Natalie Williams (vocals); Daniel Pearce (vocals, percussion); Robin Mullarkey (bass); Ben Jones (guitar); Martyn Kaine (drums); Phil Peskett (keys); Mark Brown (sax); Ben Edwards (trumpet)
There’s something quietly familiar in the way many of us arrive at jazz — not as a first language, but as something discovered over time. It rarely begins here. More often, it starts elsewhere — in pop, in rock, in soul — before something shifts. The edges soften, the space between notes begins to matter, and gradually, almost without noticing, the music asks more of you… and gives more in return.
It’s a journey that feels particularly
aligned with the writing of Sting. His songs have always carried that
elasticity — harmonically rich, rhythmically fluid — but often framed just
outside the jazz world. Place them in a setting like this, however, and
something clicks into place. They don’t feel reworked; they feel understood —
almost as if they’ve been waiting for this context all along. As Natalie
Williams herself remarked, this music might be considered a guilty pleasure —
though there’s nothing guilty about loving Sting.
