields of Gold".

"You'll remember me
When the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley."

P.S.: You see, that's where he was wrong, though I hate to admit it. I'll be keeping him, his voice, talent and spirit constantly, at the back of my head until I find a better sound. Or feeling.