TO 'ELLO, 'ELLO, 'ELLO & BACK

Formerly the biggest band on Planet Earth, The Police split almost 40 years ago. Not long before that, in 1978, they were just a trio of blond hopefuls waiting at the nation's gates with a daring hybrid of punk and reggae which seemed to catch the ear of many of the pre-punk old guard. Stewart Copeland's new book, Police Diaries, in words (his diaries circa 1976-78) and pictures (photos and illustrations), takes us back to those early days of The Police. It is, according to the drummer, "the fun part of the Police story, the starving years when we didn't have any songs to play just crap punk songs, mostly written by me [some of them on a CD in the Signature edition of the book]. "These formative years," Copeland attests, "are the interesting part of the Police story, which is why the book focuses on the period of formation and exploration that preceded the stadium tours - it shows how three disparate individuals bonded before figuring out what music to play..."

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1975 (1-r) Phil Kohn, Mick Jacques, Sonja Kristina, Darryl Way, me (wish I still had those boots). Curved Air had split up by the time I met their violin player Darryl Way, and we were just about to bust out a new band together - with me actually in the band - called Stark Naked & the Car Thieves. But Curved Air was hit with an unexpected tax bill and decided to reform for one last tour to pay off debts. Dang! So, I put away my drums, grabbed my slick briefcase that I got from my spydaddy father [Miles Copeland Jr] and hit the road with them as their tour manager. They had been missed! The crowds roared! A live album was recorded, and the taxman was paid. It had all gone better than expected and some of the band wanted to keep on trucking, but original drummer Florian Pilkington-Miksa and keyboardist Francis Monkman decided to bail. This left my chum Darryl Way and singer Sonja Kristina in need of a drummer...

Public Enemy Number Ones by 4 December, the Sex Pistols were banned everywhere following their expletive-filled appearance on live TV three days earlier. This gig didn't happen, and that night two of the Pistols and two of their pals tumed up at our Mayfair pad... After a Curved Air show in Leicester and a two-hour drive, when we get back to slumbering Mayfair in the dead of night, we can hear the revelry from blocks away; Sonja and I run up the stairs to the penthouse apartment and find bedlam swinging from the chandeliers. I'm not sure that anyone was pogoing yet but with all the gilded furniture pushed to the side, the grand drawing room was heaving under the stomping feet of a tribe of what came to be known as punks.