Killing Bono

by Neil McCormick

  “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 entertai
ning 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.

  “That tape you gave me,” he said. “It’s extraordinary. The song ‘Fool for Pain,’ it’s so raw it’s painful to listen to. You’re standing naked in that song, with your trousers down and your willy hangin’ out for everyone to see. I was almost embarrassed to listen to it. That’s the stuff you should be doing. Forget the pop music. You and Ivan are two of the best songwriters ever to come out of Ireland and nobody knows. Why? Because you’re not letting anybody hear what you can really do.”

  “We’ve played Wembley,” I said, defensively. Bono looked at me skeptically. “Wembley Coach & Horses,” I added.

  Bono laughed.

  “I don’t know what you think’s so funny,” I said. “It was a really good gig.”

  The gap between us now was so large you could lose yourself in it. What were the chances of this happening? It wasn’t enough that I had gone to school with some guys who became rock stars. No. They had to go and become the biggest-selling and most acclaimed rock stars of their generation in the whole wide world. All I wanted when I was a kid was to be famous. Now, even if I was to somehow miraculously achieve my dream, it would be dwarfed into insignificance by the sheer scale of the achievements of some kids who used to sit next to me in class. It was a twist of fate worthy of the vindictive God of Bono’s Old Testament.

  My life was taking some dark and twisted turns. Steve and I were picking up girls. He too had recently come out of a long-term relationship and we spent a lot of time together, hanging out in wine bars, talking about life and trying to get laid (not necessarily in that order of priority), preferably for one night only, no strings attached. Of course, the problem with trying to pick up women in the company of the Walking Pheromone was that he always got the best-looking ones, including a Playboy model whom he later claimed to have carefully inspected for signs of staples in her stomach. The thing is, neither of us seemed to be enjoying the whole experience very much. We were just doing it because it’s what we had signed up for. The rock ’n’ roll had proven to be a bit of a disappointment. Steve wasn’t into drugs and, frankly, I couldn’t afford the drugs I wanted. So all that was left was the sex.

  I was not a happy bunny. I fulfilled most of my sexual fantasies, checking them off a mental list in my head, and, let me tell you, compared to intimate sex with someone you care about, these assignations proved a sad disappointment. I even had a three-way tryst with two gorgeous bisexual girls, who were into each other, while snorting cocaine and drinking champagne, which is probably right up at the top of most men’s fantasy list. And you know what? After I had ejaculated a couple of times, I lost interest. The pair of them went at it all night. I got up and went into the other room and watched TV.

  And I really don’t want to think about the woman who introduced her dog into the proceedings.

  You know the problem with a godless universe? You’re on your own. Responsible for no one but yourself. And every time you contemplate the future, you are forced to conclude that your ultimate fate is simply to cease to be. It makes it hard to care about things, even yourself. The distractions of vice are all too easy to surrender to. You tend to think, “I know I shouldn’t be doing this but…fuck it!”

  You could say I was experiencing an existential wobble.

  Then Steve went and got famous with his boy band and I lost my partner in misdemeanor. That was a rather bruising lesson about the nature of fame. It wasn’t that Steve turned into some kind of egotistic monster; it was more like he got distracted for a minute in the sudden burst of flashlights…But it was long enough for him to lose sight of some of his closest friends.

  I must have been a bit of a pain in the arse to be around anyway. I found it hard to be overlooked by th
e excited fans who would come bustling up to Steve in the street and then give me their cameras and ask me to take a picture of them with their idol. I probably made a few too many caustic jokes about Steve’s pin-up status. But we went from talking every day and hanging out several times a week—two young men with an incredibly similar outlook, sharing our experience of the world—to talking only when I could get him on the phone and meeting when he could squeeze me into his schedule. And then I thought,” I’m not going to call him until he calls me.” And I never heard from him again.

  I did run into him at a party a few years later. To his credit, he was sheepish and apologetic. By then he had come out of the other side of celebritydom and had genuine insight into how it had affected him. We exchanged numbers but we never used them. The damage done to our friendship was beyond repair.

  In some strange phenomenon of social connectivity, as the chosen few moved into the stratosphere, gathering together in a galaxy of celebrity, with hangers-on and other satellites orbiting endlessly around, the wannabes and might-have-beens and other assorted show business rejects began to congregate in the dark space at the edge of this constellation of stars, telling funny stories about failure to make themselves feel better and bitching behind the backs of their more famous friends. I have to say, my fellow nonachievers were good company. A more extraordinary, talented and delightfully eccentric bunch of people you could not invent. Maybe failure is more character-building than success.

  There was Gerry Moore, of course, who had gone back to Ireland, where he made a living as a voice-over artist in radio ads, frequently impersonating singers who could not have held a candle to his own vocal talent. And there was Reid Savage, an erudite raconteur who was also one of the most exciting guitarists I had ever heard. Reid signed to MCA when Ossie was telling us not to and got dropped after one album. I always thought he could have been a great, inventive guitar hero like the Edge but Reid was working his personal magic on the pub circuit, not in stadiums. He was married to Louise Goffin, the only child of classic songwriters Gerry Goffin and Carol King, who had to deal with a very different kind of rejection than the rest of us. Louise put out a lyrically complex, melodically demanding album, This Is the Place, in 1987, but every review and interview focused on the family connection and most found her wanting. “What’s good enough for other people,” she sadly noted, “isn’t good enough for me.” And then there was Frank McGee, a frighteningly fucked-up ball of hyperintensity who had an ugly sex appeal uniquely his own, the charisma of a Hollywood movie star and a wild, poetic streak that should have made him a rock legend, but somehow his band, Jo Jo Namoza, always managed to scare off the A&R community. To be fair, Frank was a scary guy. He once told me that his ideal date was to go back to a woman’s home, fuck her up the ass, steal her money and shit in her handbag. But Jo Jo were a strange, taut, funky and utterly unique band and it is the world’s loss that they eventually broke up in the face of timidity from the music business, robbing posterity of the chance to enjoy such classics as “Yes, I Am a Fishhead.” I see Frank pop up on my TV screen every now and then, usually as a policeman or criminal in some low-rent soap opera. He should have been a star. But that’s the epitaph of so much talent. Should have been. Could have been. Might have been. If only.