Just like politics, it seems like people enter the music business for either the best or the worst reasons. Have you had to deal with much corruption there?
U2 has had a pretty good time of it in the music business. Our manager, Paul McGuinness, protected us from so much, he really was a cut above the rest, and instilled in us a sense that we had to be awake to the business as we were to the art. Yeah, we have had to deal with some bullies at a corporate level in the music business, but in the end I don’t have “Slave” written on my face, like Prince did in the early nineties. U2 is in charge of its own destiny. We own our master tapes, we own our copyrights, we run our own show, the music business does not own us.
You own your own stuff. That’s almost unheard of, isn’t it?
Well, there was a cost to that, as I told Prince when he asked me. We took a lower royalty rate, and on those big albums, we were paid less. But we own it. I asked him: “Why are you wearing ‘Slave’? He said: “I don’t own my stuff, they own it. They own me.” And then he asked me like you just did: “How did you pull that off?—Eh, lower royalty rates.” You know, most people want the money in their hand, not down the road. There’s no excuse in the twentieth century for intelligent people signing a deal they don’t understand. That said, Prince deserves the best deal in the world because he is the best in the world. He’s Duke Ellington to me!
Back to politics for a second. Do you hear a lot of: “I would love to help you but I can’t” from politicians?
One congressman wouldn’t even look at me. He was in charge of yes-or-no’ing foreign appropriations. He was a big shot and a big problem. He would talk to me like almost through an interpreter. He was just kind of upset that he, a hard-working guy, had to talk to this rock star from Ireland. You know, I kind of agreed with him. He was saying: You’re not gonna get this money, because I know where it’s going. It’s going down a rat hole, these guys have been ripping us off for years. Because Africa’s first problem is not natural calamity, it’s not their corrupt relationship with Europe and America. They’re the second and third problems. The first problem is their own corrupt leadership. Eventually, we convinced him that the money would be well spent, and later, when I came back from Uganda, I took him pictures of a water hole. I said: “There’s the money. It didn’t go down a rat hole, it went down a water hole, Congressman!” I have a lot of respect for that guy now, but he was tough. He was a tough guy. In the end of course it wasn’t me that persuaded him, it was the chorus of voices in the background—the movement. This unusual panoply of powerful voices from Church leaders like the Pope to sports leaders and student bodies, what Bill Clinton later referred to as a big tent. [laughs and puts on Southern accent] “When you’ve got the Pope hanging out with rock stars, that’s what I call a big tent.” You see, Jubilee 2000 could get a crowd of forty thousand people to surround the G8 summit in Cologne and hold hands. So it’s not just, Let’s have our little photo with Bono in here, and get him out of the room. You know, there is some firepower in the background.
Have you ever said to yourself: “This is more complicated than I thought. These people may be right, I may be wrong”?
Oh yeah. When it came to understanding the big issues—and outside that fantastic phrase: “I have met my enemy and he was partly right”—I realized that a lot of the aid for instance had been incredibly badly mishandled over the years, creating worse situations. It’s not enough just to ask for money. I learnt that the skeptics and the cynics had a real point, and that without strict conditionalities, there was no point in giving. You’re actually propping up sometimes the most evil despots by aid.
I think the most useful people are the ones who are out in the field, who work there and know the population. I don’t count myself among the skeptics or the cynics, but . . .
. . . But you’re pessimistic!
A couple of years ago, I was in Tuvalu, a tiny archipelago somewhere in the middle of the South Pacific. It’s all sand, all flat. They can’t grow anything there. And these people get help from the European community. I talked to an Italian civil servant who lived in Fiji. He’d regularly visit these small islands to make sure that the money was well spent. He said the islanders don’t go fishing anymore—they eat junk food and they watch TV, and they lie asleep all day. Now that I’m mentioning it, it sounds like I’m describing life in some parts of Paris suburbia . . . Now they have been given money to build solar panels. And then they asked: will that make our washing machines work? He said: probably not. So they said: we won’t assemble them. And then they said they wanted a nuclear plant! And there are a whole bunch of civil servants there, benefiting from that aid, who obviously don’t do much for their fellow men. So, without education, I’m afraid there is no point in giving aid.
That’s the story of aid for the last thirty years, but this is no longer the story. That story has come to an end.
Money is not the only problem in those places.
Well, with AIDS, it is. And with some things, it is. But the waste of resources, the lack of good leadership is often the real problem.
When you discuss the problems of Africa, it seems like you think that idealism is the solution.
But I’m not dealing with idealism! None of my work is based on idealism. It’s pragmatism. OK, maybe on debt cancellation, I’m arguing it as justice rather than charity. But in terms of dealing with Africa now, I’m looking for a Marshall-type plan for Africa.* That’s pragmatic!
I can’t help but remember what you said earlier: “At one time, it looked impossible for African Americans to be freed from slavery.” But it was not only Westerners who were responsible for slavery. It was also the Arabs and other Africans.
My reply to that is: yes, but we’re not talking about Arabs or other Africans. We’re talking about us, our inherited wealth from that exploitation.
But why are Westerners still trying to solve the problems of Africa? How come Africans aren’t doing it by themselves?
If we see aid as investment, and the debt burden of these countries as unjust, and offer fairer trade conditions, Africa will be able to take charge of its own destiny. The reason for the T for Trade in DATA is, in the end, aid is not the way forward for the poorest people in the world. Trade is the way forward. We have to let the poorest of the poor trade with us. And, at the moment, we’re not letting them trade fairly with us. So when you say, “Why can’t Africans look after themselves?,” that is the only way forward for Africa: Africans taking charge of their continent. But at the moment, we won’t let them! Even after twenty-three countries whose debts we’ve canceled now, there are still countries paying back to the World Bank and the IMF more money every year than they’re spending on health and education. These are dignified people, and they wanna get up off their knees. But it’s us that has them chained to the ground!
But why, then, has no African leader just come forward and said: “We don’t need the white men to solve our problems. We can do it ourselves!”
But that’s what NEPAD was: New Economic Partnership and Africa’s Development. This is what Thabo Mbeki was doing when he put together African leaders in a new kind of partnership, away from patronage. That’s what we’re talking about: a new kind of relationship. But you can’t self-determine if you’re carrying that kind of level of injustice in trade and in debt. How about this? If Africa got one percent more trade, one percent of global trade, it’s the equivalent of three times what Africa receives every year through aid. Africa receives about 21 billion dollars in aid every year. So 70 billion cash would come into the continent, for one percent increase in trade. This is the way towards self-determination. This is what we’re working for, away from the nipple of aid. Africans are sick of the cap in hand. They deserve equal and as fair access as anybody else to the pie. So I’m not for some sort of paternalistic attitude to Africa. I’m against it. But in order for that to happen, we have to break a certain chain. And colonialism is still there in a certain sense. Slavery is present. Econo
mic slavery is what we’re talking about, where people make cheap goods for us in the West, but aren’t paid.
Lasting presence and involvement are the things that really count, don’t you think?
Well, for example, the Global Health Fund at the moment is a new and necessary approach that’s set in Geneva, to deal with AIDS, TB, and malaria. It’s outside of the UN, but Kofi Annan has asked for 10 billion dollars a year. It has a four percent overhead only, and out of the four percent overhead, they are hiring accounting firms like Price Waterhouse and Stokes Kennedy Crowley in every country that applies for this. And they police and audit where the money is being spent. This is a new approach to foreign assistance or aid. In the past, aid has been tied to commercial contracts: they’d give you five dollars, but four of them you’d have to spend on French or English or German products, or consultants. It was corrupt and rotten. But those days are over. There are people who are working on this a lot harder than I, giving their whole lives to champion reform of aid, who are not going to let that happen. There will always be abuses, but the increase in foreign aid will only be for places where there’s clear and transparent process, where there’s good leadership, and where we can see where the money’s going. The bright stars, if you like, they get hothoused. The countries around them that have no poverty-reduction programs in place and no good ideas on how to spend the money will lose out. They won’t be able to gain access to these new funds, because the people whose taxes they represent won’t let them, and they’re right.
5. THE SHORTEST CHAPTER IN THE BOOK
I heard nothing from Bono until February 2003, when someone from Principle Management called and asked for my address. The next day, a gendarme delivered a letter by motorcycle into the hands of my stupefied twelve-year-old son Antoine, declaring:“De la part de Monsieur Jacques Chirac”(“On behalf of Mister Jacques Chirac”). I opened the envelope and read the card:
Mister Jacques Chirac, President of the Republic, requests the presence of Mister Michka Assayas at the ceremony where the insignia of Knight of the Legion of Honour will be presented to Mister Paul Hewson, a.k.a. Bono, at the Élysée Palace, on Friday the 28th of February 2003 at 12 hours 15—Lounge suit required.
Established by Napoleon, the Legion of Honor is a distinction that usually rewards those who served the French state. “Chevalier” is the first rank, but you may become an “Officier” or even a “Grand-Croix” in the long run. Each ministry provides a list every year, and Bono was proposed by the Ministry of Culture, which traditionally honors artists from all over the world, making them in this way honorary Frenchmen, which is without a doubt the greatest honor a non-Frenchman can receive.
For some time, I was lost in reverie. But then, and this probably is my way of responding when something goes to my head a little too much, I concentrated on a detail. What the hell was a “lounge suit”? When I found out, I just had to face the awful truth: I had no matching trousers and jacket. I went ahead anyway. So for the first and probably last time in my life, I was invited into that main courtyard of the Élysée Palace, which I had seen so many times on TV. It was a small gathering: Mr. and Mrs. Paul McGuinness with their son Max, the ambassador of Ireland and his wife, the Irish painter Louis Le Brocquy’s son and his Vietnamese girlfriend, whom Chirac flabbergasted with his knowledge of Asian civilization, a French lady lawyer and friend of Bono’s, and an astounded official from Universal Records in Paris, who was standing in for the missing chairman. Plus, of course, Mrs. Hewson herself, Ali. There also was an old school friend of Bono’s, a girl with the radiant glare of a fifteen-year-old; Catriona, Bono’s assistant; Lucy Matthew, who works for DATA (she had accompanied Bono in Africa with the ex-secretary of treasury of the United States, Paul O’Neill), and a wonderful woman who works in Geneva for the United Nations and clears the ground for many of Bono’s meetings with politicians.
Chirac produced a speech, which was not so bad. Obviously, his ghostwriter had been fond of U2 at some point in his life. Notwithstanding, I had to make an effort not to burst out laughing when the president pronounced the words: “Zuh . . . Edge.” “That’s cool!” pronounced Bono when the speech was over. The bastard, he was not wearing a tie, and he had managed to get me wearing one. Of course, he gave me a mischievous wink when he presented me to my own president who—as all big shots I have come across in my life—looks like some kind of mechanical creature when you look at him in the eye from a close distance. Nothing personal, I had the same impression about his rival Jospin.
Bono talked to the press, and was very impressed by Chirac’s knowledge of the terrain. The president had spent more time in Africa than any head of state and was genuinely trying to understand the issues, he said. After one private meeting at the Élysée, Bono was asked: Did he really believe the president was as passionate about Africa as he said?—Yes, said Bono. “My job is to turn that passion into cash.”
We were all—not including Chirac—invited to a celebratory lunch at the Hôtel de Crillon, where, a few years before, U2 and crew had been ordered to clear off for the benefit of African heads of state coming over for a summit. Bono made a speech. So did Paul McGuinness, who had just had the time to hastily buy a coffee-table book presenting views of Paris. I remember the smile on Bono’s face when he read my words of wisdom on it:
“Congratulations! You managed to get me moved by Chirac, and that sure is no small deed.” Then the solemn mood flagged. The girls insisted on staying overnight and celebrating in Paris. They wanted to do some shopping as well. Bono went along with them, with his Legion of Honor hanging on the lapel of his jacket, the decoration looking like a fake, oversized thing on his chest. He proclaimed that he was extremely proud to have been made a “Maurice Chevalier” of the French state. I asked Bono whether he knew that Maurice Chevalier was the singer of the old classic “Thank Heaven for Little Girls.” “And so we should, Michka,” was his answer.
The company reassembled for dinner at a very traditional bistro, L’Ami Louis, favored in its time by President Mitterrand. I presented Bono and friends with a personal award: a toothbrush (with toothpaste), for nobody had planned to stay beforehand. Bono kept it all evening as a trophy in his breast pocket, the nylon white hairs of it proudly protruding. I did not go so far as to offer underwear, though. We finished the night in a couple of trendy clubs that the record company guy knew about (it always takes a foreigner to discover those places in your hometown). What happened here? We drank, Ali danced, Bono talked enthusiastically with strangers. And we kept drinking. I remember my behavior became extremely enthusiastic. At some point, I asked Bono something like: “And our book? What about the book?—It’s going to be the shortest chapter in the book,” said Bono.
A few days later, I wrote a letter to Bono to thank him again for that evening. I also mentioned the fact that I could not get through to him on his mobile. Then I received an e-mail:
Michka,
I’m e-mailing because I can’t speak with a toothbrush in my mouth after that night. Sacrebleu . . . it was great to see you . . . to meet Claire* and to attempt to drink Paris dry. My number (+ 353 +++++++++) hasn’t changed so you are obviously still drunk.
Your friend,
Bono
6. THE TATTOOIST
During the winter of 2003, Bono did a lot of what he called “footwork” on behalf of DATA in the United States. That occurred during the very period when the U.S. and their allies cast no doubt on their intention to invade Iraq. From what I grasped from Principle Management’s camp, Bono was reminded, somewhat firmly, by his colleagues that he still held a job as singer and writer in U2, and that an album was due for production that year. I got the information that Bono was due to give a performance on May 25, 2003, at the Pavarotti and Friends concert, a TV charity event that the maestro stages every year in his hometown of Modena (in Emilia-Romagna) for the benefit of his foundation for ill children. Other guests included the three remaining members of Queen, as well as Deep Purple, Eric Clap
ton, Lionel Richie, and local soul singer Zucchero. Bono had a duet programmed with the tenor. This was no Lollapalooza. I proposed to come over. Bono thought that was a good idea, and that maybe we could spend some time together. So I flew there. Bono rehearsed with what seemed to me a full orchestra. You could see Pavarotti sitting on a chair at a close distance, covered in a sort of flashy red smock of a light fabric round his neck, the kind I remember the barber would make me wear as a child in the mid-sixties. It was hanging loose on his massive features, so it made the impression of a big red balloon with a bearded smiling head on the top of it. Bono was wearing his usual Fidel Castro khaki cap. He rehearsed two songs: the first was a version of “One,” accompanied by his acoustic guitar and the orchestra. But the important number was the duet of Schubert’s “Ave Maria,” for which he had written new lyrics. He sang:Ave Maria / Where is the justice in this world? / The wicked make so much noise, Ma / The righteous stay oddly still / With no wisdom, all of the riches in the world leave us poor tonight / And strength is not without humility / It’s weakness, an untreatable disease / And war is always the choice / Of the chosen who will not have to fight.The day after the performance, the lyrics to Bono’s revised “Ave Maria” were reproduced in every national paper in Italy.
As soon as Bono and team set foot outside the dressing room, it looked as if every possible media person in Italy was in the place. Bono stopped every two yards, speaking in front of a camera. Then there was a press conference held in a tent. Here, Bono seemed more like royalty than a celebrity, as everyone politely guffawed each time he made a joke. It was an impression that was confirmed later that evening. A dinner was set up at the restaurant owned by Pavarotti in the countryside. There, it turned to Beatlemania, except that it wasn’t girls but women cooing over Bono. I swear I saw a few of them twisting their high heels on the gravel driveway, in order to catch a fleeting glimpse of him.
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