BlueSilkenSky
Rock n' Roll Doggie VIP PASS
Here's a new one. I wnated to write more today but couldn't until I'd gotten feedback on my current chapter...
I only own Eric and Marieke and a wanting to jump through the screen when I watch the Zoo TV DVD. I do not own the experience of seeing U2 live, but this is probably what it is/was like.
Back at the hotel I sit on the couch and dial my home number. “Hello, Lina? There’s something I’ve forgotten to tell you, I need some clothes and stuff… You can post them to me at this address. Got a pen on you…? Yes, tomorrow’s the next show.”
***
Bono shakes his head fondly as he removes his jacket and flops down on the bed in his suite. Normally he wouldn’t hire fans for any kind of business, but… Marieke. What an interesting girl. Shame that Eric collected her before the band reached the encore soundcheck…
***
At the right time Eric and I take a bus down to the stadium. We get in before any of the fans, waiting to enter the show in long lines. I reach the stage first and go back behind with Eric.
U2 are in their dressing rooms, preparing for the show. Bono is sitting in front of a dressing table, staring at himself in the mirror. Edge is standing in a corner, pressed against a wall, and Adam and Larry are in chairs, the former smoking. A few people, presumably stylists, are hurrying about, trying to prep the band up before they take the stage.
“Hello,” I greet everyone in the room.
Bono removes his gaze from his reflection. “Hello,” he murmurs absently. As an afterthought- “Hi, Eric.”
“Hey, Bono,” Eric murmurs back, trying to catch the singer’s attention. Bono, however, is occupied.
“Are you ready for this?” Edge asks, sidling up to me after breaking free of the pushy stylists.
“Yes,” I answer. “I’m ready for what’s next!”
“Ready to duck, ready to dive, ready to say I’m glad to be alive…” Bono picks up the song from where I left it.
“I’m ready…” Edge sings along. “For the push.”
A giggle spreads among us. Adam decides to join in on the singing. “The cool of the night meets the warmth of the breeze.”
Bono instantly starts singing with him. I can understand his reasons- Adam doesn’t have much of a voice. “I’ll be crawling around on my hands and my knees…”
I imagine Bono searching for something on the floor. It’s not a bad image.
“ZOO STATION!!!” Edge cries, making us jump.
“Jeez, Edge,” Bono grumbles, but he’s smiling. Adam claps for us. I notice that the only two who didn’t join in singing are Eric and Larry. Obviously they’re left out.
I come over and touch Eric. “You can sing too.”
He’s blushing. “No, I don’t think I can beat Bono.”
“Hell, you can’t be as bad as Adam,” Larry mutters.
“Or me,” I suggest. “It’s not a…”
“Contest?” Eric offers.
“Yes.”
“How many more minutes till the band hits the stage?” Eric asks. Bono hears the question and responds with, “What time is it?”
Eric just stares at him, and then hauls his wrist to eye level, exaggerating the movement. “You’re not due onstage for a while.”
“Yes, but what time is it?” Bono persists, not bothering point out that Eric has just answered his own question.
“It’s eight… I mean twenty-fifty-six.”
Bono sighs and stands, pacing the floor.
I look for a place to sit and end up taking Bono’s chair. I stare deep into my own eyes and try to locate myself. Who am I? I stroke the mirror, almost without a thought.
The girl’s face in the mirror is flushed, her blue eyes dancing. A few loose strands of hair have fallen from her ponytail. I blink and we connect, and I push the strands of hair back.
“Hey…” The soft murmur comes from behind, and I turn and come face to face with Bono, who’s staring curiously into my eyes.
“What it is?”
“Oh, nothing…” He sighs and looks up. “You just took my seat…”
Is he really upset about it? He’s sending obvious signs that he’s uncomfortable with something, or maybe worried. But I know Bono’s not worried about me…
“What’s wrong?”
He chuckles nervously. “You can tell?”
“Tell? What’s wrong?”
He leans over me. I’m not aware that anyone else is in the room. “You’d think by now I’d be used to it-“
Thinking he’s stalling, I blurt, “What?”
Bono’s blue eyes drill into my own, and his arm slides around the back of my chair, our bodies only separated by the thin plastic. “Nothing, I’m just nervous for the show. It sometimes happens…”
Hearing him say that, so close to my face, makes him seem more real to me. It occurs to me that Bono might not just be an awesome rock star- he’s a person too. Our gazes lock and neither of us blink until Bono pulls away. I search the dresser wildly and - “Here,” I say, handing Bono the Fly sunglasses.
He takes them, rubs his thumb reflexively across the lenses, and then slips them onto his face. “Become one with The Fly, Bono…!” he intones playfully.
“You are The Fly,” I tell him, getting to my feet and taking a step forward towards Bono. He takes a step back, maintaining that frustrating distance.
“Hey!” Eric’s call jolts me back to the world. I remember we have company and glance guiltily up. “Marieke, don’t you go trying anything with Bono, the band does have a show tonight.”
Snickers come from the peanut gallery of Adam, Edge, and Larry. The Fly speaks in place of Bono- “You sure? It really wouldn’t take that long. Just a few minutes and her mind’s blown, leaving me ready for the concert.” He shrugs, sounding perfectly serious.
“God!” I exclaim, and stalk away to join the rest of the band. “How can you live with him?” I ask, gesturing to The Fly.
“It’s only been a year we’ve had to put up with that side of him,” The Edge lets me know. “But trust me, the real Bono can be just as irritating.”
“Come now, is that a thing you would say to a friend?” Bono asks, becoming himself again.
“Well,” I start blithely, “You know a friend is someone who lets you help…”
“It’s no secret that a liar won’t believe anyone else!” Adam sings along.
Larry clutches the sides of his head. “Ears… bleeding…”
And Eric calls to us all. “Showtime!”
With a few winks at me, the band leaves the room.
***
The show begins. Eric and I sit on the sidelines and watch it all unfold. I’m not sure what I was expecting- maybe I thought the view would be better from backstage, but it just feels… strange. Like I should be enjoying the show from general admission with other fans of my kind, instead of standing back here with Eric.
Bono prances along the stage, singing his heart out. “You’re honey child to a swarm of bees, gonna blow right through you like a breeze. Give me one last chance to slide down the surface of things…”
I can’t stop myself from cheering loudly from backstage. Bono takes a camera off its stand and sings, “Even better than the real thing, child…” My heart trembles. He presses the camera to his face and smiles broadly, turning the view onto Edge. The screens fill with the guitarist’s image, gently strumming his guitar. Then Bono flips it around and turns the view onto himself. Sweat is rolling off his face already.
Eric watches me closely. “You like?”
“I love it!” I scream, and dance. Then someone taps my shoulder- the true dancer has come.
Morleigh is up by my side and waits for her appearance in the next song. She’s all prettied up, with a veil over her face and a wavy skirt clinging to her hips. “Hello, Marieke,” she murmurs in her soft voice. “Now that you’re here, are you sure you don’t want to take my place?”
“Never,” I state firmly.
Her mouth is glimmering into the presence of a smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Child…” Bono sings from the stage, setting the camera down on the floor and smiling at it from above.
“My turn,” Morleigh mutters, and we wait together for Mysterious Ways to begin.
A flying object comes skittering among my feet- Bono’s taken his shades off and thrown them backstage. I pick them up and set them carefully onto my face, trying to keep my expression stony. Eric stares at me, an amazed smile spreading across his features. I thrust my face into his- these shades really do give you self-confidence- and he just bursts out laughing. A second later, Morleigh is off bobbing across the stage.
We watch her from backstage and smile whenever she comes close to us. Eric gives her the thumbs up. As she sashays past Edge, I notice him concentrating hard on the guitar. In a few minutes Bono passes Edge too, hanging on to him with one hand before going on to be tempted by Morleigh. The chemistry between the two is beautiful- Bono tries in vain to catch Morleigh as she moves delightfully around him, skittering away when he tries touching her. Bono gives up and moves to the back of the stage, letting out one last call of “Lift my days- light up my nights,” before the song ends and One comes on.
From that brief excursion on stage, Morleigh returns breathless. She smiles at Eric and I before heading off to change.
I resume my cheering from backstage and sing along. Eric keeps watching me dance. When I look over, his eyes move to the view onstage. He doesn’t bring it back to me for two entire songs.
Then my hands shoot into the air and I scream along with Bono, “YEEEEAAAHHH!”
True, I have seen New Year’s Day live twice before. But now I’m practically on the stage- or at least a few steps will take me there. The sound is so incredibly clear- I can practically feel Adam plucking those strings. The Edge is the closest band member to me, and I watch his hands shift from piano to guitar with unusual ease.
Now Bono’s vocals come in, and it’s all over for me. The tenderness with which he sings the first line- “All is quiet on New Year’s Day-“ brings tears to my eyes, something this song hasn’t done since the first few times I heard it. I can only clap and lean against Eric, who’s somewhat surprised but doesn’t refuse me.
Once it ends, I breathe a small sigh of pleasure.
Now comes the change in the set. I’m not prepared for the next song- to my surprise a certain drummer comes up and takes the mic. My eyes widen with shock. Larry looks calm under the lights. He starts to sing a song I only half-recognize… what’s it called?
“I met my love by the gas works wall, dreamed a dream by the old canal, kissed a girl by the factory wall… dirty old town, dirty old town…”
Oh, right, the song is Dirty Old Town. Heh. I like the sound of his voice- kind of deeper than I was expecting. He sings it beautifully, his eyes focusing on something just above his head, and then it’s over.
The band moves down to the B stage where their equipment is already set up. They play Angel of Harlem. Then Bono takes the mic and shouts rather than singing. “Hey ey yeah, yeah!
“I was a sailor, I was lost at sea, I was under the waves before love rescued me! I was a fighter, I could turn on a thread, now I stand accused of the things I’ve said!” He holds himself in a strange posture, daring us to question his words- “Who, me?”
I cheer along with the Rattle And Hum tune- another favorite album of mine. The live version is somewhat watered down, though. I have to crane my head to see the band out on the B stage, and even then I can only see their backs. But I don’t need to be near them to tell that Bono isn’t singing now.
“I was there when they crucified my lord. I held the scabbard when the soldier threw his sword. I rolled the dice when it pierced His side, but I’ve seen love conquer the Great Divide.” The sheer beauty of this voice astounds me, and I realize it’s Edge singing. What a Lina-like move, I tell myself. Drooling over his voice…
Now U2 is returning to the B stage, but Edge begins a riff before they’re completely over there. I nearly fall backwards when I realize what the song he’s starting is. Bono holds the microphone close to himself and sings.
“I have climbed highest mountains, I have run through the fields, only to be with you. Only to be with you…”
Here’s a tune I thought I’d never get to experience live. This amount of 80’s music makes me feel both hopeful and nervous at the same time. Maybe they’ll bring back some of my all time favorites from Rattle And Hum- but will that mean dropping the Achtung Baby songs?
I twist a little on my feet, and Eric’s eyes light up. We start singing along together, not fully aware of our actions. I’m used to singing low notes, but I thread my voice through his perfectly all the same.
“But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for… but I still haven’t found what I’m looking for…”
All of a sudden it’s over and the magic of being inside the song is gone. Eric and I stare at each other, and then we both grin simultaneously as the band begins Satellite of Love.
When Bullet The Blue Sky starts I zone out. I really don’t like this song at all. Even hearing Edge’s epic live guitar solo does nothing for me…
Wait. Bono is leaving the stage and heading straight for me. What does he want?
I let him pass me, running swiftly. He doesn’t even give me a nod in the Fly shades. I take them off and slip them into Eric’s hand, and follow Bono all the way back into the dressing room.
He’s anxious. “Hand me that jacket, will you?” he asks, gesturing to a rack of clothes. I take the jacket he wants- it says Zoo TV on the back- and he slides it on, at the same time telling me to get a certain hat. “And that belt, please, Marieke?”
Mystified, I hand the objects over to him, and he dons them with confidence. Stepping back, memory sparks and I remember what happened during the previous performances of Bullet The Blue Sky. Bono made a clothing change- maybe it’s another character I know nothing about. He replaces the mic in his hand with a clip-on microphone.
We walk back to the stage- him hurrying a bit more than I am- and when Edge’s solo finishes, Bono strides out to the cue in the music. “Yeah…” he murmurs softly.
“So this guy comes up to me, his face red like a rose on a thornbush… like all the colors of a royal flush, and he’s peeling off those dollar bills, slapping ‘em down… One hundred!” He mimes throwing dollars to the floor. “Two hundred!” Slap. “Three hundred!” He makes a swinging golf club motion on that. “Four hundred…
“And I can see those fighter planes! I can see those fighter planes… UHHH!” He throws his hands in the air and scours the sky for “those fighter planes.” Then he begins to slowly clap along to the bassline.
“Across the mud-huts the children sleep… through the alleys, the quiet city streets… We take the staircase to the first floor, turn the key and slowly unlock the door.” He pretends to turn a key in the lock.
“As a man breathes into his saxophone…” He holds his hands in “saxophone playing” position and breathes, groaning. “And through the walls we hear the city moan… mooooaaaaaghhn…” I have never heard such feral sounds coming from one man.
“OUTSIDE IT’S AMERICA!” He turns around and shouts it to the heavens. “AMERICAAAA!
“We run!” He speeds up and literally runs down to the B stage. “And we run! Into the arms…”
His own arms are up in the air as he stops himself.
“Of America,” he murmurs breathlessly, and the next song starts.
Sure, it’s a pretty song. But I’m flustered from the last performance and spend most of my time sorting myself out during this one. The only time I am forced to take notice of what’s going on onstage is when Bono comes back here again. This time he’s even more anxious, and throws his jacket off.
“Marieke, get me that black one,” he suggests, and I turn around, grateful for the opportunity to stop staring at the sweat soaking his shirt. When I turn around, though, he’s got the said shirt off, and I just freeze. My brain goes haywire.
Bono is uncharacteristically snappy. “For the love of- just- never mind!” he growls, tugging the jacket away from me and pulling on a new shirt. He yanks the belt and hat off and runs his fingers through his mussed-up black hair. Without another word in my direction, he heads back to the stage. A few moments later, I watch Where The Streets Have No Name unfold in front of me.
I find myself screaming my brains out once again for this song. Eric’s got a huge smile plastered to his face. I hug him suddenly, and he squeezes me hard, his eyes on the band. It ends much, much too soon.
U2 finishes their main set with Pride (In The Name of Love). I don’t care too much for the song, so I wait for the encore time. Despite myself, I’ve never seen the encore soundchecks. I was always with Eric at the times the band practiced it. In a sense, it’s a good thing I haven’t seen it yet. I want to keep MacPhisto as a surprise for myself.
The band leaves the stage and comes around to us. Once they’re in their dressing rooms, things get flurried. Edge, Adam, and Larry are in their own separate rooms this time, and I am stuck here with Bono. Truthfully, it’s not a bad thing to have happen… But then Bono starts taking his pants off and I have to turn my head away, my face scorched.
Eric wordlessly hands Bono his clothes, and he buttons the red shirt up tight. I kind of wish he hadn’t done up every single button- and then I look down, see his shiny gold pants, and a shock runs through me.
“This is why we don’t hire fans,” Bono mumbles, sitting down at the dresser. He has to move quickly, the images on the screens won’t hold the audience over for that long. A stylist comes up with a hair elastic and pulls Bono’s hair into a short ponytail as he applies his own makeup- red lipstick first, then the white face makeup. I’ve never noticed the slight eye shadow before now. He puts the makeup on with a surprisingly practiced hand. Already he doesn’t seem like himself.
The stylist gives Bono a pair of red horns. He slides them onto his head, behind his ears, and sighs, adjusting them in the mirror. Then he calls in the British accent that stuns me, “Where are my shoes?” A stylist rushes up with the glittery gold boots, and he pushes his feet into them. Then the Devil is helped into his gold jacket and takes the stage himself.
The rest of the band has changed too- Edge is particularly fancy in his purple uniform- but my eyes are glued to MacPhisto. When Desire begins, he comes onstage bowing and absorbing the crowd. Then as soon as those ruby lips part to begin the song, I lose it and make a lunge for the stage. Eric quickly wraps an arm around my waist, holding me in place as I struggle.
“Desire…” Mr. MacPhisto sings ponderingly.
“DESIRE!” I scream.
“Calm the hell down, Marieke,” Eric scolds. “It’s just Bono. You’ve met him before.”
But no, it’s not Bono… I stare happily at the stage, my mood unable to be crushed by Eric’s words, suppressing squeals when MacPhisto comes close.
The band ends the song with a crash, and I’m relieved, not quite sure of how much more I could have taken of that. Then my hope for a less teasing time is crushed as MacPhisto starts to speak. I try to ignore my face heating up again, my breathing growing uneven.
First of all, he laughs. The laugh destroys me. It’s too perfect. And then he has to go and add words to that- “Oh, jolly good! Off with the horns and on with the show.”
I squeak as the aforementioned horns fly past my feet. I’m too scared to retrieve them.
“Well, I see it’s raining again,” MacPhisto notes, his eyes turned to the clouds. Stupidly, I realize it’s raining just at that moment- must have been too focused on Bono/MacPhisto previously to notice. “So nice of you all to make us feel at home! Jolly good.” He pauses to let the crowd chew on that for a brief second, and then gestures to himself.
“Well, look what you’ve done to me. You’ve made me very famous and I thank you. I know you like your pop stars to be exciting, so I bought these.” He displays his shoes to the world, and the audience whistles.
“Round about this time of the night I often make a telephone call,” MacPhisto announces, obviously pleased with the crowd’s reaction. “Sometimes to the President of the United States, but not tonight. Tonight I’m going to see what kind of day it’s going to be tomorrow. You don’t mind hanging on for a second, now, do you?”
Try not to faint, Marieke, remember to breathe…
MacPhisto heads across the stage and takes up the telephone. “You’re so very kind. I do love Spanish people, they’re rather like Irish people,” he murmurs with a smile in his still obviously British accent. Where is this man from? Is he Irish or British? Who can really say? MacPhisto dials the number.
“I hope I find a friendly voice,” MacPhisto muses, and then perks up- “Hello, do you speak English? I’m Irish and I’d appreciate it if you can speak a little slowly for me.”
There’s that Irish thing again. MacPhisto’s only answer is a recorded message saying something unknown in Spanish. I imagine a girl on the other end, bored with her night’s work and preoccupied with another call, letting the machine run its notice. Just like me when this whole thing began…
“Hello?” MacPhisto asks again, oblivious to all else. The recorded message continues, and he tries his pathetic voice- “I’m sorry, could you speak up? I’m sorry, I’m… a little hard- hard of hearing…” It now takes extreme willpower not to walk onstage and give MacPhisto the huge hug he deserves.
The recorded message has no answers. It continues to play, and then suddenly the band plunges into Ultraviolet. MacPhisto’s still got the phone- he clutches it in one hand and half sings, half murmurs, “Sometimes I feel like- I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like checking out…” It dawns on me that the phone is also a microphone.
The band hits a note on the downbeat of his words. The ascension of the notes is fast bringing about my demise. Already I can’t remember how to breathe…
“I want to get it wrong, can’t always be strong…” He takes a deep breath. “And love, it won’t be long…”
And he shouts wordlessly into the phone, on the verge of screaming, as Edge begins that guitar riff and Adam’s bass strikes in, the volume of the whole thing just blowing my brain out. Really, there’s no adequate way to describe how I feel now. MacPhisto hangs up the phone and starts to sing the rest.
Ultraviolet is the ultimate bare bones of a love song. The energy is bringing the house down, and the Spanish crowd is very happy now. They’re cheering, and I’m cheering along with my fellow fanatics, only I can’t hear myself for the song. When MacPhisto reaches the B stage, I am set back on my feet.
“Baby, baby, baby, liiiiiight… myyyyy…. WAYYYYY!” he proclaims loudly, slumping over as the band crashes a lid down on the song. I take a breath, and in that breath a tinkling noise signals the beginning of With or Without You.
From my spot backstage, I can both see and feel Adam’s bass as he thumps the notes out, and if New Year’s Day wasn’t enough I am reminded once again of why he is my favorite bassist. The Edge is immersed in his guitar playing, the notes being held past the point of fading away. Larry brings his drumsticks down gently, then stronger as the music slowly builds.
And MacPhisto? He’s singing softly, his eyes trained on the camera that bobs slowly around in front of him. I know what he wants with it. He’s trying to confront it, to ask the thing what it’s done with his soul. I’m not sure now how I understand this, it just comes to me in a flash.
“And you give yourself away… and you give yourself away… and you give, and you give, and you give your soul away!” Soul? Oh, god, I was exactly right. MacPhisto’s voice trembles- “With or without you, with or without you, my love. I can’t live with or without you…”
And now he can do nothing but howl “OOOOOOOH” as the sheer simplicity of the problem hits him. Can’t live with you, can’t live without you- I’ve never understood how one can walk that line. Clearly it’s no easy task for MacPhisto. He lifts his voice up into an unusual melodic tone, something I’ve never heard from him or Bono.
When MacPhisto stops singing, he turns back around, unable to face the audience. I stare straight into his face before I can stop myself. The look in his eyes knocks me out. It’s not even a lust thing anymore- I am feeling his pain, staring into the eyes of the Devil. And then he raises the microphone back to his lips, and I am yanked away from his grip as he moves back to face the audience, needing more of their attention. I haven’t realized the music’s built up to a climax, Edge’s guitar ringing out some of the most beautiful, soul crushing notes I’ve ever heard, so it’s a huge surprise when MacPhisto cries out the next words-
“Yeah, we’ll shine like stars in the summer night! We’ll shine like stars in the winter light. One heart, one hope, one love… with or without you.” The rain splashes his face turned to the heavens. “With or without… you…”
Finally it’s all over. I come back to myself, shocked to realize I’m crying. Darn U2, always doing that to me… I reflect numbly on how MacPhisto had sung that verse during the other two performances I’ve seen of this song, but I guess the emotion hadn’t caught up to me then.
Eric presses his hand against my back, presumably as a comfort. I let him keep it there- no words need to be said- but when Love Is Blindness begins I turn away from him and try to shut the sound out.
My eyes fall on an object, laying on the floor- MacPhisto’s devil horns. Blindly I pick them up and dust them off. Eric’s back to watching the show- he’ll not notice me now. I start to place the horns on my head, but am suddenly overcome by the spooky feeling of wearing another person. These horns are part of MacPhisto, albeit a removable part, and I just can’t claim them for myself.
Edge has gone into the solo and I clutch the horns tightly, hoping they will keep me from turning around. Well, the inevitable has to happen- I finally glance back and see MacPhisto holding a girl he’s plucked from the audience, clinging to her as tightly as he clung to me at the Rotterdam show. Dammit, why does she get to dance with the Devil this time? She barely even knows him!
Her hands need restraining- she’s gotten them under his jacket. Why did Bono let her touch him and didn’t let me? Then I notice, as he spins her lightly, that his grip is only firm because he’s trying to prevent her from going any farther. Even so, the jealousy smolders in my belly,
MacPhisto ends the song and gives the girl a kiss on her cheek before sending her back. Now why did he keep her for as long as the song lasts, whereas he sent me back when the solo ended? I try to ignore those little details… it really doesn’t matter, Marieke, she’s a random girl, she means nothing to neither you nor MacPhisto…
Eric taps my shoulder, and I look at him as MacPhisto wearily begins Can’t Help Falling In Love. “What?”
“Your face- you don’t look so good,” he tells me.
I brush my hands along my face, wondering what he’s talking about. All I feel are the remnants of tears and my eyebrows squashed together, envy making its marks on my forehead.
And now the show’s over. To my disappointment, MacPhisto has exited through the opposite side of the stage. But Adam, Larry, and Edge are returning to me and Eric, their faces flushed but triumphant.
I congratulate each one as they walk past me- “It was a great show tonight!” Edge smiles and thanks me, Adam gives me a friendly nod, and Larry blinks at me, his gaze lingering a bit longer than necessary as he slides away to the dressing rooms.
Eric and I get stopped by the crew many times. Apparently there aren’t any backstage passes for tonight, but it’s not like they need any more confusion. It’s time to take the stage set down, and it will be a lot more work.
When we’re finally away from everyone else, Eric says, “You liked the show a lot, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I answer him. “They are my favorite band.” We stand in silence for a bit, lost in thought out in the stadium. The rain patters down onto the ground. Strange, but I feel drained, almost as if I was the one performing instead of U2.
“Why are there no back-stage passes tonight?” I ask, trying to copy the words and praying I got it right.
“The band’s taking a flight out to the studio to get some work done on the LP,” Eric murmurs, not looking at me.
“Too bad. I want to tell Bono I know what job to get.”
I only own Eric and Marieke and a wanting to jump through the screen when I watch the Zoo TV DVD. I do not own the experience of seeing U2 live, but this is probably what it is/was like.
Back at the hotel I sit on the couch and dial my home number. “Hello, Lina? There’s something I’ve forgotten to tell you, I need some clothes and stuff… You can post them to me at this address. Got a pen on you…? Yes, tomorrow’s the next show.”
***
Bono shakes his head fondly as he removes his jacket and flops down on the bed in his suite. Normally he wouldn’t hire fans for any kind of business, but… Marieke. What an interesting girl. Shame that Eric collected her before the band reached the encore soundcheck…
***
At the right time Eric and I take a bus down to the stadium. We get in before any of the fans, waiting to enter the show in long lines. I reach the stage first and go back behind with Eric.
U2 are in their dressing rooms, preparing for the show. Bono is sitting in front of a dressing table, staring at himself in the mirror. Edge is standing in a corner, pressed against a wall, and Adam and Larry are in chairs, the former smoking. A few people, presumably stylists, are hurrying about, trying to prep the band up before they take the stage.
“Hello,” I greet everyone in the room.
Bono removes his gaze from his reflection. “Hello,” he murmurs absently. As an afterthought- “Hi, Eric.”
“Hey, Bono,” Eric murmurs back, trying to catch the singer’s attention. Bono, however, is occupied.
“Are you ready for this?” Edge asks, sidling up to me after breaking free of the pushy stylists.
“Yes,” I answer. “I’m ready for what’s next!”
“Ready to duck, ready to dive, ready to say I’m glad to be alive…” Bono picks up the song from where I left it.
“I’m ready…” Edge sings along. “For the push.”
A giggle spreads among us. Adam decides to join in on the singing. “The cool of the night meets the warmth of the breeze.”
Bono instantly starts singing with him. I can understand his reasons- Adam doesn’t have much of a voice. “I’ll be crawling around on my hands and my knees…”
I imagine Bono searching for something on the floor. It’s not a bad image.
“ZOO STATION!!!” Edge cries, making us jump.
“Jeez, Edge,” Bono grumbles, but he’s smiling. Adam claps for us. I notice that the only two who didn’t join in singing are Eric and Larry. Obviously they’re left out.
I come over and touch Eric. “You can sing too.”
He’s blushing. “No, I don’t think I can beat Bono.”
“Hell, you can’t be as bad as Adam,” Larry mutters.
“Or me,” I suggest. “It’s not a…”
“Contest?” Eric offers.
“Yes.”
“How many more minutes till the band hits the stage?” Eric asks. Bono hears the question and responds with, “What time is it?”
Eric just stares at him, and then hauls his wrist to eye level, exaggerating the movement. “You’re not due onstage for a while.”
“Yes, but what time is it?” Bono persists, not bothering point out that Eric has just answered his own question.
“It’s eight… I mean twenty-fifty-six.”
Bono sighs and stands, pacing the floor.
I look for a place to sit and end up taking Bono’s chair. I stare deep into my own eyes and try to locate myself. Who am I? I stroke the mirror, almost without a thought.
The girl’s face in the mirror is flushed, her blue eyes dancing. A few loose strands of hair have fallen from her ponytail. I blink and we connect, and I push the strands of hair back.
“Hey…” The soft murmur comes from behind, and I turn and come face to face with Bono, who’s staring curiously into my eyes.
“What it is?”
“Oh, nothing…” He sighs and looks up. “You just took my seat…”
Is he really upset about it? He’s sending obvious signs that he’s uncomfortable with something, or maybe worried. But I know Bono’s not worried about me…
“What’s wrong?”
He chuckles nervously. “You can tell?”
“Tell? What’s wrong?”
He leans over me. I’m not aware that anyone else is in the room. “You’d think by now I’d be used to it-“
Thinking he’s stalling, I blurt, “What?”
Bono’s blue eyes drill into my own, and his arm slides around the back of my chair, our bodies only separated by the thin plastic. “Nothing, I’m just nervous for the show. It sometimes happens…”
Hearing him say that, so close to my face, makes him seem more real to me. It occurs to me that Bono might not just be an awesome rock star- he’s a person too. Our gazes lock and neither of us blink until Bono pulls away. I search the dresser wildly and - “Here,” I say, handing Bono the Fly sunglasses.
He takes them, rubs his thumb reflexively across the lenses, and then slips them onto his face. “Become one with The Fly, Bono…!” he intones playfully.
“You are The Fly,” I tell him, getting to my feet and taking a step forward towards Bono. He takes a step back, maintaining that frustrating distance.
“Hey!” Eric’s call jolts me back to the world. I remember we have company and glance guiltily up. “Marieke, don’t you go trying anything with Bono, the band does have a show tonight.”
Snickers come from the peanut gallery of Adam, Edge, and Larry. The Fly speaks in place of Bono- “You sure? It really wouldn’t take that long. Just a few minutes and her mind’s blown, leaving me ready for the concert.” He shrugs, sounding perfectly serious.
“God!” I exclaim, and stalk away to join the rest of the band. “How can you live with him?” I ask, gesturing to The Fly.
“It’s only been a year we’ve had to put up with that side of him,” The Edge lets me know. “But trust me, the real Bono can be just as irritating.”
“Come now, is that a thing you would say to a friend?” Bono asks, becoming himself again.
“Well,” I start blithely, “You know a friend is someone who lets you help…”
“It’s no secret that a liar won’t believe anyone else!” Adam sings along.
Larry clutches the sides of his head. “Ears… bleeding…”
And Eric calls to us all. “Showtime!”
With a few winks at me, the band leaves the room.
***
The show begins. Eric and I sit on the sidelines and watch it all unfold. I’m not sure what I was expecting- maybe I thought the view would be better from backstage, but it just feels… strange. Like I should be enjoying the show from general admission with other fans of my kind, instead of standing back here with Eric.
Bono prances along the stage, singing his heart out. “You’re honey child to a swarm of bees, gonna blow right through you like a breeze. Give me one last chance to slide down the surface of things…”
I can’t stop myself from cheering loudly from backstage. Bono takes a camera off its stand and sings, “Even better than the real thing, child…” My heart trembles. He presses the camera to his face and smiles broadly, turning the view onto Edge. The screens fill with the guitarist’s image, gently strumming his guitar. Then Bono flips it around and turns the view onto himself. Sweat is rolling off his face already.
Eric watches me closely. “You like?”
“I love it!” I scream, and dance. Then someone taps my shoulder- the true dancer has come.
Morleigh is up by my side and waits for her appearance in the next song. She’s all prettied up, with a veil over her face and a wavy skirt clinging to her hips. “Hello, Marieke,” she murmurs in her soft voice. “Now that you’re here, are you sure you don’t want to take my place?”
“Never,” I state firmly.
Her mouth is glimmering into the presence of a smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Child…” Bono sings from the stage, setting the camera down on the floor and smiling at it from above.
“My turn,” Morleigh mutters, and we wait together for Mysterious Ways to begin.
A flying object comes skittering among my feet- Bono’s taken his shades off and thrown them backstage. I pick them up and set them carefully onto my face, trying to keep my expression stony. Eric stares at me, an amazed smile spreading across his features. I thrust my face into his- these shades really do give you self-confidence- and he just bursts out laughing. A second later, Morleigh is off bobbing across the stage.
We watch her from backstage and smile whenever she comes close to us. Eric gives her the thumbs up. As she sashays past Edge, I notice him concentrating hard on the guitar. In a few minutes Bono passes Edge too, hanging on to him with one hand before going on to be tempted by Morleigh. The chemistry between the two is beautiful- Bono tries in vain to catch Morleigh as she moves delightfully around him, skittering away when he tries touching her. Bono gives up and moves to the back of the stage, letting out one last call of “Lift my days- light up my nights,” before the song ends and One comes on.
From that brief excursion on stage, Morleigh returns breathless. She smiles at Eric and I before heading off to change.
I resume my cheering from backstage and sing along. Eric keeps watching me dance. When I look over, his eyes move to the view onstage. He doesn’t bring it back to me for two entire songs.
Then my hands shoot into the air and I scream along with Bono, “YEEEEAAAHHH!”
True, I have seen New Year’s Day live twice before. But now I’m practically on the stage- or at least a few steps will take me there. The sound is so incredibly clear- I can practically feel Adam plucking those strings. The Edge is the closest band member to me, and I watch his hands shift from piano to guitar with unusual ease.
Now Bono’s vocals come in, and it’s all over for me. The tenderness with which he sings the first line- “All is quiet on New Year’s Day-“ brings tears to my eyes, something this song hasn’t done since the first few times I heard it. I can only clap and lean against Eric, who’s somewhat surprised but doesn’t refuse me.
Once it ends, I breathe a small sigh of pleasure.
Now comes the change in the set. I’m not prepared for the next song- to my surprise a certain drummer comes up and takes the mic. My eyes widen with shock. Larry looks calm under the lights. He starts to sing a song I only half-recognize… what’s it called?
“I met my love by the gas works wall, dreamed a dream by the old canal, kissed a girl by the factory wall… dirty old town, dirty old town…”
Oh, right, the song is Dirty Old Town. Heh. I like the sound of his voice- kind of deeper than I was expecting. He sings it beautifully, his eyes focusing on something just above his head, and then it’s over.
The band moves down to the B stage where their equipment is already set up. They play Angel of Harlem. Then Bono takes the mic and shouts rather than singing. “Hey ey yeah, yeah!
“I was a sailor, I was lost at sea, I was under the waves before love rescued me! I was a fighter, I could turn on a thread, now I stand accused of the things I’ve said!” He holds himself in a strange posture, daring us to question his words- “Who, me?”
I cheer along with the Rattle And Hum tune- another favorite album of mine. The live version is somewhat watered down, though. I have to crane my head to see the band out on the B stage, and even then I can only see their backs. But I don’t need to be near them to tell that Bono isn’t singing now.
“I was there when they crucified my lord. I held the scabbard when the soldier threw his sword. I rolled the dice when it pierced His side, but I’ve seen love conquer the Great Divide.” The sheer beauty of this voice astounds me, and I realize it’s Edge singing. What a Lina-like move, I tell myself. Drooling over his voice…
Now U2 is returning to the B stage, but Edge begins a riff before they’re completely over there. I nearly fall backwards when I realize what the song he’s starting is. Bono holds the microphone close to himself and sings.
“I have climbed highest mountains, I have run through the fields, only to be with you. Only to be with you…”
Here’s a tune I thought I’d never get to experience live. This amount of 80’s music makes me feel both hopeful and nervous at the same time. Maybe they’ll bring back some of my all time favorites from Rattle And Hum- but will that mean dropping the Achtung Baby songs?
I twist a little on my feet, and Eric’s eyes light up. We start singing along together, not fully aware of our actions. I’m used to singing low notes, but I thread my voice through his perfectly all the same.
“But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for… but I still haven’t found what I’m looking for…”
All of a sudden it’s over and the magic of being inside the song is gone. Eric and I stare at each other, and then we both grin simultaneously as the band begins Satellite of Love.
When Bullet The Blue Sky starts I zone out. I really don’t like this song at all. Even hearing Edge’s epic live guitar solo does nothing for me…
Wait. Bono is leaving the stage and heading straight for me. What does he want?
I let him pass me, running swiftly. He doesn’t even give me a nod in the Fly shades. I take them off and slip them into Eric’s hand, and follow Bono all the way back into the dressing room.
He’s anxious. “Hand me that jacket, will you?” he asks, gesturing to a rack of clothes. I take the jacket he wants- it says Zoo TV on the back- and he slides it on, at the same time telling me to get a certain hat. “And that belt, please, Marieke?”
Mystified, I hand the objects over to him, and he dons them with confidence. Stepping back, memory sparks and I remember what happened during the previous performances of Bullet The Blue Sky. Bono made a clothing change- maybe it’s another character I know nothing about. He replaces the mic in his hand with a clip-on microphone.
We walk back to the stage- him hurrying a bit more than I am- and when Edge’s solo finishes, Bono strides out to the cue in the music. “Yeah…” he murmurs softly.
“So this guy comes up to me, his face red like a rose on a thornbush… like all the colors of a royal flush, and he’s peeling off those dollar bills, slapping ‘em down… One hundred!” He mimes throwing dollars to the floor. “Two hundred!” Slap. “Three hundred!” He makes a swinging golf club motion on that. “Four hundred…
“And I can see those fighter planes! I can see those fighter planes… UHHH!” He throws his hands in the air and scours the sky for “those fighter planes.” Then he begins to slowly clap along to the bassline.
“Across the mud-huts the children sleep… through the alleys, the quiet city streets… We take the staircase to the first floor, turn the key and slowly unlock the door.” He pretends to turn a key in the lock.
“As a man breathes into his saxophone…” He holds his hands in “saxophone playing” position and breathes, groaning. “And through the walls we hear the city moan… mooooaaaaaghhn…” I have never heard such feral sounds coming from one man.
“OUTSIDE IT’S AMERICA!” He turns around and shouts it to the heavens. “AMERICAAAA!
“We run!” He speeds up and literally runs down to the B stage. “And we run! Into the arms…”
His own arms are up in the air as he stops himself.
“Of America,” he murmurs breathlessly, and the next song starts.
Sure, it’s a pretty song. But I’m flustered from the last performance and spend most of my time sorting myself out during this one. The only time I am forced to take notice of what’s going on onstage is when Bono comes back here again. This time he’s even more anxious, and throws his jacket off.
“Marieke, get me that black one,” he suggests, and I turn around, grateful for the opportunity to stop staring at the sweat soaking his shirt. When I turn around, though, he’s got the said shirt off, and I just freeze. My brain goes haywire.
Bono is uncharacteristically snappy. “For the love of- just- never mind!” he growls, tugging the jacket away from me and pulling on a new shirt. He yanks the belt and hat off and runs his fingers through his mussed-up black hair. Without another word in my direction, he heads back to the stage. A few moments later, I watch Where The Streets Have No Name unfold in front of me.
I find myself screaming my brains out once again for this song. Eric’s got a huge smile plastered to his face. I hug him suddenly, and he squeezes me hard, his eyes on the band. It ends much, much too soon.
U2 finishes their main set with Pride (In The Name of Love). I don’t care too much for the song, so I wait for the encore time. Despite myself, I’ve never seen the encore soundchecks. I was always with Eric at the times the band practiced it. In a sense, it’s a good thing I haven’t seen it yet. I want to keep MacPhisto as a surprise for myself.
The band leaves the stage and comes around to us. Once they’re in their dressing rooms, things get flurried. Edge, Adam, and Larry are in their own separate rooms this time, and I am stuck here with Bono. Truthfully, it’s not a bad thing to have happen… But then Bono starts taking his pants off and I have to turn my head away, my face scorched.
Eric wordlessly hands Bono his clothes, and he buttons the red shirt up tight. I kind of wish he hadn’t done up every single button- and then I look down, see his shiny gold pants, and a shock runs through me.
“This is why we don’t hire fans,” Bono mumbles, sitting down at the dresser. He has to move quickly, the images on the screens won’t hold the audience over for that long. A stylist comes up with a hair elastic and pulls Bono’s hair into a short ponytail as he applies his own makeup- red lipstick first, then the white face makeup. I’ve never noticed the slight eye shadow before now. He puts the makeup on with a surprisingly practiced hand. Already he doesn’t seem like himself.
The stylist gives Bono a pair of red horns. He slides them onto his head, behind his ears, and sighs, adjusting them in the mirror. Then he calls in the British accent that stuns me, “Where are my shoes?” A stylist rushes up with the glittery gold boots, and he pushes his feet into them. Then the Devil is helped into his gold jacket and takes the stage himself.
The rest of the band has changed too- Edge is particularly fancy in his purple uniform- but my eyes are glued to MacPhisto. When Desire begins, he comes onstage bowing and absorbing the crowd. Then as soon as those ruby lips part to begin the song, I lose it and make a lunge for the stage. Eric quickly wraps an arm around my waist, holding me in place as I struggle.
“Desire…” Mr. MacPhisto sings ponderingly.
“DESIRE!” I scream.
“Calm the hell down, Marieke,” Eric scolds. “It’s just Bono. You’ve met him before.”
But no, it’s not Bono… I stare happily at the stage, my mood unable to be crushed by Eric’s words, suppressing squeals when MacPhisto comes close.
The band ends the song with a crash, and I’m relieved, not quite sure of how much more I could have taken of that. Then my hope for a less teasing time is crushed as MacPhisto starts to speak. I try to ignore my face heating up again, my breathing growing uneven.
First of all, he laughs. The laugh destroys me. It’s too perfect. And then he has to go and add words to that- “Oh, jolly good! Off with the horns and on with the show.”
I squeak as the aforementioned horns fly past my feet. I’m too scared to retrieve them.
“Well, I see it’s raining again,” MacPhisto notes, his eyes turned to the clouds. Stupidly, I realize it’s raining just at that moment- must have been too focused on Bono/MacPhisto previously to notice. “So nice of you all to make us feel at home! Jolly good.” He pauses to let the crowd chew on that for a brief second, and then gestures to himself.
“Well, look what you’ve done to me. You’ve made me very famous and I thank you. I know you like your pop stars to be exciting, so I bought these.” He displays his shoes to the world, and the audience whistles.
“Round about this time of the night I often make a telephone call,” MacPhisto announces, obviously pleased with the crowd’s reaction. “Sometimes to the President of the United States, but not tonight. Tonight I’m going to see what kind of day it’s going to be tomorrow. You don’t mind hanging on for a second, now, do you?”
Try not to faint, Marieke, remember to breathe…
MacPhisto heads across the stage and takes up the telephone. “You’re so very kind. I do love Spanish people, they’re rather like Irish people,” he murmurs with a smile in his still obviously British accent. Where is this man from? Is he Irish or British? Who can really say? MacPhisto dials the number.
“I hope I find a friendly voice,” MacPhisto muses, and then perks up- “Hello, do you speak English? I’m Irish and I’d appreciate it if you can speak a little slowly for me.”
There’s that Irish thing again. MacPhisto’s only answer is a recorded message saying something unknown in Spanish. I imagine a girl on the other end, bored with her night’s work and preoccupied with another call, letting the machine run its notice. Just like me when this whole thing began…
“Hello?” MacPhisto asks again, oblivious to all else. The recorded message continues, and he tries his pathetic voice- “I’m sorry, could you speak up? I’m sorry, I’m… a little hard- hard of hearing…” It now takes extreme willpower not to walk onstage and give MacPhisto the huge hug he deserves.
The recorded message has no answers. It continues to play, and then suddenly the band plunges into Ultraviolet. MacPhisto’s still got the phone- he clutches it in one hand and half sings, half murmurs, “Sometimes I feel like- I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like checking out…” It dawns on me that the phone is also a microphone.
The band hits a note on the downbeat of his words. The ascension of the notes is fast bringing about my demise. Already I can’t remember how to breathe…
“I want to get it wrong, can’t always be strong…” He takes a deep breath. “And love, it won’t be long…”
And he shouts wordlessly into the phone, on the verge of screaming, as Edge begins that guitar riff and Adam’s bass strikes in, the volume of the whole thing just blowing my brain out. Really, there’s no adequate way to describe how I feel now. MacPhisto hangs up the phone and starts to sing the rest.
Ultraviolet is the ultimate bare bones of a love song. The energy is bringing the house down, and the Spanish crowd is very happy now. They’re cheering, and I’m cheering along with my fellow fanatics, only I can’t hear myself for the song. When MacPhisto reaches the B stage, I am set back on my feet.
“Baby, baby, baby, liiiiiight… myyyyy…. WAYYYYY!” he proclaims loudly, slumping over as the band crashes a lid down on the song. I take a breath, and in that breath a tinkling noise signals the beginning of With or Without You.
From my spot backstage, I can both see and feel Adam’s bass as he thumps the notes out, and if New Year’s Day wasn’t enough I am reminded once again of why he is my favorite bassist. The Edge is immersed in his guitar playing, the notes being held past the point of fading away. Larry brings his drumsticks down gently, then stronger as the music slowly builds.
And MacPhisto? He’s singing softly, his eyes trained on the camera that bobs slowly around in front of him. I know what he wants with it. He’s trying to confront it, to ask the thing what it’s done with his soul. I’m not sure now how I understand this, it just comes to me in a flash.
“And you give yourself away… and you give yourself away… and you give, and you give, and you give your soul away!” Soul? Oh, god, I was exactly right. MacPhisto’s voice trembles- “With or without you, with or without you, my love. I can’t live with or without you…”
And now he can do nothing but howl “OOOOOOOH” as the sheer simplicity of the problem hits him. Can’t live with you, can’t live without you- I’ve never understood how one can walk that line. Clearly it’s no easy task for MacPhisto. He lifts his voice up into an unusual melodic tone, something I’ve never heard from him or Bono.
When MacPhisto stops singing, he turns back around, unable to face the audience. I stare straight into his face before I can stop myself. The look in his eyes knocks me out. It’s not even a lust thing anymore- I am feeling his pain, staring into the eyes of the Devil. And then he raises the microphone back to his lips, and I am yanked away from his grip as he moves back to face the audience, needing more of their attention. I haven’t realized the music’s built up to a climax, Edge’s guitar ringing out some of the most beautiful, soul crushing notes I’ve ever heard, so it’s a huge surprise when MacPhisto cries out the next words-
“Yeah, we’ll shine like stars in the summer night! We’ll shine like stars in the winter light. One heart, one hope, one love… with or without you.” The rain splashes his face turned to the heavens. “With or without… you…”
Finally it’s all over. I come back to myself, shocked to realize I’m crying. Darn U2, always doing that to me… I reflect numbly on how MacPhisto had sung that verse during the other two performances I’ve seen of this song, but I guess the emotion hadn’t caught up to me then.
Eric presses his hand against my back, presumably as a comfort. I let him keep it there- no words need to be said- but when Love Is Blindness begins I turn away from him and try to shut the sound out.
My eyes fall on an object, laying on the floor- MacPhisto’s devil horns. Blindly I pick them up and dust them off. Eric’s back to watching the show- he’ll not notice me now. I start to place the horns on my head, but am suddenly overcome by the spooky feeling of wearing another person. These horns are part of MacPhisto, albeit a removable part, and I just can’t claim them for myself.
Edge has gone into the solo and I clutch the horns tightly, hoping they will keep me from turning around. Well, the inevitable has to happen- I finally glance back and see MacPhisto holding a girl he’s plucked from the audience, clinging to her as tightly as he clung to me at the Rotterdam show. Dammit, why does she get to dance with the Devil this time? She barely even knows him!
Her hands need restraining- she’s gotten them under his jacket. Why did Bono let her touch him and didn’t let me? Then I notice, as he spins her lightly, that his grip is only firm because he’s trying to prevent her from going any farther. Even so, the jealousy smolders in my belly,
MacPhisto ends the song and gives the girl a kiss on her cheek before sending her back. Now why did he keep her for as long as the song lasts, whereas he sent me back when the solo ended? I try to ignore those little details… it really doesn’t matter, Marieke, she’s a random girl, she means nothing to neither you nor MacPhisto…
Eric taps my shoulder, and I look at him as MacPhisto wearily begins Can’t Help Falling In Love. “What?”
“Your face- you don’t look so good,” he tells me.
I brush my hands along my face, wondering what he’s talking about. All I feel are the remnants of tears and my eyebrows squashed together, envy making its marks on my forehead.
And now the show’s over. To my disappointment, MacPhisto has exited through the opposite side of the stage. But Adam, Larry, and Edge are returning to me and Eric, their faces flushed but triumphant.
I congratulate each one as they walk past me- “It was a great show tonight!” Edge smiles and thanks me, Adam gives me a friendly nod, and Larry blinks at me, his gaze lingering a bit longer than necessary as he slides away to the dressing rooms.
Eric and I get stopped by the crew many times. Apparently there aren’t any backstage passes for tonight, but it’s not like they need any more confusion. It’s time to take the stage set down, and it will be a lot more work.
When we’re finally away from everyone else, Eric says, “You liked the show a lot, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I answer him. “They are my favorite band.” We stand in silence for a bit, lost in thought out in the stadium. The rain patters down onto the ground. Strange, but I feel drained, almost as if I was the one performing instead of U2.
“Why are there no back-stage passes tonight?” I ask, trying to copy the words and praying I got it right.
“The band’s taking a flight out to the studio to get some work done on the LP,” Eric murmurs, not looking at me.
“Too bad. I want to tell Bono I know what job to get.”
The 80s is my favorite...if you weren't already able to tell 
I tolerate the 90s. In writing especially! 
