awakening
The Fly
- Joined
- May 3, 2001
- Messages
- 118
Reposting this from ReWired:
"This is from an autobiography my cousin is reading of Joan Baez.
It starts after she played Live Aid and was back resting in her hotel
room.
"As I begin to come out of the heavy sleep, I see a face I don't
recognize on the screen. It must be coming from England, because the
swaying audience is dotted with Union Jacks. The singer is dressed in
black, and has long, slightly messy brown hair. He is streaming with
sweat, and some of his hair is stuck to his cheek, in road-map
designs, making me want to brush it back. The song is cosmic,
heavenly, lilting, and persistent. The singer jumps in the air and
stomps around in heavy boots. He doesn't fuck the microphone the way
rock stars do when they realize that technology has made it possible
for them to extend their egoes out over a crowd of thousands. No,
this young man is deadly serious about something, and is expressing
himself with such tenderness it is enough to break my heart. He calls
to the audience. THey call back. He sings little bits of songs from
the fifties and sixties, all in his utterly unique sound, and they
sing back. He is directing a choir. they are the choir, and they are
transported. Am I making all this up? Possibly. The group's name
appears next to the Live Aid symbol, superimposed over his mystical
dance. U2, live from Wembly Stadium. This is the group my 15 year
old advisors have told me to watch. This is the group they say is
political, even pacifist. The singer is working his way down toward
the crowd, jumping onto a narrow wooden skirt a few feet below the
stage. He is gesturing to the crowd, waving someone toward him. He
takes the long drop into the orchestra pit, and continues his sign
language invitation. Eventually, the young girl is lifted bodily and
handed over the fence which separates him from the crowd. She is
simply passed over like an offering. She lands on her feet and is in
his arms, and he dances with her. She is probably stage struck and in
shock, and her head is sweetly bent down, and for the next few seconds
he is cradling her as they dance.
I can't recall ever having seen anything like that in my life. It is
an act, but it is not an act. It is a private moment, accepted by
70,000 people. The dance is short, sensuous, and heartbreakingly
tender. He breaks away from her and is helped up to the level just
under the stage, and there, finds another girl, dances with her the
same way. All this while the percussion adn hypnotic guitar continue
relentlessly, lyrically, with the audience waving their arms back and
forth, back and forth, a part of the ritual. The singer moves back
ontot he stage, and, still pouring with sweat, contineus with the
song. His voice is nothing special. It is unsteady and cracks. But
it is compelling, as he is compelling. THere is something about his
seriousness which has captivated me.
Rock stars can look and be serious, but it is usually about
themselves, or their inflated visions of themselves. None of us who
stands in front of a hundred thousand people hearing our voice "and
band" amplified, tampered with, echoed, and smoothed into cosmic
velveteen can escape certain grandiose illusions about ourself. But
this Irish lad is involved with something more than self-
agrandizement. Granted, his ego is well intact, and he is a superb
showman, but there is something more going on. And I would like to
know what it is. That I would like to be wrapped up in his arms like
the little Enlglish girl, there is no doubt. BUt if my instincts are
correct, there is something that preempts flirtations with him.
SOmething bigger than him or me or us combined, or our music combined.
Something to do with politics, kids, freshness, and breakthrough.
And love.
Out of the hours of live Aid that I saw by the end of the day, the
high point was witnessing the magic of U2. They moved me as nothing
else moved me. They moved me in their newness, their youth, and their
tenderness."
"This is from an autobiography my cousin is reading of Joan Baez.
It starts after she played Live Aid and was back resting in her hotel
room.
"As I begin to come out of the heavy sleep, I see a face I don't
recognize on the screen. It must be coming from England, because the
swaying audience is dotted with Union Jacks. The singer is dressed in
black, and has long, slightly messy brown hair. He is streaming with
sweat, and some of his hair is stuck to his cheek, in road-map
designs, making me want to brush it back. The song is cosmic,
heavenly, lilting, and persistent. The singer jumps in the air and
stomps around in heavy boots. He doesn't fuck the microphone the way
rock stars do when they realize that technology has made it possible
for them to extend their egoes out over a crowd of thousands. No,
this young man is deadly serious about something, and is expressing
himself with such tenderness it is enough to break my heart. He calls
to the audience. THey call back. He sings little bits of songs from
the fifties and sixties, all in his utterly unique sound, and they
sing back. He is directing a choir. they are the choir, and they are
transported. Am I making all this up? Possibly. The group's name
appears next to the Live Aid symbol, superimposed over his mystical
dance. U2, live from Wembly Stadium. This is the group my 15 year
old advisors have told me to watch. This is the group they say is
political, even pacifist. The singer is working his way down toward
the crowd, jumping onto a narrow wooden skirt a few feet below the
stage. He is gesturing to the crowd, waving someone toward him. He
takes the long drop into the orchestra pit, and continues his sign
language invitation. Eventually, the young girl is lifted bodily and
handed over the fence which separates him from the crowd. She is
simply passed over like an offering. She lands on her feet and is in
his arms, and he dances with her. She is probably stage struck and in
shock, and her head is sweetly bent down, and for the next few seconds
he is cradling her as they dance.
I can't recall ever having seen anything like that in my life. It is
an act, but it is not an act. It is a private moment, accepted by
70,000 people. The dance is short, sensuous, and heartbreakingly
tender. He breaks away from her and is helped up to the level just
under the stage, and there, finds another girl, dances with her the
same way. All this while the percussion adn hypnotic guitar continue
relentlessly, lyrically, with the audience waving their arms back and
forth, back and forth, a part of the ritual. The singer moves back
ontot he stage, and, still pouring with sweat, contineus with the
song. His voice is nothing special. It is unsteady and cracks. But
it is compelling, as he is compelling. THere is something about his
seriousness which has captivated me.
Rock stars can look and be serious, but it is usually about
themselves, or their inflated visions of themselves. None of us who
stands in front of a hundred thousand people hearing our voice "and
band" amplified, tampered with, echoed, and smoothed into cosmic
velveteen can escape certain grandiose illusions about ourself. But
this Irish lad is involved with something more than self-
agrandizement. Granted, his ego is well intact, and he is a superb
showman, but there is something more going on. And I would like to
know what it is. That I would like to be wrapped up in his arms like
the little Enlglish girl, there is no doubt. BUt if my instincts are
correct, there is something that preempts flirtations with him.
SOmething bigger than him or me or us combined, or our music combined.
Something to do with politics, kids, freshness, and breakthrough.
And love.
Out of the hours of live Aid that I saw by the end of the day, the
high point was witnessing the magic of U2. They moved me as nothing
else moved me. They moved me in their newness, their youth, and their
tenderness."
