The Police's 30 best songs of all time, ranked

Buried on the soundtrack for Brimstone And Treacle, a 1982 film featuring Sting in a pivotal role, “I Burn For You” is a prescient curiosity in the Police catalog. Written by Sting for his previous band Last Exit, the simmering “I Burn For You” doesn’t feel like a throwback. Rather, in its slow burn and cool surfaces, it points the way toward the kind of classy, understated pop Sting would make in his solo career. It could’ve slid onto his 1987 magnum opus Nothing Like The Sun and nobody would’ve been the wiser.

A tightly wound punk rocker, “Truth Hits Everybody” hints at the Police’s ambitions underneath its blitzkrieg of hooks. As Sting deals with dreams and faded images, Stewart Copeland lays into the verses at a breakneck pace, barreling into a chorus that Andy Summers opens up with thick, jangling chords. They’d later expand these elements, but here the momentum was all that mattered.

As the opening cut on Synchronicity, “Synchronicity I” serves as something of a fanfare for the Police’s final album: it lays out Sting’s fascination with psychiatrist Carl Jung’s theory and demonstrates their assured sense of adventure. Anchored on a synthesized sequence constructed by Sting, the track has a sense of urgency that stems not only from that insistent refrain but Stewart Copeland’s muscular swing, a tension that gets lessened by washes of echoey guitar from Andy Summers.

Sting wrote “Tea In The Sahara” after reading the Paul Bowles novel The Sheltering Sky, riffing upon a story about three sisters who wait in the desert for a prince who never comes back. At its core, there is a sense of yearning in “Tea In The Sahara” but the quiet, supple delivery gives the song a sense of romance.

As the band’s debut single, “Fall Out” is perhaps the most convincing evidence that the Police were fake punks, old pros attempting to dig the new breed. It’s just a bit stiff in its rhythms and measured in its attack, never reaching the abandon of such first-wave punk rockers as the Damned. That said, it’s still pretty good: the group’s chemistry is apparent in their muscular execution and the chorus hook is sharp, an early indication of Sting’s pop smarts.

Sting threw out the original lyrics Stewart Copeland had written for “Rehumanize Yourself,” recasting the song as an exhortation to reconnect with basic humanity. It’s a theme Sting returned to often on Ghost In The Machine but Copeland’s spirited rocker is not only vigorous, it’s colorful, filled with little flourishes like disembodied saxophones that give the tune dimension.

Zenyatta Mondatta contains two proper instrumentals and, in some respects, “Voices Inside My Head” could be considered a third. There is one lyric, buried in the mix and repeated so often, it almost feels like a mantra. Words aren’t the reason “Voices Inside My Head” sinks its hooks in. Like “Behind My Camel” and “The Other Way Of Stopping,” the song cannily places emphasis on texture and atmosphere, having guitars and harmonies get swallowed up by the echo. It’s trippy, head-based music, more new age than psychedelic, sounding all the more alluring when paired with the frenetic new wave of the rest of Zenyatta Mondatta.

Originally recorded by Grace Jones—Sting gave her the song for her 1981 album Nightclubbing—the Police decided to cut “Demolition Man” themselves as something of an ice breaker during the sessions for Ghost In The Machine. In their hands, the song is busy and loose, not played with the ferocity of their early singles but a welcome bit of light and fun on the often insular Ghost In The Machine.

The first indication of Sting’s political activism, “Invisible Sun” is ominous, nearly claustrophobic as he sketches scenes of war and political prisoners. That he ultimately lands on a note of optimism on the chorus, imagining an invisible sun that radiates hope, doesn’t do enough to erase the masterfully conveyed darkness looming in the song’s heart.

A cousin to “Tea In The Sahara” and “King Of Pain”—they not only share an album but the same album side—”Wrapped Around Your Finger” is a tale of an apprentice slowly, surely usurping his master. Sting loads his lyric with literary references, allusions that underscore how “Wrapped Around Your Finger” is an old-fashioned tale but in the Police’s hands, it feels cinematic and fresh. Much of the credit should go to Andy Summers, whose airy guitar freshens and lightens the stuffiness of the story.

A bright, bustling poison letter, “Canary In A Coalmine” derives its propulsive power from a skittish rhythm that seems more ska than reggae. The Police add various colors and textures to the beat, with Andy Summers’ spry guitar commanding nearly as much attention as Sting’s double-tracked harmonies, transforming a simple song into a candied pop gem.

“Shadows In The Rain ‘’ is another Police song Sting reclaimed when he went solo in the mid-1980s, reverting the song to the swinging little number he had envisioned. The Police’s original 1980 version is simultaneously expansive and claustrophobic, where Sting’s voice is buried in a murky mix that’s too lithe to be called dub. The thick haze does an impressive job of conveying the confusion and conflict lingering in Sting’s lyrics.

Originally released as a bonus track on Synchronicity, “Murder By Numbers” doesn’t quite suit the mood of Sting’s material for the album: it’s too playful, too jazzy, the kind of song that wouldn’t be slotted easily between “Every Breath You Take” and “King Of Pain.” Naturally, its idiosyncrasies are the key to the song’s appeal: not only is Sting’s dark humor clever, it’s fun to hear the Police lay into a groove as simple and swinging as this.

Sting later brought “Bring On The Night” to his jazz fusion Dream of the Blue Turtles band, going so far as to name a live album after it. Listen closely to the Police’s original rendition and you can hear why: the verse rhythms percolate in a fashion that suggests fusion, making the transition to reggae for the chorus slightly incongruous. It is impressive though, especially as it conveys the sense of unease flowing through Sting’s lyrics.

For nearly a minute on “The Bed’s Too Big Without You,” the Police jam without Sting introducing a melody, a tactic that’s the opposite of their furious, immediate early singles. During this 45-second stretch, the elastic rhythms of Sting and Stewart Copeland are lithe and open-ended, creating space for Andy Summers playing circular chords in an almost painterly fashion. Once Sting begins his plaintive melody, it’s not the focus: it’s another element on the canvas, an instrument that lends the song texture.

The Police return to reggae on “Driven To Tears” but the influence has been thoroughly assimilated. The rhythms are a launching pad for the Police, allowing Sting to write a socially conscious lyric and letting Stewart Copeland lay down a nimble groove. Best of all, the rhythms give Andy Summers the freedom to explore, so he paints the chorus with watery guitar and punctuates the midsection with a gnarled guitar solo. Summers is the reason the song seems thoroughly New Wave: it’s not beholden to one idea, not with him running wild.

Returning to the Carl Jung theme, Sting eschewed the lithe, progressive synths that fueled “Synchronicity I” in favor of overblown hard rock—the kind of ear-splitting music designed to fill arenas. The instrumental bluster is matched by Sting’s example of Jung’s synchronicity, where suburban familial unreset manages to wake the Loch Ness Monster many miles away. It’s a connection that’s equally ominous and ridiculous, kind of like “Synchronicity II” itself.

“Walking On The Moon” does indeed carry a vague celestial air: Sting’s loping bassline intertwines with Andy Summers’ glassy shimmer in a manner that suggests a lunar landscape. The Police haven’t locked into a mind-expanding interstellar overdrive, they’re discovering elements within their own signature that sound otherworldly, which is enough to make “Walking On The Moon” unusually trippy for the band.

Maybe Sting intended “When The World Is Running Down, You Make The Best Of What’s Still Around” to be a portrait of somebody who survived the apocalypse but time has done strange things to the song. When heard in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, the images of making the best of a deplorable situation by relying on a meager set of creature comforts has a distinct 21st Century resonance. Apart from that, the track showcases the Police at their New Wave best, relying on rubbery grooves and glassy guitar.

Born from a moment of self-loathing from Sting, “King Of Pain’’ teems with unsettling images, all totems of doom that lead the narrator to believe he is the ringleader of all this misery. All the decay and death Sting essays in the lyric ultimately become overwhelming, the darkness levied by an ingenious production by the Police and Hugh Padgham. Instead of wallowing in gloom, the track is constructed with considerable space, letting certain lyrics linger while also teasing the solipsistic blackness at the heart of the song.

Sting pushed the synthesizer to the forefront of the mix on “Spirits In The Material World”—he originally wanted no guitar on the song at all—and it’s a decision central to the single’s success. The sawing synth immediately grabs the ear: it’s insistent and disquieting, its minor key suggesting a dissonance that doesn’t quite arrive. That the spookiness of the synth underlines the central spiritual discontent at the heart of “Spirits In The Material World” almost seems like a bonus: the music is so effective, the lyrics are secondary.

“Message In A Bottle” marks something of a shift for the Police. Where all the singles from their debut album Outlandos d’Amour relied heavily on reggae, this first taste of their sophomore set Reggatta de Blanc only carries the vaguest hint of Jamaican rhythms. Opening with Andy Summers’ jangling arpeggio guitar riff, “Message In A Bottle” rushes forward in a manner that is distinctly New Wave: the punk and reggae influences have been absorbed and the group is forging into new territory.

Sting’s tongue may be planted firmly in his cheek on “Can’t Stand Losing You,” a song where a man is driven to the brink of suicide during a breakup, but the Police don’t play this song with any irony. The reggae rhythms are anxious, creating a nervous energy that finds some measure of catharsis in the chorus. All that tension helps disguise how the song follows the same structure of most early Police songs—the reggae verse is countered by a rock chorus—not only on the first listen but in many years of repetition.

“So Lonely” is perhaps the Police’s deftest weaving of punk and reggae, a song that effortlessly shifts from the two extremes. The verse benefits from Sting’s plaintive falsetto—he teases out the long notes, drawing attention to the elasticity of his bass line—and then the chorus is a collision of harmonies and gated guitars; the loneliness of the verse suddenly becomes overcrowded and infectious.

If any Police song could be called ebullient, it would be “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” It’s not just that it’s one of the few Police songs that could be unabashedly be called a love song—perhaps it’s an unrequited love song but it’s a love song all the same—it’s that it’s a bright, candied production, decorated with pianos and colored by synths, instruments that were uncommon on a Police record. Everything seems joyous, an uncommon emotion for the Police.

“Roxanne” is the kind of classic whose enduring popularity belies its chart position: it didn’t break the Top 10 in England and barely cracked the Top 40 in America. It did, however, catapult the Police into the upper reaches of the charts, the rocket that propelled them to stardom. Decades of repeated plays on classic rock radio have made it seem perhaps overly familiar but listen closely and it’s possible to hear the elements that made it so startling at the time, especially the keening wail of Sting and that powerhouse chorus, where the Police suddenly shift away from their adept adaptation of reggae and play with all the rock and roll muscle they can muster.

Barreling forth with a muddy primitivism reminiscent of the Damned, “Next To You” is the Police’s best rocker: a song where they play with abandon and benefit from their colorful tricks. Slide guitar, for instance, is an instrument that’s too loose and slippery for punk but Andy Summers’ ratchets the tension, adding to the claustrophobia created by Stewart Copeland’s heavy stomp and Sting’s insistent melody.

Only a lyricist as ambitious—or as pretentious—as Sting could come up with a song that cleverly skewers the very importance of words as he does with “De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da.” Sting apologizes for silence at the outset, saying “words are hard to find,” ultimately coming to the conclusion that authorities have “words that scream for your submission,” intertwining ideas that lead him to find shelter in the blather of the song’s titular phrase—which is given shape by the Police turning it into snappy new wave bubblegum.

One of the great misunderstood songs of all time, “Every Breath You Take” carries itself like a love song—and it’s convincing enough in that regard to have turned into something of a wedding standard—but underneath that veneer lies a narrator whose romantic obsessions veer toward the dangerous. Sting doesn’t sing the song as a stalker: he’s passionate and tender in his pleas. His warm, nuanced performance finds the perfect foil in Andy Summers’ hypnotic guitar riff, a dexterous arpeggio bearing a hint of menace on its graceful edges.

Riffing upon Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita—the author himself is referenced in the song, just in case the connection wasn’t clear—Sting recasts the story as a “schoolgirl fantasy,” which deliberately muddies the waters with the songwriter’s own past as a former school teacher. Sting isn’t Humbert Humbert: he’s the object of a crush, as desired for his brains as his looks. That very combination turned Sting into a rock star and this is not only his great rock star moment, it showcases the Police as a band, with Andy Summers slathering the track in guitars Stewart Copeland giving his singer’s literary pretensions a wallop.