Larry is wiping at his cheek.

Bono says, "Someone kissed you, Larry?" Yeah." Larry is annoyed. Kids outside are screaming, "I love you!" Larry repeats it sarcastically and adds, "You don't know me."

Bono tells Larry to lighten up. Larry says love is a powerful word. You're so pedantic." Bono smiles. Bono starts to roll down the window to shake hands with some of the kids.

No, Bono, no!" Edge commands, as to a dog. "Somebody will get hurt!"

I recognize this whole scene from traveling with U2 on a tour in the south of France in 1984. Larry climbed on the bus then bugged because some self-professed witches among the kids outside the hall had made a voodoo doll of him, which he did not consider funny. Bono was waving out the window to the French U2 fans as the bus pulled away, and he kept waving to confused pedestrians and sidewalk diners as we drove

[138]

slowly through Toulouse. I remember Edge admonishing him: "Bono! Stop waving to innocent bystanders!" Everything in U2's world has changed since then except their relations with each other.

Another thing that will apparently never change is this Mexican driver thinking he's Mario Andretti. As U2's crew is opening the trunk to toss in the band's hand luggage, our driver slams on the gas again, taking off with the trunk open and the Zoo crew waving the bags, chasing the car down the street.

Border Radio

The arena catches fire/ dignitaries' daughters are presented to the band/ a trip to the purported red-light district/ who is the new rolling stones with commentary by mr. jagger/ U2 among the jews

As in every city there's a crowd of kids waiting at all hours outside U2's hotel. As in every city, Bono and Edge go over and pose and sign for them before leaving for the concert hall. I had a cultural afternoon, doing the Inca/Aztec/Mayan museums with the soon-to-be-departed Ellen Darst and Morleigh Steinberg, a dancer/ choreographer who took over the belly-dancing slot when the Zoo tour moved outdoors. A Californian who travels the world with the Iso dance company, Morleigh met U2 in L.A. in the late 80s. They talked her into doing the summer dates, and she gave the band advice about how to move onstage to get their intentions across to the back rows. Far more self-contained and independent than most of the Zoo people, Morleigh has real reservations about putting her career on hold to join their European tour next spring and summer. Tonight may be her last belly dance.

All the members of the band are enjoying Mexico and looking forward to another gig like last night's. Grabbing dinner with the crew backstage, Adam says, "It's been so good, it makes you think about the possibility of doing a Latin American tour."

U2 comes out flying tonight. They light into "Zoo Station" with all flags billowing and Bono sidestepping across the stage like James Brown's paler nephew. I am standing with B. P. Fallen on the side of the stage when I see what appears to be a great new special effect out in the audience—two lines of red flame converging in the dark at the back of the hall. B. P. grabs my arm and points frantically as I realize that's no

[140]

special effect! That's a fire! The seats are too close together and they are not flame retardant. Neither is the welcome U2 banner someone in the balcony has made out of a bedsheet. The sheet dangled into the flame of a lighter a kid down below was holding aloft, and now the sheet's igniting, breaking into burning shards that are floating into the crowd and landing on the seats and—oh, hell—the seats are bursting into flame. I look at the band—the front three are oblivious, caught up in their song. Only Larry, drumming away, is staring with grim concentra­tion at the spreading fire and panicking people in the back of the hall .

A figure bolts by me, running full out from the back of the stage into the crowd. It's Jerry Mele, U2's head of security. He flies across the length of the crowded hall, through the jam-packed kids dancing to the band, and disappears under the bleachers at the back. I've never seen anyone move so fast, but the fire is moving faster. Edge sees it now; he is watching intently. People in the back of the arena are shoving and running for the exits. Jerry is suddenly up there among them—he must have rocketed up the outside stairs. He is ordering the scared concert-goers into neat lines with one hand while shoving something—a coat or towel—onto the flames and stamping with his feet. Local ushers and security hands are following his orders, doing the same. All the fires are out before the song ends. When he's sure it's safe Jerry directs the shaken fans back to their blackened seats. Bono is emoting in high gusto, oblivious, while Adam is standing by his bass amp, paying no attention to anything beyond the spotlights.

Larry saw it all, though. When he gets a break the drummer says, "I thought, 'This is it.' I figured the whole place was going up." Jerry Mele moved so fast and established control so quickly that the fire becomes nothing more than a "by the way" after the show. The people with decent seats were paying attention to the band and didn't notice. But if Jerry hadn't been there, U2's big trip to Mexico City could have turned into a tragedy. It's funny that rock stars are routinely called heroes, while characters like Jerry Mele hold the door for them.

After the show U2 has reserved tables for dinner at the same restau­rant they haunted last night. This time when they arrive—at a little after I a.m.—the band and their guests have the whole three-level place to themselves, except for a few children of VIPs waiting at the bar to be presented to U2. Bono has taken command of a table with the band, the agents, Blackwell, and other big shots when McGuinness comes over

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and says with half-joking gravity, "You are about to be introduced to a longstanding Third World custom—the police chiefs daughters are here. They want to meet you and they will get autographs."

The chiefs daughters (or maybe it's one daughter and one friend of the daughter—no one's certain) are lovely. Bono has been talking about trying to check out the part of town the tourists don't see, and when his attention is grabbed and pointed toward the chiefs daughters he innocently asks them for details about the red-light district. Where are the best places to go there? How late is it jumping?

Bono has no sinful intentions, but that may not be apparent in the translation. Edge, realizing that one doesn't introduce oneself to police­men's daughters in Latin nations by asking about the brothels, brings the two young women over to another table and charms them for some time. Finally they say good night and he comes back to Bono's side, saying, "They told me if I'm ever arrested in Mexico City, no problem!"

Throughout the meal other such well-connected young people are escorted up to meet the band and then shuffled off again. The fellow in charge, I assume the owner, of the restaurant comes by frequently to remind U2 that in honor of them he has closed his entire club tonight, forgoing all the money he would make so that U2 could dine and drink undisturbed. After the fourth or fifth time he makes this announcement a concerned Larry leans over to Bono and says, "I wonder how much money he'll lose, closing the whole restaurant?"

"It's all jive," Bono whispers back. "By law the place has to close by one a.m. on Sunday night." Larry laughs hard at that one.

Larry talks a bit over dinner about his plans for the Christmas break. He was asked if he'd be interested in auditioning for the role of Pete Best, the deposed Beatles drummer, in a movie about the Fab Four's Hamburg days, but he had to turn it down because it conflicted with the band's work schedule.

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