oliveu2cm
Rock n' Roll Doggie FOB
(I never know where to post things like this. I've transcribed this article from Q Magazine September 1993 and wanted to share it with you all. It's very funny and insightful, and celebrates a super era in the band's history. I will post it in parts.)
I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night
"The hotel is broken." It could be a new blipvert buzz-slogan for U2 to flash up on their Zoo TV screens. "Everything you know is wrong", "I'd like to teach the world to sing", "Celery is rhubarb's ugly sister". "The hotel is broken".
The 40 strong u2 executive have descended upon a beautiful rural hotel 20 minutes outside of Verona in Northern Italy and the well-oiled Irish machine has had a large Italian spanner hurled deeped into the works. Vital faxes vanish, outside telephone lines are a rare luxury, rooms lack crucial items of furniture and you daren't plug in the trouser press for fear you'll kill your television. Mention to Bono that you experienced an unnerving power cut whilst in the bath and he apologizes. "That was probably my fault. I blew up my shower."
By the 2nd afternoon of a 5 day stay, Bono has re-christened the sprawling country retreat the Hotel Fellini. "It's so busy discovering teh secrets of the universe in the folds of a woman's skirt," he explains poetically, "that it's forgotten to buy any toilet paper." But such is the potency of U2's celebrity, they couldn't stay in the city for fear of being mobbed. "You know that the Italians are like," shrugs Adam Clayton. "Very loyal, very passionate." He motions towards the hotel's electronically operated gate where a group of fans keep vigil in the 90 degree heat, hoping to catch a blurred snap as the objects of their Mediterranean ardour motor by.
Tonight, U2's manager, Paul McGuinness, has arranged a dinner for what Adam smirkingly calls "the grown-ups": a gaggle of guests, business associates and the Italian grande formaggios who'll ensure that the abnd's two shows at the Verona stadium - where they will play to 90,00 people - run smoothly. During the 7 course gourmet extravaganza, McGuinness is every inch mine host: telling stories, cracking jokes, talking highly informed shop, asking the waiters which vineyard a particular wine grape came from. Educated at Dublin's Trinity college (although he quit his Philosophy and Psychology courses a year early to managea folk group called, and you may laugh, Spud), the upper-middle class Anglo-Irishman quotes regularly from the classics- this being Verona, Rome & Juliet receives a regular plundering. McGuinness is revered throughout the music business as an intellectual heavyweight, a ruthless negotiator, a twinkle-eyed charmer and a card-carrying bon viveur of considerable enthusiasm.
Back at the al fresco bar, Bono and the ne'er untitfered guitarist who answers only to the name of Edge - no need for definitive articles among friends - have returned from a day's gallery - crawling in Venice, where the sun has comically beetrooted both their noses, and are now studying the latest reviews of the Zooropa album (the follow-up LP to Achtung baby which was recorded in snatched moments during four fractured, and sometimes fractious, months in Dublin earlier this year). After 30 minutes spent silently squinting at the NY Times' critical assessment, Edge reaches a conclusion of sorts - "That's fucking great," he beams and passes the photocopy across to Bono. "You know," he says, "I'm glad people haven't thought we're just doing this as a stopgag thing. We wouldn't do that - just waste an album. It had to work." When the show's belly dancer, Morleigh Steinerg, is introduced, she points to her stomach just in case there is any confusion as to her job description.
Inside, Larry Mullen - the band's only true sex symbol, clad in cool motorcycle chic - is chalking his cue and addressing a tricky cannon shot at the pool table. Thoughtfully sipping a vodka and orange ("although i've already enough to drink on my tonight"), he circles the table, examining the angles. He makes an earnest hustler. The three-quarter size table, he decides, "is a bitch". THere ar e no jaws on the tiny pockets, so every pot has to be millimetre perfect. Hitting and hoping is out of the question. At first it seems like a retriction but soon a highly tactical game, bearing closer relation to chess than pool, evolves. Larry curses quietly when he misses and taps his cue appreciatievely on the ground when his opponent - your correspondent - plays an especially magnificent shot. Twenty minutes of unfaltering concentration later, the black is doubled into its nominated pocket. "Flukey fucker," mutters Larry sportingly and pauses before shaking the victor's proffered hand. "Best of three?"
By the dint of the fact that it is now half three in the morning and no-one has shown the remotest interest in exchanging their alcoholic beverages for something warm, malted and milky, it begins to dawn that U2's collective body clock is set at a different time to the rest of the world.
The hotel staff- to much Manuel like exasperation- were told prior to the entourage's arrival that they should expect a group who like their evening meal at around 1am, generally turn in no earlier than four and stumble down for breakfast between one and two in the afternoon. There will, of course, be occasions, the incredulous chamber-maids were informed, when the band have a really late night.
I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night
"The hotel is broken." It could be a new blipvert buzz-slogan for U2 to flash up on their Zoo TV screens. "Everything you know is wrong", "I'd like to teach the world to sing", "Celery is rhubarb's ugly sister". "The hotel is broken".
The 40 strong u2 executive have descended upon a beautiful rural hotel 20 minutes outside of Verona in Northern Italy and the well-oiled Irish machine has had a large Italian spanner hurled deeped into the works. Vital faxes vanish, outside telephone lines are a rare luxury, rooms lack crucial items of furniture and you daren't plug in the trouser press for fear you'll kill your television. Mention to Bono that you experienced an unnerving power cut whilst in the bath and he apologizes. "That was probably my fault. I blew up my shower."
By the 2nd afternoon of a 5 day stay, Bono has re-christened the sprawling country retreat the Hotel Fellini. "It's so busy discovering teh secrets of the universe in the folds of a woman's skirt," he explains poetically, "that it's forgotten to buy any toilet paper." But such is the potency of U2's celebrity, they couldn't stay in the city for fear of being mobbed. "You know that the Italians are like," shrugs Adam Clayton. "Very loyal, very passionate." He motions towards the hotel's electronically operated gate where a group of fans keep vigil in the 90 degree heat, hoping to catch a blurred snap as the objects of their Mediterranean ardour motor by.
Tonight, U2's manager, Paul McGuinness, has arranged a dinner for what Adam smirkingly calls "the grown-ups": a gaggle of guests, business associates and the Italian grande formaggios who'll ensure that the abnd's two shows at the Verona stadium - where they will play to 90,00 people - run smoothly. During the 7 course gourmet extravaganza, McGuinness is every inch mine host: telling stories, cracking jokes, talking highly informed shop, asking the waiters which vineyard a particular wine grape came from. Educated at Dublin's Trinity college (although he quit his Philosophy and Psychology courses a year early to managea folk group called, and you may laugh, Spud), the upper-middle class Anglo-Irishman quotes regularly from the classics- this being Verona, Rome & Juliet receives a regular plundering. McGuinness is revered throughout the music business as an intellectual heavyweight, a ruthless negotiator, a twinkle-eyed charmer and a card-carrying bon viveur of considerable enthusiasm.
Back at the al fresco bar, Bono and the ne'er untitfered guitarist who answers only to the name of Edge - no need for definitive articles among friends - have returned from a day's gallery - crawling in Venice, where the sun has comically beetrooted both their noses, and are now studying the latest reviews of the Zooropa album (the follow-up LP to Achtung baby which was recorded in snatched moments during four fractured, and sometimes fractious, months in Dublin earlier this year). After 30 minutes spent silently squinting at the NY Times' critical assessment, Edge reaches a conclusion of sorts - "That's fucking great," he beams and passes the photocopy across to Bono. "You know," he says, "I'm glad people haven't thought we're just doing this as a stopgag thing. We wouldn't do that - just waste an album. It had to work." When the show's belly dancer, Morleigh Steinerg, is introduced, she points to her stomach just in case there is any confusion as to her job description.
Inside, Larry Mullen - the band's only true sex symbol, clad in cool motorcycle chic - is chalking his cue and addressing a tricky cannon shot at the pool table. Thoughtfully sipping a vodka and orange ("although i've already enough to drink on my tonight"), he circles the table, examining the angles. He makes an earnest hustler. The three-quarter size table, he decides, "is a bitch". THere ar e no jaws on the tiny pockets, so every pot has to be millimetre perfect. Hitting and hoping is out of the question. At first it seems like a retriction but soon a highly tactical game, bearing closer relation to chess than pool, evolves. Larry curses quietly when he misses and taps his cue appreciatievely on the ground when his opponent - your correspondent - plays an especially magnificent shot. Twenty minutes of unfaltering concentration later, the black is doubled into its nominated pocket. "Flukey fucker," mutters Larry sportingly and pauses before shaking the victor's proffered hand. "Best of three?"
By the dint of the fact that it is now half three in the morning and no-one has shown the remotest interest in exchanging their alcoholic beverages for something warm, malted and milky, it begins to dawn that U2's collective body clock is set at a different time to the rest of the world.
The hotel staff- to much Manuel like exasperation- were told prior to the entourage's arrival that they should expect a group who like their evening meal at around 1am, generally turn in no earlier than four and stumble down for breakfast between one and two in the afternoon. There will, of course, be occasions, the incredulous chamber-maids were informed, when the band have a really late night.
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