There Goes Gravity: A Life in Rock and Roll

by Robinson, Lisa

  In 1987, Larry told me that he felt punk rock was hypocritical. “The punk movement was a great movement,” he said, “and it was a great time to be in London. But it started as a revolution, and in the end, it became as bad as the old stars that were up there.” In 1987, Bono said, “We came out of punk rock, but I hated the posturing of British punk rock. This faux leftist thing that was going around. People were talking about revolution, but not paying their road crew very much, or mistreating them. I don’t know what was going on with the Clash that day [in 1983] at the US Festival. I’m sure I was being pretty pious, and they were the greatest rock and roll band, but I didn’t want to hear people talk to me about revolution and then beat up on their road crew. I’d like to think that we took the love that came out of the hippie movement of the 1960s, and the anger that was part of 1970s punk. Our music is a combination of love and anger.”

  *

  In 1987, I saw U2 several times. They released The Joshua Tree which included the hit singles “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” and “With or Without You.” It was U2’s first Number One album in the U.S. In my enthusiasm, I told them that they might be the first band who combined the commercial success of the Beatles with the innovation of Television. They liked the comparison. Bono and I talked about how the band looked like “the Brothers Grimm” in their dark, serious, Anton Corbijn photos. He promised me that they still had a sense of humor. As if to prove it, he registered in hotels under the name Tony Orlando. He told me, again, how punk rock had inspired him, how rock and roll had opened his eyes. He talked about how it took U2 years to live down the reputation of being a “born again,” “Christian” band. He said that people could talk about sex or S&M and get into areas that they think are taboo, but that he, personally, never thought those were taboo. “But if I try to articulate a feeling inside myself, or sing about a belief that I have in God,” he said, “people start getting nervous. They start sweating and leaving the room, and our manager starts scratching his head. But I’m a singer in a rock and roll band. I’m not a politician or a prophet. When we play, it’s not Sunday school. I don’t want to use the stage as a soapbox.”

  In 1987, when U2 was in Las Vegas to film the video for “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,” they went to see Frank Sinatra at the Golden Nugget. He introduced them from the stage and announced that U2 was the biggest rock group in the world. But, he added, “They sure don’t spend their money on their wardrobe.” Later that year, Bono and Edge both told me they had met Sinatra in his dressing room and talked after the show. They talked about the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra. Buddy Rich had just died and Sinatra told them how he had once shared a room with Buddy Rich and they used to have arguments about whether or not to open or close the windows. Frank Sinatra was my favorite singer. The only time I had an opportunity to interview him was for Andy Warhol’s Interview magazine and we were told that Sinatra wanted to approve all the questions beforehand. Andy and I refused. What idiots we were. I should have done anything to get into the room. I once wrote a New York Post column about how, even though Sinatra reportedly hated rock and roll, all the rock and roll musicians adored him. He wrote me a lovely letter and made sure I always had tickets to his New York shows. In 1993, Bono went to Sinatra’s Palm Springs house around the time the two of them sang vocals (although not in the same studio) for “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” for one of Sinatra’s duets albums. Bono promised me that one day he would describe Sinatra’s house to me in detail and tell me all about Frank. He still hasn’t.

  *

  By the 1980s and certainly the 1990s, the element of surprise in rock and roll had pretty much disappeared. It was rare to discover a new band either by word of mouth, or stumbling across a great album cover in a bin in a crummy little record store, yard sale or even at Tower Records. MTV had changed everything. It wasn’t anywhere near what it would become two decades later with YouTube and Twitter, but nothing was a secret anymore. Things got big, and bigger. And in U2’s world, nothing would be as overblown as their Hollywood movie, Rattle and Hum. On November 1, 1988, U2 held the premiere of Rattle and Hum at the Astor Plaza in Times Square. It was a ninety-eight-minute film that felt like three hours. The movie, directed by Phil Joanou, was an attempt to infuse a soulful, funky, bluesy American element to U2’s body of work. In a way, it was their Exile on Main Street, but far more pretentious. When the Rolling Stones recorded Exile, that double album was an homage to American blues and country music. When it was released, it was a commercial flop and a critical disaster. Years later, it was declared a masterpiece. Rattle and Hum, a black and white movie about U2’s 1987 tour of America, has still not been re-thought in flattering terms. It featured scenes with the band taking a walk in Harlem, singing with a black gospel choir, recording at Sun Studios in Memphis, and sitting by the Mississippi River. They were filmed at Graceland, staring at Elvis Presley’s grave (the Spinal Tap reference may, or may not have been, intentional). The four band members wore oversized overcoats. Bono was lit as if he were Greta Garbo. There were images of Bono in a cowboy hat, references to Jerry Lee Lewis, a duet with B.B. King, and songs that sounded like the Velvet Underground. One song, “Angel of Harlem,” sounded like a J.Geils song. The band looked uneasy throughout the film. Larry, especially, was not smiling. There was dizzying camera work and an abundance of dramatic Bono closeups. The whole thing was such a mess that some good songs got overlooked. “That whole time in Hollywood,” Bono would tell me afterwards, “we were just trying to let everything out. It was fun and frolic and we had to go through it. But we were nothing like the megalomaniacs that some of the media said we were. All we did was make a record of new songs we liked. We were in love with American music; we were fans of Johnny Cash.” Edge said, “I realized we were in trouble when Paramount showed me the twelve-foot-high poster of me with my stubble airbrushed out. I just went, ‘Oh shit, we really got this one wrong.’ But by then it was too late.”

  Possibly because of the negative press they got from Rattle and Hum, U2 decided to try something new. In 1990 they fled to Berlin to record with Daniel Lanois and Brian Eno—the producer who made such great albums in the 1970s in Berlin with David Bowie. I remember thinking at the time that it was a pity that U2—despite the fact that they didn’t write or record it—couldn’t perform Pink Floyd’s The Wall by the site of the Berlin Wall. Roger Waters had already beaten them to it.

  In 1992, in one of our talks, Bono said that “rock and roll has gone Broadway. Dance steps and Buck’s Fizz and that whole cocktail mentality, where you don’t take anything seriously. We grew up in a completely different time.” And every time we ever sat down to talk, Bono would continue to say U2 hadn’t done their best work yet, their best work was to come, they hadn’t really begun as a band. In the 1980s, he said U2 was a four-legged table—each band member held the other up. In the 1990s the refrain was the same. Ditto the 2000s. They were all there to support each other. No one is a selfish member of the band. He may be the frontman, but there is no star. U2 is the star. Bono told me he once went two days without talking—which I found hard to believe. He said he could be inarticulate at times. He said he was motivated by “fear.” When he finally admitted that the band was ready to play stadiums, he said, “The energy of rock and roll was always about sliding down the surface of fantasies. Elvis was important not only because he was Elvis, but because he was that big. There was a momentum that was part of rock and roll and it was about size. For us, rock and roll was always about playing with the big boys.” He said Paul McGuinness was always telling them that they needed to supply the demand; that by playing smaller venues, the ticket scalpers were having a field day.

  *

  “Here comes success / Here comes my Chinese rug,” Iggy sang in “Success,” one of my all-time favorite songs. By the 1990s, U2 was huge. I’d seen so many bands go through the stages from struggle to success, and the pattern was usually the same. In Stage One, they were yo
ung. They were sexy. They had nothing to lose. They wore some version of their everyday clothes onstage. It took two weeks to make an album. Then came attention (if it came) and some success. In Stage Two, a band moved from a van to a tour bus, or to coach seats on flights from city to city. If they got really big, edging towards Stage Three, it was more “cost effective” for them to charter their own plane. The rationale was they could fit twelve people on a private jet for the same price as twelve first-class tickets. Sort of. Plus, they weren’t hassled in airports. Each band member had a bodyguard. The band had large dressing rooms backstage. In arenas, there were private dressing rooms with even more private inner dressing rooms, with security guards standing outside the doors. There were extra rooms off the backstage hallways to house the trunks with the band’s traveling stage wardrobe. Their production team had an office backstage. There was a “green room” with food and wine for their guests. Jack Nicholson attended the shows. It took around six months to make an album. And then, full-fledged Stage Three or maybe Stage Four of all this was the move to stadiums. More of their fans could be accommodated. It supposedly thwarted the ticket scalpers (except it didn’t). The band had a stylist who oversaw the band’s onstage costumes. And finally, the band made crazy money. Along with those multi-million-dollar-grossing stadium tours came the houses in Malibu. Or, in the case of U2, a compound in the South of France where the band and their wives and children decamp for the entire summer. (Coincidentally, U2’s houses are in Eze, a few miles away from Villa Nellcote—where Keith Richards lived and the Stones recorded Exile on Main Street in 1971.) By now, it might take well over a year to record an album. And even though U2 has always espoused a more serious intention, and conducted their business in a more dignified and non-hedonistic vein, they had all the accoutrements that accompany bigtime rock success—including, but not limited to, the plane, the police escorts, and the complicated, political hierarchy of the backstage pass.

  *

  Backstage passes reflect status. The first time I was made aware of this was when I traveled with the Rolling Stones in 1975. The entire touring party had laminated photo passes that allowed us to go anywhere backstage. This became the norm for a major group. Clubs and smaller halls didn’t always have this pass setup, but as soon as a band made it to arenas or stadiums, the elaborate pass situation was standard for what goes on behind the scenes. The first, and lowest backstage pass is the stick-on “After Show” pass for the “green room” mob scene. This literally is a square or circular or triangular piece of fabric with paper on the back that you peel off and stick onto (and ruin) your clothes. Next is the stick-on “VIP” pass for the “pre-show,” “green room” mob scene. (I always thought it would be funny if some band had a pass that led to a door that opened right into the parking lot outside the venue.) The next level is the laminated “VIP Guest” pass for a “band room.” It isn’t really a band room, it’s a “meet and greet” room where the band—or in the case of U2, Bono—might make an appearance before the show. (Early on, Bono told me that he was fine performing in front of thousands of people, but he got nervous if he had to meet five people in a dressing room. Obviously, he got over it.) After the VIP guest pass comes the “Staff” laminate, with no photo, that allows the bearer to move freely around the backstage area—except in the band’s dressing rooms. Then, there is the “All Access” photo laminate, but you still might need an “escort” with a better pass to take you into the band’s dressing rooms. And then, there is the top pass: the “All Access” laminate for friends and family that allows you to go anywhere, including the band’s dressing rooms and the stage. But still, there might be a sticker or a star on this pass that alerts security just how far you can go: into the band’s private, inner dressing rooms or just the band’s private, outer dressing rooms. The whole structure is byzantine, and familiar only to people who’ve been through all these maneuvers. I recall many a time seeing someone proudly waltz backstage with a stick-on pass on their jacket or jeans, only to watch their face fall when they saw someone else with a laminate. Or those with non-photo VIP laminates glance enviously at those with the photo laminates. The entire pass arrangement is a visual indication of just exactly where you stand with a group. John McEnroe and I became friendly because of just such a situation. In 1978, the Rolling Stones were performing at Madison Square Garden. John was backstage. I was writing for the New York Post, and I was a huge McEnroe fan. I went up to introduce myself to him. He sneered when I mentioned the Post. I pointed to his stick-on pass and pointed to my all-access laminate. No words were needed. It literally broke the ice; we’ve been good friends ever since.

  There is a different pecking order with each band, each arena, each stadium. One band’s all-access laminate means nothing at another band’s show. The musicians, of course, never wear their laminates. (When Pearl Jam’s guitarist Stone Gossard once went onstage wearing his, I assumed it was meant to be ironic. And at the Grammys three years ago, security guards literally stopped Eminem from going backstage because he wasn’t wearing his “credentials.”) Then, there are the wristbands. The wristbands—paper or plastic—allow you onto the soundboard. The soundboard is a raised platform either behind or slightly above the actual concert sound equipment. Depending on how complicated or computerized the band’s technology is, there can be multiple soundboards on the side of, or underneath, the stage. There is also a soundboard near the back of the arena or the stadium, a mile away from the stage. It has no seats (although comfy sofas and chairs were on the soundboard at Madison Square Garden for the Jay Z and Kanye West “Watch the Throne” concert). In the case of U2, the band’s special guests watch the show from the soundboard, protected from the general public. Sometimes in stadiums, there are two soundboards. The color of your wristband determines which soundboard you get to stand on. At a U2 show, the “good” soundboard will have Christy Turlington, Jimmy Iovine, Jay Z, and old friends of the band like the Irish musician Gavin Friday or writer/publicist B.P. Fallon. The “bad” one might have lower-level record company executives or staff. This all sounds ridiculous. But it’s akin to a front-row seat at a fashion show or a seat at a better table at a dinner party. The entire thing is often fraught with anxiety, drama and dread. But it is a very big deal for those who need the pass for their egos, or to move around freely to do their actual work.

  And at the end of the show, the band may not hang around for any green room pleasantries after all. Instead, they may decide to do that “runner” and race to limousines lined up right behind the stage to get the hell out of the venue. This presents yet another hurdle. If you’re included in the band’s party, or had secured a ride with them to the show, you have a seat in one of their cars or vans going back to the hotel. Or to the airport, if you’re going with them to the next city. For some, this is a convenience. For others, a coup. And by the end of the 1980s, U2 drove in a flotilla of limousines with a police escort that accompanied them to and from their stadium shows. At that time, Bono told me that while he used to find that sort of thing embarrassing, now he found it funny. “During the ’80s, we knew we were taking rock and roll seriously and we knew it was against the tide. With success, I found everything funny. The limos and the police escorts and us four jerks. But people won’t let us have a sense of humor.”

  *

  U2 had the same manager for 35 years. All four band members share equally in the money. It may be one of the very few (if not only) major rock bands where not one member has been tossed out of a nightclub or arrested for drugs, gun possession, or punching a photographer. No band member has had to hide stories from a wife about visits to a strip club. None of the four original members of the band has ever (publicly) quit the band. No one has overdosed, committed suicide or died. They never backed themselves into a corner by saying they didn’t want to sing a particular song when they reached a certain age. On paper, this makes them sound duller than they actually are. They’ve certainly had their share of blowups and meltdowns
, personal tragedies, breakups and doubts. The difference with this group is that somehow they’ve managed, despite the increasing public persona of the lead singer, to keep most things private. Or, as they say in basketball, “in-house.”

  On March 12, 1992, I accompanied U2 on their plane from New York City to Hartford, Connecticut, for a show on their “Zoo TV” tour. We stayed at the J.P. Morgan Hotel, and Peter Wolf from the J.Geils Band was there. We all gathered in Bono’s room. Peter played rare Hank Williams radio show tapes and talked about how, after a drunken bender, Hank Williams made repentant records under the name Luke the Drifter. I told Bono about the Alan Lomax “Sounds of the South” recordings. We stayed up all night, talking and listening to music. It was like being in Keith Richards’ room on the 1975 Stones tour—without the drugs. By now, the band’s touring party numbered seventy people. The “Zoo TV” tour was a technically ambitious trek designed to promote their Achtung Baby album. There were huge video screens, computerized effects, five onstage telephone hookups to the White House and to Sarajevo. Pizza was delivered onstage mid-concert. For some reason, Bono dressed up as characters: for the song “The Fly,” he wore black leather and wraparound glasses. As “MacPhisto,” he had a gold lamé suit, lipstick, eyeliner, and red horns on his head. It was not a good look. On August 12th, after the band’s show at Giants Stadium, back in the city, Bono talked until four a.m. in the bar of the Rihga Royal Hotel. As always with me, he talked about punk rock and the band’s beginnings: “We were in high school and we heard this guy was making a movie of James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man,” Bono recalled, “and he was coming to our school to see if he could find young actors. We also heard he had an in with a TV station and we thought if we could impress him, we could get on this TV show that was like Britain’s Top of the Pops. We were very young, we played cover versions, and while we found it easy to write our own songs, we couldn’t agree on how to end them. So we just did two Ramones numbers, at the end of which he said, ‘Very good, and you wrote those yourselves?’ We mumbled we did. Years later I told that to Joey Ramone, who asked me, ‘Who’s James Joyce?’”