I Bet You They Won't Play This Song On The Radio

Monty Python once recorded their "Contractual Obligation Album." Being a fan, I felt compelled to buy it, even though it was apparent from the title that it was a sell-out on their part. It was a way to complete the group's commitment to their label, EMI. There were a lot of enjoyable bits on that record, mostly songs primarily recorded by single members of the troupe, but it was obvious even to my teenaged ears that I was listening to filler. Nothing I heard quite matched up to "Penguin on the telly" or "Argument Clinic." This was no Holy Grail.
No matter. I am a collector and a completist, and felt relieved at some level to own it. But it opened my eyes to the reality of the recording business. I do not own a copy of "Metal Machine Music," even though I am a big Lou Reed fan. I can appreciate his experimental kiss-off to RCA without having to own it. Listening to an hour of feedback and distortion doesn't help me get the joke any better. The fact that he went on to record a few decent albums for Arista records, before RCA swallowed them up again, for "The Blue Mask" makes the whole exercise seem pointless.
Which brings me to Sting. I was sad to see him leave the Police, but I drank the Kool-Aid when he "returned to his jazz roots" on "Dream of the Blue Turtles." In hindsight, maybe I should have poured it into my ears. I bought the solo albums. I paid to see him and his ego perform. I appreciated his politics and listened to his records in hopes of becoming more aware. Then he started playing lute, and no amount of rain forest saving or tantric sex could get me to buy that. And just recently he's been touring with a symphonic orchestra, and released his greatest hits in an orchestral way. Thank you, no. It makes me wish for sixty-four minutes of feedback, or "I'm So Worried." Just a little.