truecoloursfly
The Fly
Ladies of the Forum: this is from a letter I recently wrote a fellow Dwight/Bono/Bruce fanatic (so we really DO understand each other). Over in EYKIW, I started a thread about my intial, troubled reaction (mainly to Bono's obvious pain) to Popmart Mexico City. But I just can't see posting this one in mixed company, you know?
You also ought to know that most of my 18 years with this band has been aural, not visual. No MuchMusic, not even Live Aid. They were simply the music of Spirit, not men. R&H and ZooTV didn't break that, either...only Elevation finally showed me a human Bono. He let me fall in love with him... and more recently, I've had the good sense to fall in lust. (Thank you, PLEBA.) Now, join me as I journey a little through a missing parallel history with the band of my life...
Let me tell you about this new creature, Bono, in Mexico City, December of '97. After the first two disbelieving viewings of this video, I didn't know if I'd ever watch it again, or at least, regularly. But I've probably watched it or portions, six or...seven? ... times in the last three days. *s* Listened to it (no TV) a few times, too. Tonight, this creature, Bono, is best seen with no sound. It was never a question of him (or them) not being into the concert. It was only a question of how they were into it, what they were there to say, generally with Pop, and specifically that night.
And of course, there is what I'm bringing to my viewing, right? You know my history with this amazing being. So.
He is more animal than I've ever seen him. Perhaps not in his actual performing (then again, perhaps...), but physically. Visually. His "costume" -- literal and psychic -- is revealing. He is more man than I've ever seen him. It's as distressing as it is delicious.
His hair is buzzcut. Not crewcut -- no, a half-inch stubble all over, a homemade haircut.
The lightly tinted shades, of course.
And he is wearing close-fitting flat-front trousers, sort of military-style, tailored from a some stretchy stuff with a black sheen... Through them I see how thick are his thighs. And how solid. He lunges repeatedly toward the crowd, feet wide apart and knees like springs, pulling his centre of gravity low, leonine. I can't take my eyes off his body revealed so alluringly under that caressing synthetic. Especially when the camera follows him from behind, and I am somehow surprised at the tight, defined curves inside those shiny slacks. Especially when he struts toward the camera, swinging his hips in a mocking swagger during the unsettling opener, Mofo.
Yes, I'm admiring him in those tight pants, the discreet swell of him, in spite of myself...unblushingly, really, I seem to be finally perceiving the "allness" of him, you know? This explosive sexuality (so different from the Fly) unbalances me...I can only gape, as I see his bare neck, the skin behind his ears, plain through the glistening stubble. And yet -- for the first few songs, he's worn a hooded track jacket, comes down to mid-hip. The sleeves are too long, of course; and his body language as he struggles to express himself between songs is uncertain: he cocks his head, pulls his arms in close to his body, he looks like a fifteen-year-old. A lost and angry one.
Bono and Edge step out to the B-stage, to play Desire and Staring At the Sun. Between songs, Bono says, "Just a minute..." puts down his guitar and takes off the jacket. He's wearing a black cap-sleeve t-shirt, and it's like I've never seen his arms before. It shocks me. They are thick, too, but well-proportioned, not chunky like his hands ("a butcher's hands!" did he call them once?). I stare at his biceps, Irish pale against the black.
He exits, Edge sings a solo acoustic, very tenderly...then rips the opening chords of Bullet out of his guitar. Bono re-enters, now in a khaki jacket and field cap, headset mic and a tight, bright red t-shirt. Partway through, he ties the jacket round his waist. The shirt also has cap sleeves, and a high collar. His pecs glow in the blazing lights. His back and shoulders are so thick and solid -- but he is a musician, not a track star, he ain't got no six-pack, but just the slightest softness of flesh above his waistband, enough to show me not a model but a man. It's one of the sexiest things I've ever seen. I can almost feel him under my fingers...
The song, Please, makes dramatic use of the massive, two-storey vidiwalls that flank the band like a fortress: Bono's image becomes a mercurial red glow quivering against shadow, his neck and jaw and arms pulsing gold. He throws back that scrubby, shaven head and wails like a banshee into the mic, almost flailing, as if he's thrashing to get out of himself. The end of the song finds him on his knees, legs spread apart, head down, arms symmetrical against his chest where he presses the mic between his pleading hands; he is a sculptor's sketch, anchored by those sturdy thighs and broad, scarlet shoulders. His song finds an answer in the familiar wall of scarlet that becomes Where the Streets Have No Name.
Now standing, he sings, smiling, and raises his arms. -- His bare arms, opening his body; I see the shadow of his biceps, that tender inside curve I know from life-drawing class, that disappears up into the pecs and tucks under the ribs... I think of a lover stepping out of the shower.
But the most naked thing about him is his face. I've been typing throughout the entire video, and finally I've turned the sound back on for the closer, One. He's performed much of this show without the shades, and of course, without that luxurious hair to frame or hide his face. His voice is rough, as scrappy as his haircut at times...but he's aiming for distance, not finesse, like a fifteen-year-old driving a car too fast. When he slips onto the gravel, he floors it in defiance, shaking his head as if to shake out the sound. His eyes are wide -- a man who ought to have small eyes in that sharp Irish face, does not; I always found that disarming and intriguing, they are big and steady as beams; tonight they are still pleading. He basked in the beauty of Streets, smiling almost shyly; he sought steadiness in Edge's reassuring gaze, found it there more than once; but still he is pleading. His "Thank you, good night," is subdued; his "God bless you!" is soft-spoken but heated, somehow.
Everything he was on ZooTV, that zeitgeist moment of Fly perfection, he is not on Popmart. He ripped the shades off the Fly, the silver lame off the Mirrorball Man, and the drollery out of MacPhisto. No longer strong enough to mock the Devil, he's naked and unapologetic in his pain. I hardly know what to feel, watching him... don't know if it's fear or desire... But, oh man, he's beautiful.
------------------
***Grace makes beauty out of ugly things***
the greatest frontman in the world -- by truecoloursfly: http://www.atu2.com/news/article.src?ID=1575
You also ought to know that most of my 18 years with this band has been aural, not visual. No MuchMusic, not even Live Aid. They were simply the music of Spirit, not men. R&H and ZooTV didn't break that, either...only Elevation finally showed me a human Bono. He let me fall in love with him... and more recently, I've had the good sense to fall in lust. (Thank you, PLEBA.) Now, join me as I journey a little through a missing parallel history with the band of my life...
Let me tell you about this new creature, Bono, in Mexico City, December of '97. After the first two disbelieving viewings of this video, I didn't know if I'd ever watch it again, or at least, regularly. But I've probably watched it or portions, six or...seven? ... times in the last three days. *s* Listened to it (no TV) a few times, too. Tonight, this creature, Bono, is best seen with no sound. It was never a question of him (or them) not being into the concert. It was only a question of how they were into it, what they were there to say, generally with Pop, and specifically that night.
And of course, there is what I'm bringing to my viewing, right? You know my history with this amazing being. So.
He is more animal than I've ever seen him. Perhaps not in his actual performing (then again, perhaps...), but physically. Visually. His "costume" -- literal and psychic -- is revealing. He is more man than I've ever seen him. It's as distressing as it is delicious.
His hair is buzzcut. Not crewcut -- no, a half-inch stubble all over, a homemade haircut.
The lightly tinted shades, of course.
And he is wearing close-fitting flat-front trousers, sort of military-style, tailored from a some stretchy stuff with a black sheen... Through them I see how thick are his thighs. And how solid. He lunges repeatedly toward the crowd, feet wide apart and knees like springs, pulling his centre of gravity low, leonine. I can't take my eyes off his body revealed so alluringly under that caressing synthetic. Especially when the camera follows him from behind, and I am somehow surprised at the tight, defined curves inside those shiny slacks. Especially when he struts toward the camera, swinging his hips in a mocking swagger during the unsettling opener, Mofo.
Yes, I'm admiring him in those tight pants, the discreet swell of him, in spite of myself...unblushingly, really, I seem to be finally perceiving the "allness" of him, you know? This explosive sexuality (so different from the Fly) unbalances me...I can only gape, as I see his bare neck, the skin behind his ears, plain through the glistening stubble. And yet -- for the first few songs, he's worn a hooded track jacket, comes down to mid-hip. The sleeves are too long, of course; and his body language as he struggles to express himself between songs is uncertain: he cocks his head, pulls his arms in close to his body, he looks like a fifteen-year-old. A lost and angry one.
Bono and Edge step out to the B-stage, to play Desire and Staring At the Sun. Between songs, Bono says, "Just a minute..." puts down his guitar and takes off the jacket. He's wearing a black cap-sleeve t-shirt, and it's like I've never seen his arms before. It shocks me. They are thick, too, but well-proportioned, not chunky like his hands ("a butcher's hands!" did he call them once?). I stare at his biceps, Irish pale against the black.
He exits, Edge sings a solo acoustic, very tenderly...then rips the opening chords of Bullet out of his guitar. Bono re-enters, now in a khaki jacket and field cap, headset mic and a tight, bright red t-shirt. Partway through, he ties the jacket round his waist. The shirt also has cap sleeves, and a high collar. His pecs glow in the blazing lights. His back and shoulders are so thick and solid -- but he is a musician, not a track star, he ain't got no six-pack, but just the slightest softness of flesh above his waistband, enough to show me not a model but a man. It's one of the sexiest things I've ever seen. I can almost feel him under my fingers...
The song, Please, makes dramatic use of the massive, two-storey vidiwalls that flank the band like a fortress: Bono's image becomes a mercurial red glow quivering against shadow, his neck and jaw and arms pulsing gold. He throws back that scrubby, shaven head and wails like a banshee into the mic, almost flailing, as if he's thrashing to get out of himself. The end of the song finds him on his knees, legs spread apart, head down, arms symmetrical against his chest where he presses the mic between his pleading hands; he is a sculptor's sketch, anchored by those sturdy thighs and broad, scarlet shoulders. His song finds an answer in the familiar wall of scarlet that becomes Where the Streets Have No Name.
Now standing, he sings, smiling, and raises his arms. -- His bare arms, opening his body; I see the shadow of his biceps, that tender inside curve I know from life-drawing class, that disappears up into the pecs and tucks under the ribs... I think of a lover stepping out of the shower.
But the most naked thing about him is his face. I've been typing throughout the entire video, and finally I've turned the sound back on for the closer, One. He's performed much of this show without the shades, and of course, without that luxurious hair to frame or hide his face. His voice is rough, as scrappy as his haircut at times...but he's aiming for distance, not finesse, like a fifteen-year-old driving a car too fast. When he slips onto the gravel, he floors it in defiance, shaking his head as if to shake out the sound. His eyes are wide -- a man who ought to have small eyes in that sharp Irish face, does not; I always found that disarming and intriguing, they are big and steady as beams; tonight they are still pleading. He basked in the beauty of Streets, smiling almost shyly; he sought steadiness in Edge's reassuring gaze, found it there more than once; but still he is pleading. His "Thank you, good night," is subdued; his "God bless you!" is soft-spoken but heated, somehow.
Everything he was on ZooTV, that zeitgeist moment of Fly perfection, he is not on Popmart. He ripped the shades off the Fly, the silver lame off the Mirrorball Man, and the drollery out of MacPhisto. No longer strong enough to mock the Devil, he's naked and unapologetic in his pain. I hardly know what to feel, watching him... don't know if it's fear or desire... But, oh man, he's beautiful.
------------------
***Grace makes beauty out of ugly things***
the greatest frontman in the world -- by truecoloursfly: http://www.atu2.com/news/article.src?ID=1575
