“Synchronicity” by the Police

The Police's final album is also arguably their finest from a pop craft point of view.

This album review delves into the final and, in some cases, the finest studio effort from Sting, Andy Summers, and Stewart Copeland, back when they were known as the Police.

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Genre: Pop, Rock, Experimental

Label: A&M

Release Date: June 17, 1983

Vibe: 🏜️

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Synchronicity is often thought of in terms of the “lasts” it represents for the Police. It was the group’s last studio album, the last time they made a significant dent in the Hot 100, and, if you believe all the backstage drama write-ups, the last time they could be in the same building with each other and lay down backing tracks as a trio. But dig deeper, and you’ll realize there is no shortage of firsts on display, too. It was Sting’s first time using a sequencer (an Oberheim DSX, to be exact), featured most prominently on tracks like “Walking in Your Footsteps,” produced the band’s first pop chart-topper in “Every Breath You Take.” Counterintuitively, it was also the first time they moved away from their sonic roots, leaning into their penchant for weirdness.

That departure from their established sound is most apparent when you compare Synchronicity to their previous LP, the excellent Ghost in the Machine. Despite its forays into ambient and electronica (see “Invisible Sun”), the latter is still an alternative rock album at heart, one that’s more interesting in political posturing than pop crossover potential. “Spirits in the Material World,” “One World (Not Three),” and “Re-Humanise Yourself” are as catchy as they are patronizing, not unlike what Phil Collins would take later in the 80s with “Another Day in Paradise.” Won’t someone think of the disenfranchised while we, the successful rock band, make money off the back of this messaging? Thankfully, the pandering is dialed way back on this record. The closest you get is the poison pill that is “Synchronicity II,” an economic, acid-tongued takedown of the capitalist dance most of us undertake day after day. Like most of the rest of the album, its energetic central riff and rhythm mask deep-rooted discontent in its lyrics.

But, to jump back to Ghost in the Machine for another few seconds, the technological advances that made that record possible foreshadowed how minimalist Synchronicity’s sound would be. Of the former, Sting said, "I enjoyed making [it] and playing with the tools of the studio, just building things up and sticking more vocals on. Great fun. But listening to it, I thought, ‘Hey, my voice on its own sounds as good as fifteen overdubs, so I'll try it on its own.’” It’s striking how far they take the less-is-more approach here, frequently including only a handful of elements in the mix. I adore the clean, symmetrical lines drawn in “King of Pain,” which opens with eerie keyboard chords, a single syncopated tom, and Sting’s wounded voice describing his self-destructiveness in great detail (”I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign/But it's my destiny to be the king of pain”). Even after the drums and guitar come in to give the song thrust, it doesn’t get distracted by shiny objects. It’s as effective as Police tracks come.

You could argue that the group’s biggest hit, “Every Breath You Take,” has had so much pop culture staying power because of its stripped-down nature. It has all the hallmarks of a doe-eyed love song, with melodic swells and an unforgettable guitar arpeggio that combine to twist the lyrics into something it’s not. Sting allegedly penned it in a half-hour after a late-night burst of inspiration but later admitted he recognized more sinister undercurrents at play. “I think I was thinking of Big Brother, surveillance and control.” Control of what is the question. The relationship he obsesses over? The object of his affection? Or maybe the very notion of purity or obedience (the line “every vow you break” carries an unfortunate irony in the context of Sting’s life)? Bitter and paranoid though it may be, it’s in the running for the title of the catchiest 80s song ever recorded.

The rest of Synchronicity’s second side is just as incredible. “Wrapped Around Your Finger” is a spooky tale of an apprentice who turns the tables on their master, with icy synths and stony percussion from Copeland creating an inescapably menacing atmosphere. Then, improbably, the track turns upbeat during its final chorus, right after Sting declares victory over his oppressor (”I will turn your face to alabaster/When you find your servant is your master”). “Tea in the Sahara” is a masterclass in recording and mixing, expertly shifting the focus from Sting’s thick bass riff to Copeland’s hi-hit flourishes to what Andy Summers described as his “wobbling” guitar effect, where he pushes his instrument to the feedback point before pulling it back. Artistically, it may be the band’s best effort. The closer, “Murder By Numbers,” features one of my favorite Copeland drum parts, with shifty cymbal work floating above a thick kick that thuds with authority.

For such an oddball of a record, Synchronicity performed fabulously well critically and commercially. In addition to selling over 8 million copies in the United States alone, it’s been inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame and National Recording Registry run by the Library of Congress, with the latter honor coming in 2023. Not everything works—Summers’ sick joke of a contribution, “Mother,” should’ve been left on the cutting room floor—but when the album is firing on all cylinders, it’s quite something to behold. In that vein, the LP also showcases Sting’s impeccable songwriting ability, a talent he’s parlayed into a hugely successful solo career. Musically, those records, beginning with The Dream of the Blue Turtles, are hit-and-miss for me. A track like “Englishman in New York” is what the Police would’ve sounded like had they dipped their toes into smooth jazz-inspired adult contemporary schmaltz. Not my bag.

Instead, Synchronicity makes me appreciate the group’s astonishing body of work. They released five albums in six years, any number of which are considered alternative rock classics. What floors me even more is, like the Beatles (yes, I’m going there), the trio’s level of craftsmanship increased proportionally with interpersonal tensions in the band. The latter got so bad that, according to producer and engineer Hugh Padgham, “that album was perhaps one meeting away from not happening.” That said, I’m not going to bemoan an ugly process when the end result is so beguiling, even if it wades into uncomfortable emotional territory. Abbey Road was cut from a similar cloth if we’re being honest. “I remember right before that, ringing up my manager and saying, ‘I hate this,’ because sometimes the tension in the room was so horrible,” he added. “But in many ways, that tension is what ended up making such a good album.”