Ed Barrett on the blood, toil, sweat and tears of U2’s lead singer and enemy of the world’s bankers

by Ed Barrett

When Bono attended Tuesday night’s Brit Awards, it was not on behalf of his band of global gypsies U2, whose forthcoming album will doubtless be honoured at next year’s ceremony, but as a representative of the Jubilee 2000 campaign to cancel Third World debt. We, the public, he demanded, should tell them, the politicians, to sort out the bankers. Then he walked into the select section of the public gathered in the London Arena and presented Mohammed Ali (also there to promote the cause) with something called the “Freddie Mercury Award”.

We have become used to such things. Stand-up comedians pontificate on Question Time panels. The Prime Minister announces his views from the daytime TV sofa rather than the parliamentary front bench. Every showbiz ceremony worth its salt has a keynote speech or a launch of another worthy initiative. And when it comes to this kind of public speaking, Bono has been centre stage a full decade longer than Tony Blair.

There can’t be many causes that Bono hasn’t yet championed. He has given generously of his time to, among others: striking miners, the unemployed, drug addicts, Amnesty International, Greenpeace, famine relief, CND, Rock the Vote, Artists Against Apartheid, Band Aid, Live Aid, Self Aid and, of course, Aids awareness. In his spare time, he goes on fact-finding missions to South America, eastern Europe and Africa, or works with charity volunteers “in the field”.

Like Woody Allen’s Zelig, he pops up everywhere. There he is on stage with the Mothers of the Disappeared in the Santiago stadium. Here he is again, arms aloft with David Trimble and John Hume. And again, having his “mind blown” by Bishop Tutu. But Bono is Zelig in reverse: in years to come, people will look at these pictures and wonder, who were those old geezers hanging out with Bono?

In the post-political landscape of the new millennium, when emotion finally replaces reason, and displays of compassion become obligatory in public life, it is the Bonos and Stings who will be kings.

Bono is a master of the grand gesture. During U2’s “Zoo TV” tour in 1992, he famously phoned the White House from the stage. Unsuccessfully, as it happens, and George Bush later remarked that if he wanted to talk about international affairs, he would speak to John Major or Boris Yeltsin. Fair enough, one might say; but look what happened to Bush (not to mention Major and Yeltsin). Bill Clinton got the message, and made a point of shooting the breeze with the band when the opportunity arose. And while the young upstarts have turned against Tony’s “Cool Britannia”, the rock aristocracy seems to have stayed on-message. Bono’s response to Blair’s Irish peace negotiations was a succinct “que cojones!” (”what balls!”) And he meant it as a compliment.

When considering such prolific high-profile promotion of all things virtuous and politically correct, cynics generally cite Geldof’s first law of charitable celebrity: when the hits dry up, get yourself a good cause. Bono’s case is different. As his career went from strength to strength, so did his commitment. When it faltered, he carried on caring regardless.

Bono was born Paul Hewson in Dublin on 10 May 1960, the son of a Catholic father and Protestant mother. Not a lot happened to him until he was 14, when his mother died of a stroke at her own father’s funeral. After that, things didn’t stop happening. He ran away to become an actor, only to return when he discovered there were no acting schools in the city. He applied to go to university but was turned down for not having his Gaelic exam. But he and his mates from Temple Mount school formed a band. Bono couldn’t play any instrument, and there was some debate about whether he could sing. Like Churchill, he could offer nothing but blood, toil, tears and sweat. They decided to take the risk. And like Churchill, he won the day.

They called themselves Feedback, they played songs by the Bay City Rollers, and they were hopeless. Audience feedback was less than subtle. “Fuck off, dickhead, and get on with the bleeding music,” replied one girl, as Bono attempted some on-stage interaction: “Who do you think you are? David Bowie?” But they stuck at it. Feedback begat Hype, who in turn begat U2 - the final name-change being decided by a show of hands at a gig - and in 1980, they gave birth to Boy, their first album. “We’re going to break America like no British band has broken it in a long time,” promised Bono. As usual, he was right.

U2’s records sold in squillions and their concerts took “stadium rock” to new heights. Through it all, Bono was the driving force, constantly seeking new directions. U2’s most famous hit, “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”, summed up the restlessness behind this constant re-invention. Bono’s quest has taken him on a musical journey from the ringing declamations of the early years, through the American “roots” music of The Joshua Tree, to the modern, stripped-down European sound of Zooropa and Pop.

Bono’s initial inspiration was punk, with its heart-on-sleeve attitude and violent frustration. But in place of cynicism, he brought a more optimistic approach. Along with the other darling of the rock press, Bruce Springsteen, he managed to bring passion and “credibility” to the soulless stadium circuit. They always aimed to use their position for “good”, whether through uplifting music or the political influence they can bring to bear on their audience.

Pop stars take themselves very seriously, which can be useful in giving them the drive and self-belief to reach the top. But in an essentially ridiculous business, it can easily turn them into figures of fun. Bono’s portentous demeanour and epic musical vision, coupled with his frequent pronouncements on the issues of the day, make him something of a sitting duck. Having a manager who speaks of “the dignity of rock’n'roll” doesn’t help matters either. By the time U2 made it to the cover of Time magazine in 1987, they appeared, however unfairly, to epitomise the bombastic excesses of stadium rock. When they embarked on their “rockumentary”, Rattle and Hum, the potential dangers of Spinal Tap-style hubris were obvious, not least to Bono himself. In 1989, he told an adoring Dublin crowd that it was time to “go away and dream it up all over again”.

The results were groundbreaking: an Eno-produced album, Achtung Baby, and a new stage show, Zoo TV. The self-referential theatrics of the show, with its playful irony and reflections on the nature of fame, were perfectly in tune with the post-modern mood of the 1990s. Somewhere along the line, though, things started to go wrong. In place of the simple, if vague, anthems of the past, there was - well, what exactly? Sales fell, especially in the conservative heartlands of America. The band’s refusal to accept sponsorship for their ever-more elaborate and expensive tours brought financial problems.

For all his front, Bono takes criticism hard. The heckler who invoked David Bowie was closer to the truth than she imagined. Like Bowie, he likes to distance himself from his work, latterly in the form of on-stage alter-egos such as “The Fly” (a parody of his own reported egotism) and “Macphesto” (a frankly baffling, though not unamusing, personification of his “dark side”, replete with diabolical face paint and devil’s horns). He refers to Oscar Wilde’s dictum that the truth is best expressed from behind a mask. There is an element of straightforward self-preservation in this - he is well aware of what an easy target he is - but there is also a definite insecurity. He once said of drummer Larry Mullen, the most conservative band member: “I’m in awe of Larry, knowing exactly who he is. I don’t know if I’m this or that or what. If I knew what I was, I wouldn’t be here, screaming for a living.”

His great solace has always been his spiritual faith. In contrast to his outspokenness on public issues, he is curiously reticent when it comes to his religious beliefs, which in a business awash with exotic mysticism are unfashionably Christian. He reasons, probably correctly, that he doesn’t want to leave himself open to misinterpretation. U2 attract their fair share of obsessive fans and nutters, and he is understandably wary of setting himself up as a Michael Jackson-style messiah figure.

The personal burden of being the band’s “risk-taker” sometimes seems to weigh heavily upon his shoulders. He spoke recently of vomiting in terror before going on stage. “You think it would blow your ego up,” he explained. “The opposite happens - it turns you on yourself. I get so high from these shows and suddenly there’s this black dog barking at me.” He says he can’t imagine playing live again.

Time to go and dream it up all over again? And if all else fails, there’s always a place for him with Ginger Spice at the United Nations.

© 1999 Sunday Independent. All rights reserved.

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