Killing Bono (27 page)

Vlad came back on board as producer and bassist. Steve returned to play drums. We got hold of a new keyboard player through
Melody Maker
. Richard Ford was a young television repairman and a brilliant, highly technical musician. The only problem being that he lived hundreds of miles away in Yorkshire, which was costing us a fortune in petrol money. It was a round trip of 500 miles just to rehearse.

The song we chose was “Invisible Girl.” It had been a live favorite but it was, for us, an unusually subtle track, with a lovely, gentle groove and a rich, melancholic melody. The lyrical topic (in typical Shook Up! fashion) was child abuse—inspired by a news story in which a victim of abuse had complained that no one ever listened to her—and it included the striking phrase “We are the silent children / We speak but no one listens.” The sentiment seemed to draw audiences in. A young woman came up to me after one show, crying and desperate to talk about “Invisible Girl.” “I'm the girl in the song,” she kept saying.

Work at Terminal studios was laborious. Hours were spent just fine-tuning the drum sounds. Making records is like assembling a sonic puzzle, and we were still painstakingly slotting the first pieces into place when Barry called. He seemed oddly nervous as he related a long, involved saga about a promoter in Eastern Europe who had ripped him off for a considerable amount of money.

“That's terrible,” I said, wondering what any of this had to do with me.

“The thing is, Neil, I find myself stuck between a rock and a hard place,” he said.

I did not like the sound of where this was going. “What exactly is the problem?” I said.

“I don't have the money to pay for the studio,” he admitted. “I'm going to have to pull out.”

What is the deal here? You must surely be wondering the same thing as I was. Just what is the fucked-up deal with the mismanagement of this godless universe? I mean, did somebody really have it in for me up there?

“You can't pull out,” I said. “It's too late to stop now.” What a joke. We should have stopped years before.

“I'm sorry,” said Barry. “That's just the way it is.”

Of course it was. Why would I have expected anything else?

I whispered the news to Ivan. We had a hushed confab. It would have cost us at least half the amount to stop recording there and then, so we elected not to confess our sudden insolvency. While Vlad and the musicians worked on oblivious, Ivan rushed around behind the scenes, begging from various allies and associates. His close friend Martin Lupton, a trainee doctor from a well-to-do background, came up with £1,000. Leo, who still had some money left from his insurance settlement, came up with another £1,000. A phone call to our long-suffering dad in Ireland delivered the rest. By the time it came to mixing, a day or so later, we had the money to pay for everything, and a string of IOU notes hanging over our heads.

Ah, but when we listened to the playback, it was all worth it. “Invisible Girl” did not sound like a demo. Plush and full and crystal clear, sweet and sad and dreamy, it sounded like the real thing, a proper record. But it was a record that did not have a home.

There was one call I could make, however. One favor I had always been reluctant to ask. I went back to Ireland, to see Bono.

U2 were ensconced in a studio off St. Stephen's Green, working on mixes and B-sides for their new album. Everybody was there. Bono, Edge, Adam, Larry. Even Paul McGuinness. The playback snatches I heard were astonishing: tough and dark and muscular, burning with emotion. They had made another bold creative leap and at its forefront was Bono's voice, tearing his way through the band's wall of sound. The gap between U2 live and U2 on record had always been the gap between the Edge and Bono. Now they had come together with a vengeance.

“What do you think?” said Bono, his secret smile telling me that he already knew.

“I'm speechless,” I said.

“That makes a change,” said Edge.

Bono and I retired to the studio's recreation room where we sat together while I explained the situation to him. I pointed out that he had really gone to bat for Cactus World News and In Tua Nua, among other Dublin bands, making calls to record-company bosses to press their cases. I had never asked him for anything like that. But I reminded him that he once offered to put a single out for us on Mother and I wanted to know if his offer still stood? “I don't want to put you on the spot,” I said. “But we really need a break.”

Bono explained that all decisions concerning Mother were made by five people: the members of U2 and their manager. Decisions had to be unanimous. Each person effectively had a veto. “I don't want to fall out with you about this,” he said, “so you have to understand the process.”

“We're not going to fall out,” I promised.

“Let's take a listen, then,” said Bono, slipping the tape into the rec-room stereo.

“Invisible Girl” came gliding out of the speakers, sweet and melodic. It was a million miles removed from the dark-hewn rock we had just been listening to.

“Pop music,” Bono noted with a warm smile.

“Everything is pop music,” I said.

“Leave it with me,” said Bono.

As I got up to go, Adam came into the room. “Nice groove,” he observed.

“Well, thank you, Adam,” I said with genuine delight. I felt as if the weight of the world was lifting off my shoulders. Everything was going to work out fine.

My younger sister, Louise, had left school the previous year and got a job in a recording studio, apparently unperturbed by the fact that her brothers were pretty much a walking advertisement for everything that was wrong with the music business. She was following a much more practical course than we ever did, however. She studied musical engineering and now had the run of the Lab studio, a small 8-track in Dublin. With time on our hands, Ivan and I availed of this facility. In the absence of a band, we opted to record some of our less poppy, acoustic-oriented material, offbeat songs that we always imagined would provide us with a future folky sideline. The titles might give you some idea about my general state of mind: “King of the Dead,” “Buried Alive,” “Heaven Bent,” “Fool for Pain” and “This House Is Condemned.” My lyrical bent was becoming ever so slightly twisted.

A couple of days later, I got a call to meet up with Bono in a pub close to where U2 were rehearsing. We sat in a dark recess and ordered a couple of pints. Bono was tapping the table, thoughtfully.

“The answer's no,” he suddenly announced.

I was incredulous but I bit my tongue. I had made enough enemies with my outspoken reactions to criticism and rejection. I was determined not to fall out with Bono over this.

“You knew the deal,” he said. “I don't want to say who voted against; it's not important, because if one says no then we all say no—that's the way it works. All I can tell you is it got vetoed.”

I didn't say anything. I sipped from my pint and digested this latest rejection, perhaps the cruelest rejection of all because it was delivered by a friend.

“The thing about it is, Neil, it's pop music,” said Bono. “I don't think we understand pop music. It's not what we've ever been about. So there it is. Are you gonna be OK with that?”

“Yeah, I'm OK,” I said.

Two American girls were hovering conspicuously at the corner of our table. They took the silence that had fallen as an invitation to speak.

“Are you the Bono?” asked one.

Bono laughed, relieved by this absurd distraction. “Yes, I am the Bono!” he admitted.

“Can we have your autograph?”

“Of course,” he said, scrawling his moniker on the proffered piece of paper. The girls weren't quite done yet, though. They nervously pushed the piece of paper toward me. “Are you the Edge?”

“Sign the girl's paper, Edge,” teased Bono.

So I signed. “God bless—the Edge.” It was probably as close to the trappings of fame as I was ever going to come.

T
here was an opening gala for something or other, a big club-night launch. I was used to attending such occasions, blagging my way in to album launches and showcases as a representative of
Hot Press
. I would spend half my time filling my pockets with hors d'oeuvres and tucking a couple of bottles of wine into my jacket to take home to our impoverished household. But this was a very big do and, for some reason, my name was not on the guest list. “There must be a mistake,” I insisted. “Look again.” But the hatchet-faced bouncer was having none of it. He pushed me, protesting loudly, back into the huge crowd pressed up against the red ropes that separated the VIP guests from the gawking public. Spotlights arced through the cold night air. I really wanted to get inside, where the action was, and hopefully scanned the invitees for a familiar face. Which is when a white stretch limo pulled up and, amid popping flashes, the four members of U2 climbed out, waving to the crowd. As luck would have it, they were going to walk right past where I was standing. I waved. But everyone was waving. Adam, Larry and Edge trooped down the red carpet, acknowledging the applause, with Bono taking up the rear.

“Bono!” I shouted, but everybody was shouting his name. This was pathetic. But he was just inches away. I reached out and touched his shoulder. “Bono!” He turned my way. But he just looked right through me, a look of such blank detachment it cut me to the bone.

A bouncer grabbed my hand, twisting it painfully. “Fuck off! He's a friend of mine,” I shouted. The bouncer looked to Bono for confirmation.

“I don't know him,” said Bono. And walked on by.

I woke up with a shudder. What the fuck was that about? I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to shake off the emotions my dream had evoked. I felt humiliated. But, worse, I felt ashamed of myself. Ashamed of dreaming of my friend in that manner. Ashamed of so blatantly craving his recognition. Ashamed of dreaming about him at all. I didn't want Bono taking up residence in my sleep, as if he had the freedom of movement of my subconscious.

But Bono was everywhere, so why not inside my head?
The Joshua Tree
came out in March 1987 and went to number one all over the world, the fastest-selling album in British music history, occupying the top spot on the American charts for nine consecutive weeks and clocking up in excess of sixteen million sales. U2 were hailed as the torchbearers for rock 'n' roll, analyzed in newspaper editorials, snapped by the paparazzi and featured on the cover of every conceivable magazine. They even made the front of
Time
, an exceedingly strange place to see the familiar faces of old schoolfriends. Bono was embraced as rock's latest mystic seer, a sort of holy cross between the Morrisons, Jim and Van. There was a kind of mania in the air. They played two nights at Wembley Stadium, a venue with a 70,000 capacity. That was outrageous. There were only a handful of groups in the whole world who could fill Wembley Stadium and U2 sold it out twice over.

I saw U2 three times in June 1987, and I was never bored. The shows were awe-inspiring. After years in which, musically, they had made themselves up as they went along, priding themselves in their self-sufficiency and never looking back, U2 had finally begun to embrace rock's past, digging into a tradition that stemmed from folk and the blues and extended to heavy metal and art rock. Their set stretched from the intimate to the apocalyptic, encompassing a shambling, sing-along rendition of Ben. E. King's classic “Stand By Me,” the aching sadness of “Running to Stand Still,” the all-encompassing emotional swell of “40,” the brooding tenderness of “With or Without You” warping into an uplifting version of Van Morrison's “Gloria,” a caustically rewired anti-Thatcher version of Bob Dylan's “Maggie's Farm” and the show-stopping, heavy-rock apocalyptic epic “Bullet the Blue Sky,” with the band drenched in blood-red lighting, the Edge's psyched-out guitars howling like Led Zeppelin after the levee broke and Bono commandeering a hand-held spotlight and intoning rambling Beat poetry: “I was walking through the streets of London, walking through the streets of Kilburn, Brixton and Harlesden, and I felt I was a long way from San Salvador, but still, the sky was ripped open, the rain pouring through the gaping wound, pelting the women and children, waiting in line to the hospitals, waiting in line to pick up money, pelting the women and children who run…who run into the arms of…Margaret Thatcher!”

The first gig I saw was actually at Birmingham National Exhibition Centre. It was a mark of how far U2 had come that the 12,000-seat arena was now an intimate venue for them. My uncle Jim, who lived in the midlands, wanted to see the show and U2's office had duly furnished me with tickets and passes. Ivan and I traveled up by train, along with Ivan's girlfriend, Cassandra.

During a playful version of Curtis Mayfield's “People Get Ready,” Bono would regularly invite someone from the audience up on stage to play his guitar. It was an attempt to break down the divide between band and audience, to share the music. There was also a fair chance that, if the guest was even the least bit competent, they would make a better job of it than Bono, which was certainly the case at Birmingham's NEC. Bono asked his virtuous guest if he was in a band. The guy nodded eagerly. “Is the whole band here?” asked Bono. They were. “Well, get 'em up,” said Bono. The band members excitedly made their way on to the stage, where they were given instruments and joined U2 in a chaotic rendition of Dylan's “Knockin' on Heaven's Door” before a roaring audience of 11,000.

I looked at Ivan and he smiled weakly back at me. The pangs of envy emanating from the pair of us were strong enough to be almost visible. “Bet you wish that was you,” said Uncle Jim, which was rather ungracious, I thought. That would be the last time I sorted him out with tickets.

Afterward, we showed our passes and were admitted backstage. But it was all very strange. Our passes gained us access only to the huge, empty space immediately behind the stage, where roadies were pushing equipment around and a smattering of guests seemed to be hanging aimlessly about. I felt awkward, unsure what the protocol was. The band were nowhere to be seen. There was a farther gated area, in front of which stood a couple of yellow-jacketed security men, but when I showed my pass they just shook their heads. “Are the band coming out?” I asked. “They might—can't really say” is all I was told. We retreated, wondering whether there was any point in staying, just for the half chance of saying hello. The whole thing gave me a bad feeling. The U2 machine had become so big now, I didn't know where I fitted into it—or even if I did anymore. Then Larry emerged to chat with a couple of people and spotted us lurking uncomfortably on the other side of this vast chamber. He waved us over. “You should have asked someone to come and let us know you were here,” he reprimanded us amiably, instructing the security men to admit us.

It was a relief to be welcomed into the dressing room, where Bono and Edge greeted us warmly. Adam was nowhere to be seen. “As soon as the show's over, he's always disappearing with the most beautiful women you've ever seen,” said Bono. “A different woman every night. I don't know how he does it! The man is a complete charmer.” It struck me as a bizarrely naïve comment, a kind of willful denial of the obvious truth: Adam was a rock star, indulging in rock 'n' roll vices.

Bono was exhausted and hoarse, a towel wrapped around his neck absorbing the sweat, but he invited Ivan and me to visit his hotel the next day, where we could talk at leisure. But once again we ran into security problems. “There is no one of that name registered here,” said the desk clerk, when I asked to be put through to Bono's room.

“Try Paul Hewson,” I said.

“I'm sorry, no one of that name either.” I have to say, the clerk did not look sorry at all. In fact, he looked rather smug.

“Look, I know he's here,” I said. “There are people standing out front with U2 banners. Bono invited us over, so can you just let him know we've arrived?”

“I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave,” said the clerk, beckoning for the attention of a doorman.

A rather bedraggled Adam wandered through the lobby in the nick of time, arm cast over the shoulder of some beauty who didn't look like she'd got much sleep. He smilingly reassured the clerk that we weren't deranged stalkers. Bono was apparently booked under a false name which he had neglected to supply. We went up to his room, where he was sitting alone, sipping red wine, half watching the swampy New Orleans thriller
No Mercy
on TV, a film he had evidently seen several times before. It struck me as a curious kind of velvet prison Bono found himself in—the fans outside restricting his movement, his days spent in an endless chain of hotel rooms lacking the personalized familiarity of home. He certainly seemed very happy to see us, insisting we join him in polishing off the bottle of wine while he regaled us with long anecdotes about his recent adventures. He was charming and attentive toward Cassandra. Bono can be very flirtatious around women. Obviously, if he wanted to, he could have followed the Adam Clayton route to satisfying his every desire with the pick of the world's most attractive women. But then, he already had one of the world's most attractive women waiting for him at home. Bono's strong faith may have served to keep temptation at bay but it did not stop him from entertaining possibilities, flirting with his sexual power, playing with fire.

I once accused him of being a voyeur of the dark side of life. “I am a voyeur of my own dark side,” he laughed. “There's nothing seamier than your own plans, made in the dead of night!” But it struck me in Birmingham that Bono was lonely. Ali lived her own life in Dublin, refusing to become a satellite to Bono's star. She went to gigs when it suited her, rather than joining the entourage on the road. And Bono used to joke that she occasionally threw him out, just to keep him in line. I think the truth was that when he returned from tour, all hyped up after months of adulation, she would insist he stay in a hotel for a couple of weeks to reintegrate with the values of her more ordinary life before he could come back home. It was a kind of reality decompression chamber. “Ali will not be worn like a brooch” was Bono's admiring phrase. “She's her own woman.” But I have also heard him complain, from time to time, that “it's almost impossible to be married and be in a band on the road.”

“You know, this fame business can be quite tough,” he said in Birmingham. “There's some strong stuff out there. And I'm not talking about drugs or drink. I'm talking about other ways of seeing the world just through the prism of being a star and being so privileged you can get bent out of shape. The whole business of people thinking you're important because you can write a song and sing it rather than being a nurse or a fireman, how absurd is that? This guy said to me a while ago, ‘My son's a doctor, he saves lives; how many lives have you saved?' ”

“You can't complain about fame,” I said. “You've got everything you ever wanted.”

“I've got everything
you
ever wanted,” countered Bono. “How do you know what I want?”

“I've got a theory about fame,” I said.

“Why am I not surprised?” quipped Bono.

“You always hear famous people being described as larger than life,” I said. “I think fame can actually make human beings bigger inside. Because you have the freedom to be whatever you want to be. Everything you do is accepted and encouraged so you can expand into the space that creates. You are free from the mundanity of everyday existence.”

“Yeah, that's a fact, I am,” he replied. “But you make that sound like an accusation. The truth is, I was never very good at the mundane. Now I don't have to deal with it, don't have to worry about the mortgage and the bills. It's all taken care of. But I've got concerns of my own. You know, Neil, you're very talented but you're still wrestling with a lot of things. And I don't mean just wrestling with paying the rent. You're wrestling with things inside yourself. I don't want to tell you how to live your life—although telling other people what to do happens to be one of the things I am very good at!—but surely you can't expect to beat the world while you're still busy beating yourself up?”

That sure shut me up. Bono took another sip of wine and lit a cigarette.

“You're smoking?” said Ivan, who detested the habit.

“How stupid is that?” said Bono. “To take up smoking as an adult? You see, it's all the stress I have to deal with. Fame is hard, man. Believe me, you don't want it.” He was grinning widely. He knew he wasn't going to put us off that easily.

We left Bono with a tape of the songs we had recorded in Dublin.

The next time I saw him was backstage at Wembley Stadium. I went both nights. I have seen very few acts capable of holding the complete attention of a stadium but U2 carried it off as if this were their natural habitat, sucking us into their performance until we might as well have been in their rehearsal room. They share a complex mix of elements with Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band (my other stadium favorites), combining showmanship with integrity (not an easy feat) and creating intimacy in even the largest spaces by sheer force of personality and musicality. They were stunning. Again.

After the show there were two distinct hospitality areas, the largest catering to hundreds of representatives of the music business with a separate, smaller gathering reserved for special guests. When you get that successful, even the VIP rooms have VIP sections. In the smaller section was Ali, along with other friends from Dublin. This was U2's big night so I was quite taken aback when Bono approached me and immediately started talking about my music.