#679
Ben Gone 25 years ago today, Sting entering 75 today.
As the calendar flips to October, my mind drifts back to those crackling radio waves that were my lifeline in the 1970s and '80s. No streaming playlists, no on-demand Spotify—just the thrill of catching a song once or twice a week on BBC World Service, Voice of America, or Radio Australia. Daytime hours from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m.? Forget it; those were for studies or survival. It had to be the dead of night, low volume, in the dim glow of a hostel room, praying the signal wouldn't fade. Music wasn't just entertainment back then—it was sanity, a rebellion against the loneliness of college days when I was barely out of my teens, making boneheaded judgment calls that left me staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m. And yeah, cricket kept me grounded too (nothing beats a Test match), but movies? Sheer waste of time. Give me a guitar riff or a haunting vocal over two hours of celluloid any day.
Today, as I fire up my personal blog after too long a hiatus, I'm channeling that nostalgia into a heartfelt tribute. It's a dual homage: to Sting (the one and only Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner), who just stepped into his 75th year on October 2, and to Benjamin Orr—affectionately known as Benny (that seven-letter powerhouse of a name)—marking the 25th anniversary of his passing on this very day, October 3, 2000. These artists from the golden eras of the '70s and '80s didn't just hook us with their hooks; they pulled us through the down moments, the isolation, the raw uncertainty of being under 25 and figuring it all out. Bands like REO Speedwagon, The Police, The Cars, Dire Straits, Eagles, Deep Purple, Carpenters, ABBA, and A-Ha—they were the architects of our emotional architecture. And in that pantheon, Sting and Ben stand tall, their music a timeless thread in the fabric of anyone born in the '60s like me.
Sting: The Englishman Who Wrapped the World Around His Finger
Gordon Sumner—Sting to the world—turns 74 today, but let's call it what it is: the dawn of his 75th year, a testament to a life that's been as poetic and unpredictable as his lyrics. Born in the gritty shipyards of Wallsend, England, in 1951, he traded teaching gigs and jazz bass lines for the spotlight with The Police, blending reggae rhythms with punk edge into something utterly revolutionary. By the mid-'80s, his solo work had cemented him as a global force—intelligent, introspective, and impossibly cool.
For me, Sting's songs were escape pods. "Wrapped Around Your Finger" (1983) slithered into my ears like a siren's whisper, all brooding bass and that signature falsetto, making you feel seen in your vulnerabilities. "Don't Stand So Close to Me" (1980) captured the forbidden tension of youth with Lolita-esque lyrics that hit harder than any textbook. Then there's "Roxanne" (1978), the raw howl of unrequited love that turned The Police into legends overnight—pure, desperate energy that drowned out the hostel hum of snoring roommates. And "Englishman in New York" (1987)? A wry anthem for the outsider, trumpet flourishes and all, reminding me that feeling like a fish out of water in a new city (or country) was universal. Oh, Yes!! Steve Copeland's drums added magic.
But if one moment crystallizes Sting's magic for me, it's his guest spot at Live Aid in 1985. Sharing the stage with Dire Straits for "Money for Nothing," he unleashed this gleeful, teenage-boy energy—grinning like a kid who'd just aced a test, strutting and shredding with Mark Knopfler. In a sea of earnest anthems raising millions for famine relief, Sting brought unfiltered joy. It was a reminder that music isn't just catharsis; it's celebration. Sting, you're a treasure trove of a human—activist, innovator, eternal romantic. I'm profoundly glad to have lived in your time, and here's to you hitting 100 with that voice still slicing through the noise.
Benjamin Orr: The Voice and Groove That Drove Us Home
Shifting gears to a sadder note, today we remember Benjamin Orzechowski—Ben Orr to fans, or simply "Benny" in those intimate circles—gone too soon at 53. It was October 3, 2000, when pancreatic cancer silenced one of rock's smoothest baritones, leaving a void that's echoed louder with each passing year. Born in 1947 in Lakewood, Ohio, Ben co-founded The Cars in the late '70s with Ric Ocasek (himself taken from us in 2019), blending new wave precision with classic rock soul. Together, they weren't just a band; they were a formidable duo, Ocasek's quirky songwriting the spark to Ben's velvet vocals and masterful bass work.
The Cars' catalog is a time capsule of '80s cool, but Ben's contributions shine brightest. "Drive" (1984) is a masterclass in melancholy—his lead vocal a tender plea over shimmering synths, evoking rainy nights and unspoken heartaches. I still remember exactly where I was the first time I heard it: huddled by the radio in my dorm, the world pausing as that chorus washed over me. "Magic" (1984) followed with its infectious bounce, Ben's voice wrapping around the word like a spell. "Since You're Gone" (1982) packs emotional punch with its driving rhythm, while "Good Times Roll" (1978) kicks off their debut with irrepressible fun. And don't sleep on "Moving in Stereo" (1978)—that bass line from Ben is the heartbeat, underscoring the film's iconic Fast Times at Ridgemont High pool scene and cementing its cult status.
Ben's passing at such a young age (53) feels like a theft; there was so much music left in him, untold riffs and refrains. With Ric, he defined an era where rock could be cerebral yet visceral, futuristic yet familiar. The '70s and '80s rock scene they helped shape? It's irreplaceable, especially for us '60s babies who came of age in the '80s—that effervescent golden hour when we shed boyhood, chased manhood, and dared to dream bigger. Their sound fueled my own path, oddly enough, into safety professionalism. Yeah, you read that right: the vigilance of "Drive's" careful navigation mirrored hazard assessments; the vigor of "Good Times Roll" ignited that hunger for success amid risks. Music didn't just soothe; it armored me.
A Lifeline Across Decades
In the end, Sting and Ben are threads in a larger tapestry—those rare artists who turned scarcity into sorcery. Hearing a track once a week? It made every note sacred, every lyric a revelation. They pulled me from the pits of poor decisions and hostel solitude, whispering that better days (and better judgments) lay ahead. As I navigate my own midlife innings—still chasing that cricket ball of purpose—I'm grateful for the vigor they instilled.
May Sting grace us to 100, his pen and voice ever sharp. And Ben? Rest in peace, Benny Orr—your grooves will roll on, remembered in every late-night spin and heartfelt cover for decades to come.
Karthik
3rd October 2025
9am.
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