Bono

by Michka Assayas

  So where did it get you?

  Everywhere.

  Which means?

  It was more fun than I thought.

  But you seem to regret it.

  No. Insecurity can take you a long way. That smirk opened doors.

  You’re still not answering. What did they open to?

  A concept.

  What?

  The importance of not being earnest.

  And was it painful?

  Oh yeah . . . [laughs] Agony!

  And now you’re over it.

  Not quite. It’s fun being a rock star . . . sometimes.

  In that “glasnost” period, even though you worked with Amnesty and Greenpeace, Africa was not on your agenda. But was it on your mind?

  No, sadly. Not as much as it should have been. A little, yes, but not a lot. I remember Ali and myself flying back from Africa the first time. And the first few days in Europe again, it was culture shock. We had a lot more difficulty re-entering than we had landing in Africa, and figuring that out. We said to each other: “We’ll never forget what we’ve been through.” But we did. We got on with our lives. When we said grace at dinner tables, we said it a little stronger. We meant it. Food tasted a little more. But you just get on with your life, and you slowly find a place to put Africa, this beautiful, shining continent with all its ups and downs. Occasionally, you’d take it out, you’d look at it again, and then you’d put it back in that safer place called distance and time. But there was one thing I always knew. There was a structural aspect to this problem that we had witnessed. That’s where I wanted to put my energy the next time round.

  So Jubilee 2000 and DATA led you back to that continent for the first time in more than ten years. But had you met Nelson Mandela when U2 played in Cape Town for the PopMart tour?

  No, I hadn’t, but we met Archbishop Tutu. Nelson Mandela’s story is one of the great stories of the twentieth century. But Archbishop Tutu’s is one of the great stories of the twenty-first century.

  And why is that?

  Because the lessons of his Commission for Truth and Reconciliation can be applied to the Middle East, can be applied to Ireland, can be applied to Kosovo, can be applied to so many places. This is the most important story of the last fifty years. Somehow, they realized, this new African leadership, that truth sometimes is more important than justice. So on the grounds of not being prosecuted, they offer people a chance to come forward and confess to their crimes under apartheid, be they police, be they from black to brown, from brown to black, whatever crimes were committed. You remember the awful “burning necklace.” Those were horrific crimes. But they didn’t set up law courts. They began a new kind of convention where you will see a policeman standing in front of the family he has abused, and the man of the house, the tin hut, is saying to the policeman: “Did you see a woman wearing an olive green dress that day?” And the policeman says: “I can’t remember the colors.”—“Her name was Melinda, and she was wearing a green dress. Did you see her? Do you remember shooting her? She was my wife.” And the policeman, with tears rolling down his face, is going: “I don’t remember her. I just remember shooting into the crowd.” I mean, it’s devastating. But Archbishop Tutu felt that the country needed to come clean if it was to go forward, that it needed to repent, and that maybe prosecution was not as important as that. It’s an amazing thing, you must find and write about. U2 went to visit that center on that trip, my first trip to Africa in ten years. And the four of us arrived. It was overwhelming. He brought us in to this place of Truth and Reconciliation. We were dumbstruck, but it was not without comedy. I remember this great man rebuking me . . . [laughs] It was really a turning point.

  How did he rebuke you?

  I was making polite conversation with him. He’s known by his people as “The Arch.” So it was like: “The Arch, this is The Edge.” He was laughing all the time, big-hearted, big-brained smiling man. Then I said: “You’re so busy with all these things. Do you get any time for prayer and meditation?” He stopped at me and said: “What are you talking about? Do you think we’d be able to do this stuff if we didn’t?” I felt it was like a rebuke to my own life, because I get so busy, and I have so many things on. At that time, I’m not sure I was spending as much time as I would like in reflection, in prayer and meditation. Not that I’m a monk, but I do like to spend some of the time in quietness, and I hadn’t been. I remember it felt like a rebuke.

  That’s what you felt, but he probably didn’t mean it that way.

  Yeah, maybe. He is a comedian. When he laughs, the sky, the trees, the room change shape. For a saint, he’s quite wily. He said: “I’ve some people that I’d like you to meet, who work in this Truth and Reconciliation program. Would you be up for meeting them?” So we said: “OK. Yeah, sure . . .” We walked up, and there was a room with six hundred people. And he ushered us in. [impersonating] “Ladies and gentlemen, I have brought to you the group from Ireland, they’re going to play for you . . . U2!” We just looked at each other. It was like: there’s not even an acoustic guitar, what are we gonna play? We thought it was a photo op, you know, pressing the flesh, shaking hands.

  So what did you do?

  We sang a cappella.

  What did you sing?

  Err . . . “Amazing Grace.”

  The four of you? Even Adam?

  [laughs] I wouldn’t call it singing! They joined in, they’ve got much better voices. But his is a story of Grace in action. It’s Grace interrupting Karma again, that’s what Truth and Reconciliation’s about. So actually it felt like the right song. And then I think we sang “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”

  Did the crowd know the words?

  To “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”? They knew the chorus, though, pop life being what it is. Elevators, Holiday Inn bands, they probably never heard us singing it. Actually, the band is pretty popular in South Africa. I hope they’ll figure it out.

  What kind of feeling did you get from the crowd in South Africa? Did they react in the same way a crowd in Europe or America would react, or was it something completely different?

  Well, you know, whenever you’re playing big events in South Africa, you’re excited about integration and what they’ve been through and survived—apartheid. But now having survived that, they have to face the AIDS emergency. You just think: these people are so resilient and so amazing. You go and you play a gig, it’s like “Spot the black people.” [laughs] You’re looking out at a sort of Irish audience. They look Irish . . . OK, maybe it’s ten percent, but it’s just that culturally they’re not into rock music. That’s no big deal, but it’s funny. The end of apartheid is everywhere but in music. [laughs]

  What was it like when you met Nelson Mandela for the first time?

  We didn’t see him on the first trip. I met him in his house outside Cape Town. One of the houses, I’m not sure where. It was a beautiful house on a sunny day. He was sitting with some of his family near him. Big beautiful trees outside the window. He’s just a very beautiful man in his demeanor as well as his spirit. He says to me [impersonating]: “What would you be coming to see an old man like me for?” Immediately turning it right around . . . It makes you burst out laughing! He always does that.

  Was it easy for you to make a connection? I mean, he’s such a monument.

  Well, he doesn’t behave like one. He’s a lesson in humility. If Tutu is “grace in action,” he’s “forgiveness in action,” bears no malice. Within six months of leaving prison after twenty-three years, he had befriended a lot of his one-time enemies. His re-entry into the real world of politics and compromise was supersonic. Having once proclaimed he would nationalize the diamond industry, he quickly copped on that maybe they were not the best people to be in charge of South Africa’s great national resources and employment centers. He made friends with commerce. Diamonds, as it turns out, are more to do with show business than you think. There are far more diamonds in the ground than any jewele
r would like you to know. It’s by very careful manipulation of the market that they keep their value. It’s not a cartel, but the diamond industry is very shrewd: one false move, and a happy couple’s wedding ring would not be such a family treasure. Things like that say a lot about him and his Cabinet when they took power. How they avoided bloodshed and bile in the transition is one of the great miracles of the age.

  What makes Mandela so different?

  His imagination. His ability to see, taste, and almost touch a future that wasn’t yet there. Most people in his situation would have focused on what they had lost—the past. He’s only thinking about the future. I read an article about his amateur painting. He was eighty years old at the time, telling the journalist that this love of painting would come in handy when he retires. That’s hardcore.

  You’ve appeared onstage with Mandela. When was the first time?

  I went to an event with him we both agreed to in Barcelona. The event had not a great name, but memorably so—it was called “Frock and Roll”! It was fashion and music coming to the aid of the Nelson Mandela Fund. My friend Naomi Campbell was organizing it. We had agreed to go, but there had been all kinds of confusion with the promoter, and the city had turned on the event, and nobody knew whether it was happening or not happening. People, right up to the last day, were just pulling out. In the end, I think it was myself, Wyclef Jean, Alexander McQueen, Galliano, and a couple of other people. But at seven o’clock, there were about 500 people in the 20,000-seater arena. At eight o’clock there was about 2,000. Mandela was supposed to walk on at eight o’clock. So they held him back. There had been confusion. People thought the gig was canceled or whatever. And we waited until eight-thirty. There were about 4,000. People must have gone home to get their sisters and brothers. The organizers didn’t want to worry him, so they turned the lights down.

  You mean they tried to fool him into thinking that there were lots of people at the event.

  Not to mention you, I suppose.

  Yeah, in a nice way. But this is a man who can’t be fooled very easily. And I walked out with him, me on the left and Naomi on the other side. We stood there, the small crowd clapped and cheered him as they should, and he just took the microphone and he said, looking out with his wise eyes [impersonating]: “It is a dangerous thing to have high expectations. And I’ll admit to you I had high expectations coming to Barcelona.” The crowd grew a little restless. I start staring at my shoes. He leaves a long pause that has everyone sweating, and with perfect dramatic timing continues: “I want you people to know this is a welcome I could never ever deserve or expect. Thank you for coming out to see me and for supporting the Nelson Mandela Foundation. It is a matter of great honor and pride that you have all come!” I looked out at the crowd . . . and suddenly it looks full! It is the same amount of people, it just didn’t look empty anymore. Because that’s the way he sees the world. If you spent twenty-odd years in the slammer, every day you’re out is a good day. As I say, his modesty is overpowering. He taught me a real lesson there about our way of seeing the world. I remember when we were kids, looking out, asking our manager: “How many people are in the hall?” He’d say: “Well, there’s 120. Capacity is 500, but it looks fine, it looks OK . . .” I remember feeling sick, or playing to eleven people in Bristol. It was just wonderful. We always tried to play our best, whoever turns up. But, Nelson Mandela teaching, it was a just a great way of seeing the world—that what you have in your hands is more than enough sometimes.

  You just brought up the topic of performance. Something just crossed my mind. Haven’t you ever had a weird feeling while onstage in front of adoring people, worshipping you whatever you do?

  [interrupting] But they’re not worshipping us . . .

  OK, they’re not worshipping you. But I mean, they’re ready to have the time of their life whatever you do, even if you’re on a bad day, even if the sound is shit, and I’ve certainly experienced this kind of night. Isn’t that weird for you?

  Well, you see, I don’t think they will. As I’ve told you before, I think the screaming and those deep roars are for themselves. That’s the thing that’s going on in a U2 show, in fact a lot of rock shows. People are screaming their souls out, they’re screaming for themselves, because their lives are wrapped up in those songs. So one starts, and then they go off. You see, it’s not about us—it’s about them. If we weren’t great, they wouldn’t be there the next time. That’s just the way it is. People are discerning, and tickets cost money. The reason people are there is because we really give a lot of ourselves in our live shows. So I don’t see it as that sort of adoring crowd thing. I think that’s almost a Hollywood idea. What’s going on is much more complex than that. They’re not really adoring.

  Really? Are you serious?

  An amazing thing happened in Chile—it has happened more than a few times. I think you might call it dissent. Whatever you call it, I think it disproves your theory of adoration.

  I’m all ears.

  In Chile, we played our song “Mothers of the Disappeared,” a very controversial song in that country. Lots of families had children “disappeared” while in the custody of “government police.” We asked for the show to be televised that night. Most of the population couldn’t afford tickets and be able to see it. I brought the madres out on to the stage, and they said the names of the missing children into the microphone. Then I spoke to Pinochet as if he was there, as if he was watching television, which I’m sure he wasn’t. I just said: “Mister Pinochet, God will be your judge, but at the very least, tell these women where the bones of their children are buried, because years later they still don’t know where their loved ones are, you see . . .” They reckon that he does, or some general does. And this crowd divided quickly into two halves. One half cheered, and one half booed, because there are still mixed feelings about what went on. I thought: “Wow! This is not all just people who are on our side. They don’t agree with us, they’re letting us know, here . . .” Two songs later, they were back cheering again. People are smart. They don’t have to agree with you all the time. The rock audience, the U2 audience, does tend to be smarter than your average bear. They’re not like a bunch of arty-farty types, they’re not intellectuals, but they’re thinking people.

  I guess music isn’t about what you think. It’s much more about what you feel. And U2’s music is no exception.

  That’s absolutely right. A feeling is much stronger than a thought.

  But U2 has always been about ideas as well. Maybe there’s a contradiction here.

  Well, I don’t see it is a contradiction. I think they work side by side. Anyway, I’m gonna have to run.

  16. FAITH VERSUS LUCK

  In June 2004, I went back to Killiney for the first time in eighteen months. My ambition to “sit down together and read through the manuscript” with Bono had been conjured up several times, but always postponed. So it was looking good. After a quick cup of coffee in the kitchen, Ali left and the house seemed deserted. Before we got started, Bono was anxious for me to listen to a few songs the band had just completed. One of them was “Sometimes You Can’t Make It on Your Own,” which he’d previously sung at his father’s funeral. Neither CD system, either in the kitchen or in the study, seemed to work. So we eventually listened to the unfinished studio CD through his daughter Eve’s ghetto blaster. I made the predictable joke about the shoemaker’s children who always go barefoot. It had been the same at Elton John’s place, Bono revealed.

  I remember Bono telling me that U2 fans knew him better than his best friends, because he sings through his fans’ headphones directly into their ears. Well, may I contradict him? Hedoessing in the ears of his friends. As the song was playing and I was sitting next to him, he kept on interrupting, singing over his own lines like an annoying passenger in a car. Except, it was not annoying—it was moving. The three songs I heard made a huge impression, especially “City of Blinding Lights”: here was the original sadness and pounding melancholy of ol
d U2, shot through with the same desperate craving. The band sounded twenty-five years old but at the same time reborn.

  Anyway, things—and that didn’t exactly come as a surprise—didn’t go according to the plan. Sure, Bono was available for a couple of hours, but the idea of “reading through” the manuscript was out of the question. I was the only one to bring a text all scribbled through with question marks and incidental questions. Bono had no idea where his copy was and did not seem to really care. I found one of the chapters lying next to the phone, one of his answers covered with a cryptic circle in the middle (no, not a coffee-cup ring). I needed him to talk more about his father and his childhood. It felt like he’d been a bit reticent about it. You already know the result; it found its way inside chapters 1, 2, and 4 of this book.

  I remember that just as the gates opened to let his new Maserati get through (“We shouldn’t leave everything to the Germans,” he pronounced), he sang along to “Vertigo,” the new U2 single, which sounded like an undiscovered punk-rock stroke of genius from 1979. I noticed an unexpected pair standing there by the gates, waiting to get a glimpse of Bono: a dignified father and his young son, waving with a kind of humble pride at King Bono driving his own coach. It seemed to me they were paying their respects to a nineteenth-century poet and national hero, not a rock star.

  Just a couple of weeks later, we talked again on the phone. It turned out we had the same topic in mind. The news had just been announced in theWall Street Journalthat Bono was joining the board of Elevation Partners, a new venture capital firm. This is how Robert A. Guth’s report read:

  Bono, lead singer for rock band U2 and antipoverty activist, is starting a new gig: media and entertainment investing. The 44-year-oldrock star is joining Elevation Partners, a new Silicon Valley fund set up earlier this year by veteran technology investor Roger McNamee and John Riccitiello, who in April left his post as president of videogame maker Electronic Arts Inc. for Elevation. Fred Anderson, 60, who retired earlier this month as Apple Computer Inc.’s finance chief, also will join Elevation. The participation of Bono should sharply raise the profile of Elevation, which people familiar with the fund say initially will raise $1 billion for buyouts and investments in media and entertainment companies, seeking to profit from turmoil in those sectors. Elevation is expected to look for investment opportunities in media and entertainment companies disrupted by the advent of the Internet and other digital technologies. Music, movies, publishing and other traditional media industries are grappling with how to exploit new distribution means—including the Internet or cellular phones—while stemming piracy that such technologies enable.