I mention the time in Berlin when Adam took off his bass and said to Bono, just tell me what you want me to play and I'll play it—or if you want to play it, go ahead.

'It's disappointing that Adam maybe feels like that sometimes,"

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Larry says slowly. "However, although we're a band, people have got to choose their own way and do whatever is necessary to get them through that tour or that night or that record. And if saying, 'Look, just show me the line and I'll play it,' is the option he wants to take, that's his choice. It's not my choice. I'm not going to let go that easy for anybody. I couldn't take it.' I actually just couldn't take it. I am not that."

I warn Larry that I'm going to try to tag him with the shot Bono ducked yesterday: discussing the band members' ongoing religious faith.

"It's a very difficult question," Larry says cautiously. "Very, very difficult. It was always a personal thing and within the band we always had very differing views on where we were going as individuals. On a personal level, I haven't lost my faith at all. I don't practice it in the same way I did when I was younger, but I havn't lost sight of the fundamentals of it. There are many people out there who would dis­agree and say, 'Well, how can you do this and how can you consider yourself that?'

"There have never been any rules applied to my faith. My faith is a personal thing. I'm sure there are things that you can get away with"— he smiles—"like in anything else, and there's no doubt that we push it to the edge, to the very edge. And occasionally we fall off the other end. But I never felt that my job as a musician was to sing gospel or to proselytize. I've always felt that I'm a musician in a band and I've been given a gift. And I believe that gift is from God. I don't believe it's from anywhere else. And if at any stage I abuse that, I think I'll know. That will be time to stop. I do think it's important."

It's time for U2 to play. As the house lights go down I make my way out to watch the concert. Among the guests at the unusually crowded soundboard are Madonna, much of her band and crew, Terence Trent D'Arby, and Simon LeBon of Duran Duran.

Tonight, the final show, Bono will not accept anything less than a great concert. That last night stunk chews at his conscience, that this is the last time U2 will ever mount Zoo TV on stage bites the nails of his ambition. The band does come out playing well, but you can spot the foreigners in the audience because they're the only ones who stand up and dance. The Japanese fans remain politely in their seats. This time Bono's not going to take that. The man with the white flag never accepted "cultural differences" as any sort of excuse. If the Fly can't get them going, he'll try something else. During "Until the End of the

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World" he runs to the end of the B stage, implores the crowd to their feet, reaches out to slap their hands. He is making eye contact, making physical contact, making heart contact. And as I watch him I am overwhelmed with the feeling that I am seeing someone I used to know. I recognize this guy! I remember him from the clubs when U2 first came around! This is the kid who will do anything to get through to the audience, whether it's climbing the scaffolding or diving off the balcony. There is no Fly now, no Macphisto, no public mask. There's only Bono, praying through his microphone, infecting everyone he touches with his spastic enthusiasm, winning over the doubters as he won over cynics in every new wave club from Dublin to California in the early eighties. I'd almost forgotten about this nut; I didn't realize I'd missed him.

Anton's on his belly like a snake, slithering down the ramp to the B stage to shoot Bono whipping up the confused, excited, standing, dancing audience. He's got one foot off the B stage and he's leaning over the kids' heads, exhorting them to rise while Jerry Mele hangs on to the back of his belt to keep him from tumbling off. Then Bono looks out at the panorama of faces filling the Dome and he slaps Jerry's hand away, leaping off the stage and into the crowd. Now the kids start loosening up! Like an alcoholic taking one little nip after a long layoff, the old stage-diving Bono is back in the house. During "Where the Streets Have No Name" he always runs out to the end of the ramp on Adam's side of the stage. Tonight Bono keeps going, launching himself off the end of the ramp and into the startled crowd. He comes to his feet running, racing into them, trying to get across.

The security men take off after Bono. The fans he passes begin to climb up as he goes by, getting the idea of it, clapping, dancing a little. Because they still can't bring themselves to step out into the aisles, Bono has a wide-open path and he keeps going, all the way to the outer rim of the floor, running along the circumference singing into his radio mike as fans caged off on the sides by fences charge forward, leaping onto the mesh and trying to climb over or stick their fingers through as Bono races by. Now, as he approaches the back of the hall, even the fans on the floor are losing their inhibitions. They start jumping up, some even running toward him. The Japanese security guards are beside themselves —they are running, too, trying to wave people back, get them to sit down.

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