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  Well, you put yourself closer to the tradition of gospel, of the preacher possessed. I mean, when rock ’n’ roll first appeared, it had evolved from mad preachers.

  That’s right.

  Are you implying that you’re not able to be a pure comedian, and that you’ve become this mad preacher?

  Isn’t that interesting that U2 is, in one sense, in exactly the same spot as so many rock ’n’ roll people, right back to Elvis? That thing of the gospel and the blues: one hand on the positive terminal, one hand on the minus terminal. And Elvis’s dance was really electrocution.

  Coming back to the early eighties, is there some point when you said to yourself: maybe this won’t work out, maybe this band will fail, and maybe I will have to go back to having a proper job, and earning a living and being a serious person?

  Maybe before PopMart [the 1997–98 U2 tour]. Around that time.

  That was late.

  Yeah, because, well, we were risking bankruptcy. You see, Zoo TV cost so much, I mean, it cost a quarter of a million dollars a day to take that thing around. So, if ten percent less people had come to see us, we’d have gone bankrupt, and with those kinds of bills, you don’t go bankrupt a little, you go bankrupt a lot. I can’t think about it now. A quarter of a million dollars a day, that’s a lot of money. We’ve since found good people who are prepared to take that risk for us, but anyway at the time it was scary. I remember speaking to Ali about the consequences of failure. She was fearless: “What’s the worst, to sell the house, and get a smaller one to get rid of the other one we don’t need, end up living like all our friends who lead a normal life? What’s wrong with that? They’re still our friends. It wasn’t like we changed communities and we’re like a great disgrace. They’d probably be relieved: ‘Oh, thank God . . .’ ” [laughs] She didn’t mind. I didn’t mind. Rolling Stone described it as the Sgt. Pepper of live shows. It was ground-breaking. We had fun, and in the end it made a few quid. A few. But this is better; I don’t want to be glib or churlish. It’s better to be on top than at the bottom. But that’s the only time I actually thought about failure. I never thought about it up to that.

  Be honest. Are you really telling me that you’d never contemplated failure before?

  I don’t remember it. I would get angry, I would get upset that we weren’t what we could be, I remember that. I don’t remember thinking that we never would, I always thought we would. And as soon as we did, it would be clear, you know. [laughs] Doubt, self-doubt was about the material, the doubt was about our abilities, but the destination was never a doubt. If we weren’t able, we had the faith, because we could still walk into a room, play together, and the hairs of everyone’s neck would stand up, everyone. No matter if there was five people in the crowd, or five hundred. It was haphazard. It mightn’t happen. But when it did, you knew you weren’t having that feeling a lot, going to gigs. Joy Division, maybe. See, there’s a chasm between envy and desire, OK? Envy is like wanting something that’s not yours. But desire is different. Desire comes out of wanting what is yours, and still wanting it even if it’s not yet there, but it’s not envy. When desire becomes envy, there’s a difference. And there’s even a difference from the point of view of the fan. One looks up at this person who they can’t be, one looks up at some person that they can be. I and U2 were always what you could be.

  That’s true if you consider the early eighties. But I’m not sure that’s the way you’re perceived today by a fifteen- or twenty-year-old. To them U2 is that huge band that has sold more than a hundred million records, that puts on these huge shows.

  Yes, but when they listen at night when the lights are turned off, on headphones, I don’t think they’re listening to lofty ideas, they’re listening to something that sounds familiar.

  Still, I’m not sure that listening to your music now, they’d feel that they can make it on the same level as you.

  It’s less true, all right. We’ve gotten better at being rock stars; that’s something I’m not sure we should be proud of. We got good at insincerity, but only to protect ourselves, to be able to continue to be sincere in our work. OK, now it’s MTV, oh my God, there’s cameras in your face everywhere! We’d better get good at this stuff. But we’re not fully believable as rock stars.

  The weird thing was that you seemed to work very hard at being rock stars. Some people started off being glamorous, like Prince. You were not and weren’t aiming to be. You aimed to be anti-glamorous. After a few years, changes came.

  After ten years . . .

  At some point, that zealot attitude of “us” against “the system” became obsolete.

  Anachronistic.

  And then it seems that you went back to school, not to find deeper roots to your music, the way you did with Rattle and Hum, but you went back to school in order to learn how to be rock stars.

  That’s very good. That’s exactly how Zoo TV was. The rock star I put together for myself was an identi-kit. I had Elvis Presley’s leather jacket, Jim Morrison’s leather pants, Lou Reed’s fly shades, Jerry Lee Lewis’s boots, Gene Vincent’s limp. You want rock ’n’ roll stuff? I’ll give you some.

  The flea market.

  [laughs] The fly market! As I just said to you, I still think we’re not really believable as rock ’n’ roll stars, though we’ve gotten much better at it. And I’ll tell you how I know that: because I still travel and I walk through the world without security. I don’t take security with me, I never felt the need to, I can get by. If it comes to it, I can look after myself. But not just that: I like the rub of people, and people find me very accessible. People talk to me, people walk up to me—they don’t treat me the way I’ve seen them treat my contemporaries or my influences. They walk straight up to me because they know from the records that even if my face isn’t as open as it was ten years ago, I am. And they can tell. Even in New York, I’m walking down the street, and people say: “How are you doin’?” They beep their horns, or they walk up, they’re not afraid of me. Maybe I failed as a rock ’n’ roll star. [laughs] Occasionally, I get some celebrity geek who treats me like one. I just walk on by. People who know our music, they know who you are. They’ve been in the dark room, they know you better than your best friend, because you don’t sing like that to your best friend, you don’t sing in their ear.

  So I guess that a few people crossing your path these days must think you are an impersonator. Is that true?

  I am one more times than I could admit, but let me tell you an amusing war story. I can’t give you the name, but let’s say I’m recording with a famous singer from a different genre, OK? They come to Dublin, and they can’t get into any of the big studios. So they end up in this fairly modest city-center studio. Now, they already think Ireland is the Third World. So they’re a little freaked, being here. The only thing that’s gonna make this all right is: the big star turns up. I turn up in my car, and it’s not such a fancy car. I’ve made them keep a parking space outside—I’m not very good at parking. There’s some of the star’s security waiting outside the studio watching this idiot trying to park in the big star’s space. “I’m sorry, my man. We’re keeping this parking space.” I’m going, “No, it’s OK, it’s me.” [laughs] The security guy says: “I’m sorry. We can’t let you park here, sir.” It’s like the land of the giants! I’m saying, “No, no, I’m the Irish singer, please.” Because, in their mind, there is no way I could not have a lot of security, and the setup, and the guys coming with the walkie-talkies. That happens all the time. You turn up at a big party in Beverly Hills, and you’re not in the car with the entourage, and you’re used to walking up the hill. It’s just people are very confused. The thing I’m the most proud of, I think, is the life I have, that never have I lost it. We’re under the radar of celebrity, really.

  You’ve got some nerve to say that. I don’t think that’s really true.

  Most of the time, our lives are not vivid enough for that kind of coverage. And I think, generally, even the paparazzi have learn
t to respect our position on privacy, because, of course, the way to encourage the paparazzi is to hide from them, or try to punch them out. There’ve been a couple of moments, but in general, I’ve just said to them: “Look, here I am. You want my photograph? Take it.” On the odd occasion, I’ve gone out for a drink with them. No one buys them a drink. They’re working for a living, you know. And I’ve learnt to like a lot of them. So I do feel people are very respectful of my privacy in general.

  But what are those peers you are alluding to most afraid of, then?

  Well, my friend Michael Hutchence used to say: “This is a business of star-fucking, and stars are the worst starfuckers.” So, there is the syndrome of “Somebody’s not taking my photograph. I don’t exist if somebody is not trying to get my autograph. My last album must be crap.” At an unconscious level, we’re attention-seekers. And I’m sure I must be one of them. But I think I get enough of it in the work, to really not want it in my private life. But maybe not . . . because I’m finding myself, oops, by accident, talking to you for publication, shaking the hand of the odd president in front of the world’s media. I mean, what would your pocket book of psychology make of that? “Haven’t you got enough attention?” So if you find yourself in those situations a lot, you must want to be there. I probably want it both ways, but the emphasis must always be towards privacy. I just love the retreat of Dublin and Ireland. It has given me the best of both worlds, to go out and play at being a star, even though I don’t think I particularly look like one or act like one off the stage. But then, when I want my other life back, I get it in Dublin, Nice, and New York. I spend a lot of time in New York. People are really cool to me, even if they recognize me. Even the cops. New York’s finest, so many of them are Irish. And after what happened with 9/11 and U2’s support for the city, there’s a lot of affection. I really get looked after. Sometimes I’m hailing a cab, and a cop car will pull up: “Hey, Bono, we’ll take you anywhere you wanna go.” That’s the greatest.

  Are you implying that you saw a few of your peers getting out of touch?

  I’m just saying you don’t need all the accoutrements that a lot of my friends have.

  But why do they have to have them in the first place?

  I don’t know. I think it’s the status. It’s a very hierarchical business. What table you get in the restaurant tells how your career is doing. It’s happened to me many times, where you turn up at a restaurant or a club and they haven’t got the booking right and you have to queue or get turned away. The paparazzi are taking your photograph as they see you looking a little embarrassed and taking your guest by the hand and retreating. That could have been sorted out by security or an advance party calling ahead, but it’s not my style. So maybe there are good reasons, sometimes, for having an entourage. But I don’t want to stray too far from the street. I’m not saying I’m not good at the penthouse life—but I’m also good at the pavement. That’s a source of pride for me, that I’m good at both. I’m good at the high life, I’m good at the low life. It’s the middle where I lose it.

  So you don’t see yourself as a celebrity, then.

  No, I’m not a celebrity.

  Who the hell are you, then?

  I’m a scribbling, cigar-smoking, wine-drinking, Bible-reading band man. A show-off [laughs] . . . who loves to paint pictures of what I can’t see. A husband, father, friend of the poor and sometimes the rich. An activist traveling salesman of ideas. Chess player, part-time rock star, opera singer, in the loudest folk group in the world. How’s that?

  Mmmh . . . I’ll let you off just this once.

  3. EVERYBODY GETS OUT OF HERE ALIVE

  It took me some time to ask Bono about his closest friends: his fellow musicians in U2 and their manager, Paul McGuinness. I thought Bono and I had to get closer in order for him to talk about them, which he eventually did in a very revealing way. It was a Saturday afternoon in his study, and the mood was very relaxed.

  Have you heard the story about how Mick Jagger and Keith Richards met up for the first time? I guess they were about sixteen, waiting for a train to London. Richards actually approached Jagger because he had seen him walking with these ultra-rare records from the Chess catalog. Can you remember a similar encounter between you and Edge, something you’d refer to as the founding scene of your friendship, both personal and artistic?

  Which albums?

  Well, Edge was in Ali’s class at high school. They were a year behind me. I’d seen him hanging around the corridors of school with albums under his arm. I remember there was a group called Taste.

  Oh yes, of course. They were Rory Gallagher’s first band.

  And then I remember Edge picking the guitar, sitting down in a corridor, once. He was playing Neil Young’s “The Needle and the Damage Done.” I was trying to play it as well. I was envious because I could tell that he could play a little better than I could. [laughs] What I didn’t realize at that time is that he could play a lot better than I could. He always had that thing about him, that he wouldn’t nominate himself to run in the race. But if he was put in the race, he would want to win it. It’s a strange thing, and I don’t know where it comes from. He has a healthy disrespect—and respect—for his own ego.

  What do you mean?

  He knows what he’s capable of, and he would not push himself forward. He would rather hang back in the shadows and be discovered.

  So what you’re implying . . .

  [laughs, interrupting] What I’m implying is I’m his manager. Whereas Larry was different. Larry, who started the band, would tell you that he has no interest in being a rock star. But he’s the one who started the rock band. So that’s a little disingenuous, because he’s the guy that loved T. Rex, Bowie, and the great pop stars. It’s a strange thing. So he, in a way, though he didn’t hang around in the shadows like Edge, once he was discovered certainly made attempts to run back there. But “Me thinks he doth protest too much,” because I think Larry’s really great at being in a rock ’n’ roll band, but he doesn’t think he is. Has all the instincts, but the way it appears is that myself and Adam were the showmen of the group.

  Adam was already the “cool guy” in your school, right? He was more of a hip dresser than the three of you, which maybe was not such an outstanding achievement.

  Yes, but he, like myself, has got it wrong.

  You mean more wrong than you?

  No, it was both. In terms of sartorial elegance and expertise, as the two showmen of the group we have proved ourselves inept over the years. Whereas the two supposed shy men of rock ’n’ roll are very good at it. They always look good, they never put a foot wrong, and they never want to lose their cool. My only excuse is I never wanted to be cool, I always wanted to be . . . hot. [laughs]

  You probably were more impressed by Adam than he was by you. Wouldn’t you say?

  Yeah, I think that might have been true. I was fascinated by him. I’d never met anyone quite like him.

  What do you mean? What was he like?

  Well, he had been expelled from an upper-class public school in Ireland, and arrived at this free school with a posh accent, wearing a caftan that he had picked up on his holidays at age sixteen, hitching through Afghanistan. He’d had “Afghanistan ’76” written on his T-shirt, and his hair was corkscrew blond hair, but in an Afro. He looked like a negative of Michael Jackson.

  Maybe he wanted to look like Jimi Hendrix, the way Eric Clapton did when he was in Cream.

  That’s right, Hendrix was a big hero in Ireland. And he has a lot in common, in a certain sense. Adam has a very unique sense of where the one is, in terms of where the beat is in the bar. His timing is very unique. Most rock ’n’ roll is made by people who love 4/4, but his timing is much more 5/8, much more of a jazzman. I heard somebody saying, when Jimi Hendrix was taught guitar, he couldn’t keep 4/4 time, the simplest time. Now Adam can, but it’s not really where he wants to be. [laughs] I think it’s probably because he listened to a lot of jazz, to Jimi Hendrix. That�
�s where he was coming from.

  Ever since I met you, I’ve always heard you address Edge as “Edge,” but do you remember a time when you called him Dave?

  Yeah, I think probably for the first year. By ’78, I think he was The Edge.

  And did he call you Bono first or Paul?

  He would have called me Paul up until, maybe ’76. I was known as Bono by my friends in Lypton Village.* Edge and Adam and Larry weren’t really a part of Lypton Village until later.

  Was it easy for them to start calling you that? Maybe a few people found it irritating and kept calling you by your given name?

  The thing about these kinds of nicknames is they’re contagious. You don’t have to ask people, they just start doing it. I can’t remember when Ali started calling me Bono. I was sixteen, I’d say. Edge had another name from Lypton Village.

  And what was that?

  “Inchicore.” It’s the name of a small town on the outskirts of Dublin City.

  So who had this preposterous idea to call him The Edge?

  I do preposterous in this band. It had something to do with the shape of his head, his jaw, and an insane love he had for walking on the edges of very high walls, bridges, or buildings. Before Bono, I was “Steinvic von Huyseman,” and then just “Huyseman,” and then “Houseman,” then “Bon Murray,” “Bono Vox of O’Connell Street,” and then just “Bono.”

  “Bono Vox of O’Connell Street”—now that’s an aristocrat’s name. There’s nobility in it.