Perhaps this is snide, I don’t know:
The Police are a puzzle to me. The hits I can hum, but I don’t admire them. With one notable exception (“Every Breath You Take” is a nasty ditty), the songs by Sting are polished, self-important affairs. The trifles by the other members are cracked but — interesting. (“Interesting” was my favorite high school English teacher’s least liked word.) Utterly unique, the sound (a synthesis of jazz, ska and pop) is theirs, but it’s unrealized. It doesn’t get my gonads going. For all of their skill, and success at carving a niche in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, the band is little more than a blank exercise in texture.
It is the tasty lick, folks. That’s all. I mean, at least Steely Dan stayed sick.