Sting and Shaggy, The Roundhouse, review: (almost) every little boombastic thing they did was magic

Somebody call the Police! With every sinew of my being, I expected this concert by Sting and Shaggy – the po-faced English multi-millionaire bass player and the cartoon-like Jamaican dancehall star, respectively – to be as enjoyable as hangover at a lute recital. It’ll be like one of those incongruous collaborations they put on at the Brit Awards in an effort to shoehorn all the nominees in, I thought. Nightmarish (and thankfully never realised) pairings of Mark Knopfler and Chaka Demus & Pliers, of Peter Gabriel and Peter Andre, ricocheted around my head. But how wrong I was. This “Staggy” night turned out to be a heartwarming and hugely entertaining celebration of music by two men who were clearly loving every curious moment.

What bonds the men is Jamaica. Reggae and ska formed the bedrock of The Police’s sound, and Shaggy’s chart-friendly pop about, well, shagging has become one of his country’s biggest musical exports. What started as a one-off collaboration between Sting and the self-styled Mr Lover-Lover in a Los Angeles studio in 2017 became an album called 44/876, named after the telephone calling codes for Britain and Jamaica.

The record went on to win the Grammy for best reggae album earlier this year (pity fellow nominees and reggae stalwarts Black Uhuru, who 35 albums into their career were pipped to the award by these arrivistes). It also caused something of a career flourish; 44/876 was Sting’s first UK top 10 album for 16 years and Shaggy’s first for 18 years.

This concert worked for three reasons. Firstly, it added some much-needed levity to Police songs, which I’ve always found straitjacketed by earnestness. Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic became the sun-kissed anthem it has always threatened to be. (The show also lent a touch – just a touch, mind – of musical heft to Shaggy songs). Secondly, it showcased two complementary voices: Sting’s dextrous and silky tenor worked surprisingly well with Shaggy’s throaty “toasting”. Englishman in New York became a celebration of immigration, with Shaggy changing the lyrics to become a “Jamaican in New York”, substituting the “walking cane” in Sting’s hand for “a spliff” (of course). Meanwhile Shaggy’s Oh Carolina segued neatly into Sting’s We’ll Be Together.

But the third reason it worked was because both performers seemed aware of how ridiculous the whole thing was. They played up to their differences. Sting, 67, wore “serious” figure-hugging black while Shaggy, 50, sported the works: a white stetson, billowing white shirt, shades and chunky jewellery.

They had sing-offs. At one point when Shaggy hip-thrusted his way across the stage, Sting retreated into the darkness in mock horror. In a recent interview, the bassist said he was reluctant to sing the line about “banging on the bathroom floor” in Shaggy’s It Wasn’t Me because “I’m Sting, for God’s sake”. But he did sing it, and the song started sounding like a morality tale rather than a song about nookie.

It didn’t always work. The mixture of The Police’s Roxanne with Shaggy’s Boombastic paired a song about prostitution with a song about a “fantastic lova”. Bit weird. And Sting’s painfully sincere and frankly awful Desert Rose was far too Womad for the night’s Notting Hill Carnival vibe. Even Shaggy looked flaggy at this point.

But, my goodness, it was fun. I was going to give this concert four stars because in the review world five stars are reserved for infinitely credible, genre-defining shows, but my ear-to-ear grin on the Tube journey home convinced me otherwise. Sometimes, it pays to let your guard down.

Just ask Sting.