The most insightful of all the tributes and articles in this section is one by David Bowie that zooms right in on how Achtung Baby and Zooropa picked up the thread of his own Berlin trilogy.

"Throughout the twentieth century," Bowie writes, "Berlin has reemerged time and again as both corpse and artery of Europe. Come the nineties the Wall and its heroes and anti-heroes came crashing down. East German artifacts and West German rubble are strewn upon the road through millenium's end." Bowie goes on at some length and then says of U2, "They might be all shamrocks and deutsche marks to some, but I feel that they are one of the few rock bands even attempting to hint at a world which will continue past the next great wall—the year 2000."

You'd think that such a supplement would take care of the public's need for U2 news, but leafing through the other sections of the paper I find a long anti-U2 diatribe by columnist George Byrne, an editorial praising U2, a page 3 piece on the profits from the Zoo tour, another blast by George Byrne in the entertainment section, an article on how

[322]

the city of Cork is preparing for the coming of U2, and an item in "What's On" mentioning, in case you missed it, that there's going to be a U2 concert. It's not like you can get away from all this stuff by turning on the radio. All you hear on the radio is U2. I don't know if I can stand to hear any more about U2. I don't know if I can stand to write this book about U2. Good God, look who's sitting all around me —it's U2! This must be how Negativland feels.

When we land in Cork the airport looks like Mexico City again: there are VIP's lined up on the runway to shake hands with U2, children of VIP's with cameras ready to rush the band when they step onto the tarmac, and a police motorcade set to ram them through the traffic fanning out from the stadium where they will perform.

It's all getting to be too much for Larry, the least public member of the band. He says it's no longer comfortable for him to go out to a restaurant in Dublin; he feels as if the press are watching them all every minute, just waiting for one of them to screw up. "It's been like this for Bono for a long time," Larry says when we arrive at the gig. "And there's a part of Bono that enjoys it. I don't. I've always been able to ignore it before, but now I can't. I love Dublin, I have a beautiful home. But this is too much. It can really mess up the way you see the world. Because this is not real life."

With his usual discipline, Larry is trying to convince himself to move to New York for a while, study music, learn about recording rap and hip-hop, and play with other musicians. "It's not going to get any easier for us," he explains. "I mean, it'd be easy to keep doing the same thing, but for U2 to keep breaking new ground is going to require hard work and sacrifices. I'm scared to go to New York. My girlfriend, Ann, wouldn't come with me, she's got her own life. So that's scary. But I feel right now like I should do it. I don't know. At this point in the tour I'm feeling very weird. I can't make any big decisions in this state. But that s what I'm thinking right now.

"It's a good thing the tour is ending in Australia and Japan, because if it were ending in Ireland it would just be too much. All I want to do right now is get out of here."

Meanwhile Irish Prime Minister Albert Reynolds and his entourage of ribboned dignitaries are making the handshaking rounds while Bono stays hidden in his dressing room, avoiding the photo-op. He's always wary of being roped into a campaign picture. A few years ago when the

[323]

notorious former Prime Minister Charlie Haughey was running for election U2 was at some function when Bono saw him sweeping in. He called Adam, Edge, and Larry into a huddle and said, Look, he's going to try to have his picture taken with me for the papers, so you guys make sure you stand between us at all times. They said, Right, we'll be there. Everyone went back to socializing and sure enough, Bono saw Charlie coming his way with a big grin and an outstretched hand. He looked to his left—Adam had gone to the bar. He looked to his right—Larry had gone to the bath­room. He looked to his rear—Edge had gone to the buffet. He was trapped. Okay, he figured, I can't get out of having my picture taken with him but I'll make sure that no matter what happens I won't smile —I'll look grim and unhappy. Charlie came up laughing, smiling, and Bono kept a face like a constipated Tonto. No matter how great the inclination to smile politely or return a grin, his expression remained dour. So Charlie leaned over in his ear and with a wide smile whispered a string of obscenities startling from so old and public a man. Bono popped his eyes and laughed in shock—and all the flashbulbs went off. Next day's paper: two great mates yukking it up—as good as an en­dorsement.

Bono's learned his lesson. He lays low. Maybe it's a blessing for the politicians, anyway. They are visibly appalled when Macphisto gets onstage and starts throwing condoms to the Catholics in violation of the strict rules of the Gaelic Athletic Association, who control the stadium. "Rock & roll!" Macphisto cries. "They call it the devil's music! It is my music! Can't you feel it burning? Civilization's wobbling! Who can take you back from the brink? The GAA, that's who! There'll be no sales of condoms in here tonight! The young people will not be deliv­ered to the gates of hell in a latex jacket! Contraception? Safe sex? AIDS? It's not their problem! No homos here tonight! Not a willie in sight! Just abstentious, castrated, happily married families here tonight!"

Another sort of energy is being produced by Bill Carter, U2's Sara­jevo correspondent, who arrived in Ireland two days ago to edit his Bosnian film footage at U2's expense. After six months of running through bullets and seeing his friends shot in front of him, Bill is twitching like a man who's just had a radio dropped in his bathtub. He is happy, he is relieved, and he is so hyper that I have to go lie down after talking to him for five minutes. Ned O'Hanlon said that he always assumed that when Bill spoke through the satellite linkups, the connec-

[324]

Tion was breaking up. Now he's learned that's just Bill. Carter says he still can't sleep for more than short periods. He went over and saw the editing facilities at Windmill Lane yesterday, put on his film, and when the sound of bullets came out of the speakers he dove under a table.

Everyone beats a quick retreat to the Cork airport after the show, and with some sentimentality strap in for the last flight of the Zoo plane. I'll miss this battered old bird. From now on I'll have to carry my own luggage. Suzanne comes around and asks who has passports with them. Only about half the people do, which turns out to be a real shame. It scotches a band plan to swing down to Paris for a late dinner. Instead we are dumped back in Dublin.

Most of the entourage congregates at Lillie's Bordello, a disco de­signed to look like a good Catholic's idea of a whorehouse—red walls and a couple of pictures of nude women. We are shown into the Library, Lillie's VIP room, which Bono swears up and down is one of the most historic rooms in Dublin. He claims, above the sound of Prince singing "Get Off," that there are frescoes on the walls behind these bookshelves from the days when this was the Jamais club where Yeats, Joyce, and Beckett used to dine. I look around the room trying to imagine those giants hanging here. Once James Joyce sat in that chair against the wall, and now it's Lisa Stansfield.

After 3 a.m. some of us are ready to go back to the hotel and hit the hay. Bono has a nice big house he hasn't been to in a long time, and it is waiting for him (even if Ali and the kids, still in the south of France, are not). I get into a car with Bill Carter, Sharon Blankson (a childhood friend of Bono's who now does publicity with Regine), Eileen Long from Principle, and travel agent Theresa Alexander. Bono decides to hitch a ride back to the hotel with us, and from there—he promises— he will go home.

As we make our way slowly across Dublin, stopping at every intersec­tion to wait for the signal to change, Bono announces that Dublin has the most traffic lights in the world, because the municipal clerk in charge of securing the first ones made an error and added an extra digit to the order. The city ended up with ten times as many traffic signals as they needed, and couldn't let them go to waste. All the other passengers groan and tell Bono he's full of bull, but the driver volunteers that he's heard the same story.

"Look!" Bono says, pointing to a man digging a hole on the sidewalk

[325]

across from the red light at which our car is waiting. "Not only are there four separate traffic signals here, but that man is installing a fifth!"

The spooky thing is, he's right. Bill Carter gazes happily at the changing signals and says with a sigh, "I really like Dublin."

"You just got out of Sarajevo, Bill," I say. "Worcester would look like Paris to you."

Bono announces that before we go back to the hotel we should all go out to breakfast. He claims to know a place called the Anhattan (The M fell off) where they will serve us, in spite of it being 3:30 in the morning on a Wednesday in Ireland. He directs the driver down narrow lanes and across great expanses until we come to a dark, locked, empty restaurant. Bono says, "Don't worry, they might open up." But no matter how long or loud he knocks, no sign of life flickers within. He gets back in the car and eventually we do spot a small eatery that's opened. We seat our­selves between framed photographs of Jim Kerr and Wendy James. The waitress comes up and Bono says, "I won't order until you put up one of me!"

She just rolls her eyes as if to say, What an asshole. Chastened, Bono makes his selection and she leaves. Eileen laughs and says, "You forgot, you're back in Ireland. They don't care."

⇐ Предыдущая86878889909192939495Следующая ⇒

Поделиться: