Let me state this before I go anywhere. I love U2. I really do. I remember as if it was yesterday my mate Jane showing me her copy of Boy during a 3J geography lesson in about 1980. It might have been a history lesson. Or 1981. Anyway, I digress.
I first saw U2 live in March 1983 at the Royal Court, Liverpool. It cost £2.50 a ticket for the stalls and it remains to this day one of the best live shows I’ve ever seen. Maybe because it was a small concert. Maybe because they were a bit of a ‘secret’ that only the select few knew about. This was just before they played Red Rocks and became global. But it was a special experience that left me exhilarated.
I’ve loved U2 since and there’s nothing much they’ve done during the intervening 28 years that I haven’t loved.
So why is it that every time I clap eyes on Bono I feel an overwhelming urge to just punch him in the face?
I don’t feel like that about The Edge, Larry or Adam. Just Bono. I can’t explain it in any rational manner.
Take their long-awaited Glasto 2011 performance. As soon as they started to belt out a magnificent performance of Even Better Then The Real Thing I wished I was there in the mud and the rain bouncing along to it all. I had shivers, especially during Out of Control, which really took me back. Sigh.
So why, oh why, of f***ing why, does Bono have to go and ruin it by deciding to throw in little snippets of other songs? He pissed about with Love Will Tear Us Apart in a way that left me feeling dirty. And not in a good way. And the completely horrible cover of Yellow? Ugh.
He’s just so cringey – from the unnecessary leather pants (talc and baby lotion, anyone?), to the squillionaire with a deity complex via the middle-aged-rocker-gyrating routine – that the urge to smack him one remains strong within me.
If only he’d stick to what he does well and leave the posturing self-importance behind, I could love him once again and not be tempted to cause him physical harm.
Anyway, here’s a highlight from last night.