One
A sure fire indicator of growing old is the first world problem of getting to a rock concert and the quantum of stress involved even before the music starts. We no longer set out blithely on a local train, squeezed in with the crowds, or ride our motorbikes out to the venue. We can no longer queue up at the venue on the day, sure of getting cheap tickets. We no longer carry a quart of rum and cola bottles in our backpacks and bum cigarettes off the person standing next to us. Of course, that was then and this is now. That was Rock Machine and Europe or more likely a local outfit from some college, mostly made up of really talented boys from the North East, in the eighties. This is U2 and the year is unbelievably, 2019.
The last sustained phase of great rock acts playing in our city was in the late 1990s and early 2000s. Bryan Adams, that dear man, is now almost a local talent. We love him but I really can’t include him in this Bombay Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame – he visits us far too often. That magical phase saw the Rolling Stones, Mark Knopfler, Roger Waters, Scorpions, Iron Maiden, even some pop in the form of Alan Parson’s Project, America and Michael Jackson, until we were dangerously close to becoming blasé about the great, almost has-beens visiting us at regular intervals. And then, abruptly, it all ended. We were in rock wilderness for years afterwards, as the local taxes on concerts became ridiculous and unsustainable. Enrique Iglesias and Justin Beiber (lip syncing his way through a concert after charging mega bucks) don’t really count, do they? Or Ed Sheeran either. The teeny boppers love them and that is as it should be. Leaves us fossils to appreciate the classic stuff. Understandable, then, that U2 signing off their Joshua Tree 2019 Tour in Mumbai, became a huge deal for us forty and fifty somethings.
U2 is a great band. One of my all time favourite songs is their One. I remember listening to the lyrics for the first time, really listening, while driving down a winding ghat road between Goa and Bombay, blinking away the tears as I fought with inner demons. That was almost twenty years ago and many of their songs have stayed with me since then. They play often on my random playlist, my sound dock or car system reading my mood in the most uncanny way. Who’s Gonna Ride your Wild Horses, Pride (In The Name of Love), Where The Streets Have no Name and Vertigo. I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For. Songs that could be about my life, your life, in the way a lot of great rock music is. The rest is about biting off bats’ heads and towers built by wizards and if that resonates with your life, well, good luck, it’s gonna be a wilder ride than most.
I like most of U2’s music. I’m not a huge fan of their frontman or their more discordant songs but still, this was not a concert to miss. Determined to not play the newbie groupie, I desisted from buying a Joshua Tree tee shirt on amazon, dressed way down and set off armed with sensible shoes and low-ish expectations.
We left home in the afternoon – it was a hot day in December as we rode a crowded slow train all the way across town. The young men in the second class compartment eyed me warily – their lady companions were far more discreetly dressed and most had carefully hennaed hair. My grey head and jeans were enough cause for long, pointed stares. The new rakes had far less seating and were pretty hard on the lower back too. But we were grateful to have seats for the hour long ride.
A taxi and train ride followed by a fifteen minute walk made that helicopter ferrying the rich cats straight to the stadium very tempting. We reached early and whiled away the time people watching and tee shirt commenting. My favourite was the DarthVader one saying Me Tera Baap Hoon. The lines for food and drink (non alcoholic of course, in this era of clean living) were long, the lines for the ladies’ loo interminable.
Anyway, back to U2. A great live performance band, though Bono in real life makes me want to smack him even more than when I see his pretentious self on television. The biggest screen in the world, they said, beautiful, stunning graphics, some unnecessary and super dorky poetry of Bono’s choosing forced down our throats, some laughable references to India’s soul and Gandhi (Really? You waited forty years to come to our country and this is all the old worn out platitude you could offer?). Also an amazingly tasteless tribute to our dear Minister of Textiles, her bland face eliciting many boos from a woke audience in the heady days of protest against her government. Why her, we groaned? Because she’s a woman, apparently. One of the token selection of Indian women whose faces flashed on the screen.
His voice, though? Powerful. Sustained. The energy? Sublime. He sang for two and a half hours straight, making heroic attempts and expending enormous amounts of enthusiasm to get the crowd going. Bombay audiences are a tough gig to play. Some days, they will pour out their hearts and open their arms. Other days, they will wait and watch and only reluctantly allow that connection to click with the performer. Nice thing though, the crowd doesn’t give a damn whether the performer is a huge star, a has-been or a newbie. And this evening, high up in the nose bleed seats, it seemed as if the connection came and went, the signal wavering between intense and feeble. In front of us, a young man, high as a kite, kept us entertained during Bono’s soliloquys. And there were quite a few, most mercifully indistinct, a couple ringing false in my ears. The young man tottered precariously close to the edge of the third tier stadium. We gasped, reached out. He threw up, passed out momentarily, smiled sweetly at all of our horrified faces. As a finalé, he came on to a woman who had the misfortune of sitting in the next seat, causing his date to vocally and shrilly regret the weak moment in which she had accepted his invitation. Bono entertained us from the stage, this dude entertained us in the stand.
The last song they played was One. I wish they hadn’t given it the Indian touch. A great big full moon rose in the sky as Bono sang. I remembered the first time I really listened to the lyrics. And the words still rang true.
When we left that stand high up under the stars, the young man lay sprawled across the empty seats, beatifically smiling at the moon. The giant screen was once again scrolling the silly poems. But our ears and our brains were filled with music that had transcended middle age, aching bones and careworn lives. The Joshua Tree Tour 2019 was done, and we left the stadium, imagining the rock acts that would once again descend on our city, bringing back our youth, which was supposed to have lasted forever, and perhaps still does, if only within the familiar riffs and trite lyrics of the songs we love. That December night, all things seemed endlessly possible.
I am a big fan of Bono too, loved his music! Saw him in Dubai a couple of years ago…. unforgettable experience! Enjoyed reading about your journey there and the actual show!