The Police

The Police were never quite a punk band, even though they showed up dressed like one. Stewart Copeland, Sting, and Andy Summers came together in London in 1977, riding the energy of the moment but pulling in a different direction: reggae, jazz chops, and pop melodies that were far too clever to be thrown away on three chords. The bleached-blond hair started as a costume for a chewing-gum advert. It stuck, and so did the band.

What followed was one of the fastest climbs in pop. Five albums in six years, each one bigger than the last, until they were one of the most popular groups on the planet. The trick was the friction. Three strong-willed musicians, three real talents, and very little agreement about anything, which on a good day produced something tighter and stranger than a more harmonious band could have managed.

A good day was not guaranteed. The arguments were real, sometimes physical, and they did not ease as the success grew. They climbed to the top and then, at the peak, they stopped, walking away after the tour for their fifth record rather than push their luck or each other any further. They left almost nothing on the table. That was the point.