Chris Salewicz, NME, January 1981
IN NEW YORK CITY it is the coldest day of the winter. Later that night the temperature drops to zero degrees Fahrenheit. The woollen-enshrouded Sting leaves the warm lobby of the exclusive, uptight St. Regis hotel, just off the opulent Fifth Avenue a couple of blocks south of Central Park, and rushes nimbly through the freezing air to his waiting, ready-heated, powder-blue Cadillac limousine.
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