Most of us discovered this puzzling pairing when they played at January’s Grammy awards. There was a justified kerfuffle at the privileging of two aged men, pop royals or not, over younger female talent. (Lorde, Cordelia to Shaggy’s Lear, was a chart-topping nominee, yet the Grammys exiled her.) Somehow, the duo escaped opprobrium and have consummated their musical bromance with this exasperatingly OK album.
Yes, there’s the fear that 90s Sting will manifest in his brow-furrowed, lizardly earnestness, but the opening title track (a reference to UK/Jamaica dialling codes) shows he’s in on the joke. Its tropical pop-reggae presents Sting – perhaps reclining in a country house, being brought a boiled egg by a butler – deciding to head for Shaggy’s Jamaican retreat, leaving boring old Britain and Brexit behind.
There, Sting’s deracinated, shapeshifting croon plays off perfectly against Shaggy’s supple toasting and soulful caw. Just One Lifetime in particular deftly mixes their talents, ranging from grit to gimmickry. Sting’s still a fearless, fascinating lyricist, and Shaggy’s attractive persona remains one wink short of a leer. 44/876 may be no more exciting than a well-made sofa, but only psychopaths don’t like sofas.
