Bono (18 page)

What makes you say that?

But which reality am I not in touch with? You're working on behalf of a billion people who live on less than a dollar a day. Isn't it more important that I'm more in touch with their needs than the normal Western life you describe? And by the way, from their point of view, you, Michka Assayas, the writer and the journalist, and me, Bono, filthy-rich rock star, are exactly the same to them. There is no difference in the way you live, in the way I live.
Because, if you are at the level of begging for a meal once a day, or medication, there is no difference.

I see your point. When I went to India, I felt like I was being perceived as coming out of a television commercial.

So they would say to both of us: how are you in touch with reality? Both of you live this rarefied existence! You live in Paris, in your apartment, and you go out to the cafés, and you have a nice life. And there's Bono, he lives in his realm. But we are both so far from their experience. So, if you wanna look at the world, two-thirds of the planet are living hand-to-mouth. We live in the other third—the West—and in that third, we're up at the top third of that. And OK, now, of that third, I might be higher up the ladder than you, but compared to most people who live there, there's no difference. We eat well, we can afford medicines, we have time off, and we don't have to worry about our children.

It's true, but maybe my point is less general than that. It's just that, when things come easily, you tend to forget about the way people really feel. You think about them in an idealistic way and start to look at issues on a very large scale. You don't communicate with what's inside those people, with what's at the core of them. Maybe with your music.

See, I don't know. I think that the things that really communicate universally are humor, grace, and strength of character. These are things that people read, no matter whether you're in northern Ethiopia or London. People can read who you are. I must say I quite enjoy being lost in Africa, wandering around, where people have no idea who I am, but even when they do hear that you're some sort of rich rock star, it doesn't really change the way they talk to me. I think, maybe here it might, but not there. As you say, I'm much more involved with what's really important, which is survival. I used to think, to go back to your first question,
it was a big deal. Now I realize that money's only a big deal if you don't have it.

Let me go back to that bad experience in the studio that you mentioned yesterday. You keep telling me that your strength is your reliance on an organization, on a group. And I'm sure the sort of conflict you experienced yesterday has occurred more than once with U2. I've thought to myself: there must be some secret in there. How come these people who have known one another since their teens, who have been through so much together—getting ultra-famous, marriages, in some cases divorces, overindulgence, et cetera—have survived together? Why has the band never split up? Or even been in serious danger?

[pondering]
Well, I think the band is in serious danger sometimes. It's not something you can take for granted. I think it is much more likely that people part company than it is that they stay together. Because everyone is financially independent, and they don't need to work. That's always a danger. I think we've been pretty good at getting out of each other's way. There's times when people can really just try your patience, and I'm sure there's times when I have really tried the band's patience, like when I'm not around, for instance, and they're trying to finish the album. There's moments when people are so lost in their own selves, the demands of their own life, that it's very hard to be in a band. But people come out of those phases, and I have, others have. But look: it's every day I'm amazed at that fact, because it gets difficult as people get older, because people want to be lords of their own domain. I mean, everybody, as they get older—I think we've discussed this—rids the room of argument. You see it in your family, you see it with your friends, and they get a smaller and smaller circle of people around them, who agree with them. And life ends up with a dull sweetness. Actually, now that I mention it, it sounds good.

Remember what you said to me: that you wanted to have a family in the band because the family you were born into was not working. But most people want to get rid of their family after a while. Sometimes family and friends can be very narrowing.

I think it's claustrophobic, but it's never narrowing, because the friction of different points of view makes you better. And the thing that'll make you less and less able to realize your potential is a room that's empty of argument. And I would be terrified to be on my own as a solo singer, not to have a band to argue with. I mean, I surround myself with argument, and a band, a family of very spunky kids, and a wife who's smarter than anyone. I've got a lot of very smart friends, a whole extended family of them.

You love to be challenged, I have noticed.

To live in Dublin is one long argument. The city loves debate, the din of argument, from chattering classes to the shattering glasses, the big voices of small minds, the itchy bitchy print of some journalists who don't like their job, the irreverence for success. I'd miss this stuff, I'm serious. I like being challenged. You're as good as the arguments you get. So maybe the reason why the band hasn't split up is that people might get this: that even though they're one quarter of U2, they are more than they would be if they were one whole of something else. I certainly feel that way.

There are lots of examples that imply the contrary. I mean, take the Beatles. After a while, they felt being in a band was narrowing.

Did they ever do better work on their own, these luminous, extraordinary talents? Did they, when they lost the tension? John Lennon actually nearly did. But finally his greatness will be remembered as the work he did with
his nemesis, Paul McCartney. And Paul McCartney is somebody I'm in awe of. He's such a prodigious talent.

He's magic. You know, for the very first time in my life I really listened to Wings, which was a band that I used to despise as a teenager. I'm not even talking about my new-wave years.
[laughs]
I have listened all summer long to the
Wingspan
compilation. It sounds so fresh. You forget about the “influences” he may have had.

But time often is forgiving and dismissive of the influences, because they recede. We look at
Sgt. Pepper
and we go “Wow! How did they ever think that up?” But of course, if you got into Paul McCartney's bedroom, found his record collection at the time, you would find out. But the clues are gone.
[laughs]
It's like in evolution: there are certain pure situations that hang around longer, but the ones that got them there don't have time to leave fossils. We have a giraffe, we have a horse. But where's the horse with the long neck? The link species disappear.

But to go back to what the Beatles did after they split up . . .

They did good work. Sometimes great work, in his case. But it's not the Beatles.

What do you make of George Harrison? He came into his own as a songwriter by extricating himself from the Beatles . . .

OK. Maybe. But did he have as much fun?

And then what do you make of people who set out to be solo artists from the very beginning? I mean some of your heroes, like . . .

Bob Marley.

Sure! And what about Bob Dylan or Bruce Springsteen?

Yeah, yeah. I've incredible admiration. I think, in some ways, it's easier to realize a vision that's singular and in your own head, but it's harder to keep the vision going without argument. Look at Prince. He's one of my favorite composers of the twentieth century. I really believe in him. But he needs an editor. He needs a row. He needs somebody in the studio to tell him to fuck off. “And guess what? There's six great tracks and four of them are pretty average. I'm sorry, sir. Your genius was having a bad day.” Does he have that? No chance.

Have you ever discussed this with somebody like Dylan?

Yes. We did. Bob Dylan, in a way, has always been there for me. His music, and occasionally the man himself. No artist alive or dead has meant so much to me. I remember him saying to me once how lucky I was to have a band. I asked him why did he say that. It was at the height of
Joshua Tree
madness. We were on the cover of
Time
magazine, and we had number-one singles, albums. It was very, very exciting, but a head trip too. There was a lot coming at us, just disorienting stuff. And he said: “Imagine going through all that you're going through, now, on your own.” I can't imagine what it would be not to have—when extraordinary, ridiculous, over-the-top things just happened to me—Edge or Larry to speak through the side of my mouth about something ridiculous, and laugh to ourselves.

But did Dylan tell you how he managed to get through it?

I think the implication was: by the skin of his teeth. Right? By the skin of his teeth. And not without cuts and bruises.

Well, even in a band, you get them, don't you?

Yes, bruises, and the occasional flesh wound.
[laughs]
The occasional missing leg. I mean, sometimes I do remind myself of the other scene in the Monty Python movie. It's the very first,
The Holy Grail.
It's the knights who say
[ultra-shrill voice]
“Ni!” The knight says
[adopts a thundering voice]
“Stand, all! My valor, my courage is unmatched!” He's taking on anybody. And his opponent cuts off his arm and blood is squirting everywhere.
[laughs]
He goes: “Not a problem . . . Not a problem . . .” And then
[sword and sorcery sound of the other arm being cut]
the other arm goes. He goes: “Nothing! That's nothing!”
[Sound again]
His legs go. Eventually, his head is cut off, and is lying on the ground, in the helmet, just shouting: “Come on, you coward!” As his enemy stands over him, examining the dismantled limbs, he continues taunting: “No, that was nothing . . . a mere flesh wound . . .” he says. There is a danger in describing your survival in battle a little too glowingly.

I'm sure you have experienced bouts of madness.

I might have had one this week.

Aren't there times where you just want to leave everything behind and disappear?

I disappeared for five weeks this year, which was amazing. I haven't had five weeks off for ten years. I wasn't on my own, I was with my family and loved ones, but I wasn't working. You mean, going off for a week? Occasionally . . .

If you had become a solo artist, would you have survived the madness?

No, I don't think I'm as strong as Bob Dylan is. I think he is a very tenacious character. I think underneath all the so-called eccentricity, which I think is just a mask, there's a very true person. He's a good father—I've
seen him with his children—with a moral compass, and who can get lost at sea, like everybody. But I think he's very strong. I think I needed company, because I'm more emotional, I'm a more operatic character. I need to be surrounded, even just for the laughter, because if I run out of laughs, then I'm really in trouble.

So you're confessing to some kind of weakness.

I guess so. I think that's probably fair.

Have you ever discussed that with people like Mick Jagger?

I have of course always been interested in the Mick and Keith relationship, more as sort of “I don't want this to happen to me.”
[laughs]
They're two extraordinary people who are still working with each other, but can't really surrender to each other in the way that they could when they were kids, arguing and fighting. The real problem in a relationship is when the arguing stops.

That's what I was thinking about.

And you just have that awkward silence. So maybe they're OK, because they're still calling each other names. They've written some beautiful songs together. Even recently, there's one on
Voodoo Lounge
called “Out of Tears”
[sings] I won't cry when you say good-bye/I'm out of tears, out of tears.
That could be, like, from the fifties. Actually, there are two. Keith has a song, “The Worst,” which would break the hardest heart. I mean, it's just great. “Mixed Emotions” is another song from a recent album, “Anybody Seen My Baby?”—great tunes . . . I spent some time with the two of them, once. They weren't speaking at the time. There was a really awkward period for the band. Legend has it that Keith had pulled a gun
[laughs]
on Steve Lillywhite, who was producing, and sort of pointed the gun through
the studio glass out at him, trying just to spook him. And I called down to the studio. What's interesting about both of them is they're both extremely old-fashioned.

What do you mean?

Mick is like a very conservative man. His children have impeccable manners. Even his clothes, offstage, have a certain kind of yacht-club vibe. I don't think he's an ephemeral person at all. He has a sort of insatiable curiosity about the world around him, and believes that it's worth your while to know what you're talking about. I remember one of his little girls came up to me at one point, and she said
[whispers, adopting posh English accent]:
“People think my daddy's the devil, and he lets them!”
[laughs]
What a great line. The daughter of a man who has written many. For him, I think he climbs into a character. Literally, you can see him, as he starts to sing, get into the skin of this other thing called Mick Jagger, which is this R & B singer. But I think he's very British, very English, very old school, and . . . loves cricket! Now Keith is exactly the same. Keith would light a cigarette for you, talks very respectfully in front of women, would never make a coarse comment about women, has a nobility in his human relationships, and was tougher than anyone. But no one is tougher than drink or drugs. He has probably taken a few swipes from both, has taken them on the chin. But he's still standing and still funny and still throwing a few swipes back! He's like a Hemingway-type character,
The Old Man and the Sea,
or something. He's a pirate, actually. But, to quote Dylan, he is the man who has to be honest to live outside the law.