"You can't imagine how pleased I am to be here," says a nattily attired Geordie, and the Albert Hall whoops in acclamation. Having been forced to cancel the opening dates of this tour due to laryngitis, Sting and his band are clearly itching to play. But any thoughts that this would turn into a celebratory tour of the former Police man's lauded back pages are demolished within minutes.
The consummate professional pop musician, Sting seems to have come to terms with his illustrious past. The roots of his most recent LP, "Sacred Love", rest in an emotional performance at one of his homes, in Tuscany: convening to record a DVD in front of an audience of invited guests, a larger than average band rehearsed a mass of material from all parts of Sting's career. But the day of the show was September 11th, 2001: against his initial instincts, Sting reluctantly agreed with his band that not performing would be akin to giving in to the terrorists. And so, although he lost friends in the World Trade Centre, he played probably the most difficult show of his life.
Perhaps, then, it's little wonder he wants to stress "Sacred Love" so much, and to let some of those older songs stay in the past. The new material was written for a changed world, one bruised by conflict and gradually realising that the technological advancements we rely on may have made us less secure – certainly, they've made us more paranoid. So when he does break off, five songs in, from new material, it's with a jolt: "Synchronicity II", a firestorm post-punk yowl of foreboding and alienation, sits as easily in this set as it would in a ballet. Picking up the double bass he leads a jazz reading of "Walking On The Moon", another exercise in disconcertion, dislocation, the sounds of a bygone age talking about love and loss on other planets.
"Englishman In New York" acknowledges its new context, a hymn to the victim city rather than its original incarnation as a discussion of being out of place. "This War" is introduced as "a song about how it feels to be in the back seat of a car driven by a maniac", and while it's fashionable to knock Sting for his sometimes heavy-handed earnestness – on the way in we're leafletted by the Rainforest Foundation – it's a measured critique. More awkward are the visuals, clip-art visions of bombs and bombers beamed out across an ever-shifting choreography of massive video screens.
But there are parts of tonight's show where just being here to sing seems enough for him. While he studiously avoids the over-played "Shape Of My Heart", "Fields Of Gold" is stunning, a living throwback, a manifestation of the English folk song tradition, and an encore that segues "If I Ever Lose My Faith In You" with "Every Breath You Take" seems suitably euphoric. Only a lumpen, mis-directed "Stolen Car" seems out of place tonight, a rare misfire from one of the greatest songwriters of his age.
