Fields of Gold.

One of the perks of working at a major studio/global cultural steamroller is getting to sit in a fake studio audience to see a very real performance by Sting, for an upcoming episode of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. (I saw the pilot at a special on-lot screening this week hosted by the creators, and it was pretty good, except for the hopelessly miscast Amanda Peet. She’s supposed to be portraying a tough-as-nails, smarter-than-thou network savior, but the chronic lips-parted, doe-in-headlights half-smile is not working for me. There are surely many kick-ass actresses who can believably convey both hotness and fierce intelligence. Why, oh why?)

Anyway, they say that show business is all about hurry-up-and-wait, and today was no different. Two hours after our call time, we were still milling around the craft services table, debating the relative merits of Rice Krispy treats and cold breakfast sandwiches. Finally we were herded into our seats (that’s me in the second row) while the cameramen (why are they always men? I would say camerapeople, but really, they’re always men) discussed shots and lighting. Aaron Sorkin, prodigal showrunner, mingled regally, contentedly pondering the vicissitudes of power in Hollywood.

Sting loitered behind the stage, fingering his lute (yes, lute). Lauren Graham (perhaps better known as Lorelai Gilmore), sporting a clingy little black dress, daring cleavage and flip-flops, introduced him and he took the stage with a fellow lutist.

What can I say about Sting? He’s a sexy blond Leprechaun. He’s tan and lithe and he did yoga-contortionist moves to stretch his leg, while helpless thoughts of “Tantric Sex! Tantric Sex With Trudie Styler!" danced through my head. Then I remembered that The Police’s “Every Breath You Take” was the very first music video I ever saw. For a cultural icon, Sting was relaxed and gracious. Watching him noodle away on his lute, singing softly to himself, it struck me that he is a musician first and a personage second, that rare and lucky creature completely at one with his work. (You may imagine, gentle reader, my turbulent emotions upon returning to my corporate workplace afterward.)

Then Sting and his troubadour (who hid his face behind his lute and caressed it with his bowl-cut hair – so that’s what troubadours do) tenderly sang “Fields of Gold” a couple of times. We listened, spellbound, to this moving song about fleeting youth and a love that lasts for many years. Though ostensibly about a man and a woman, it transcends gender as all good love songs do, speaking equally to everyone who has invested hopes and dreams in another mortal. All the while, the massive tapestries behind them rippled gently in the smoke from the smoke machine.