Ever since Sting ditched the Police, we've all been forced to take the once-spirited frontman with the tenacious voice seriously as a legitimate artist. The question is why?
Despite his commercial success, Sting has rarely provided the charismatic and musical wherewithal that would make him a worthy contributor to the pop canon. In other words, Sting is famous, mainly, just for being Sting, and we've sort of been at his mercy to digest these new-age meanderings of a soulless man.

Of course, if you've been a fan of Sting's solo persona, you'll find comfort in the whitewashed soundscapes he revels in on his latest album. It's only on "After the Rain," when Sting's voice soars with that familiar freedom, that we remember he used to possess some spunk.

Otherwise, Sting distils everything down to its cleanest, least edgy essence using ornamental additives to give the illusion of relevance. On "Desert Rose," he overlaps Middle-Eastern vocals to give his clever lyrics some dimension; "Fill Her Up" is one of the most tepid attempts at American country you'll hear; and "Perfect Love ?Gone Wrong" features, of all things, French female rapping. How innocuous can you get? With Sting, apparently, there is no limit.