These days, you can do without U2

Can one dust off a rhetoric that has already crystallised into an aesthetic? Can one repeat an experiment that has already become a ritual, whilst remaining credible and without succumbing to a melancholic marketing ploy? Time may well be a convention, but it moves in only one direction. The ensuing tirade has been fuelled by the press release stating that tickets are on sale for 220 euros to those selected by lottery to witness the Italian ‘resurrection’ of Oasis – if ever there was a more petty and superfluous affair. People will say: ‘You’re one to talk, seeing as you were there the first time round.’ However, we are not at all convinced that the majority of those who will pay the sum in question to worship the Gallaghers are merely a bunch of greenhorns. They have better things to do and better things to spend their money on. It will be the old-timers, hunting for the thrill of a remake as if it were a porcini mushroom. That is how music really becomes trivial, and it is a mortal sin because nothing is more exciting than musical innovation.

Meanwhile, the announcement of U2’s new album has arrived, with that cheeky title, “Carnaval de Luz” (it’s due out in November and they went to unveil it at the school where they first met – aka: can you catch a glimpse of that faint glimmer of innocence?). The news has caused a bit of a stir. U2? Really? It seems they’re celebrating their 50th anniversary as a band. Some might note that the Rolling Stones are nearing their 70th anniversary, but the comparison does not hold: the Stones are composed of a different substance—semi-inorganic, phantasmal, cryogenic—awakening periodically from the crypt, yet they possess a divine quality, belonging to another myth, in the company of Aristotle, Schopenhauer and JFK. U2, no: theirs is a more embarrassing degree of antiquity and provokes a more intense sense of anguish. Remember the Trabant, the crumbling Wall, ‘Achtung Baby’, and even before that, those genuinely irredentist Irish quiffs, riding the great commercial wave that was new wave. They also wielded considerable power in revitalising the concept of the rock band, which was already showing signs of wear and tear, but which they managed to breathe new life into, as they seemed like the indomitable, predestined ones to accompany us towards the end of the millennium. Then the years passed—in musical terms, veritable geological eras—and entire genres were reduced to ashes; being in a band no longer seemed insanely cool. Rock faded away, thrust backwards with the harshness of a ‘that’s enough!’; it was the music of a bygone era and of a people who must now make way. U2, their grandiose mega-shows, Bono’s rants, that rhythmic striding, torn apart by screeching guitars… U2 have become anachronistic, clinging to an era that’s ended up in the bargain bins. And yet there was a time when they were perfect, dominant – when Bono would talk on the phone to the powerful from the stage, when he became Mephistopheles, when watching one of their performances was a memorable occasion.

The announcement of U2’s comeback, the release of a new LP—a format now considered obsolete—and the accompanying tour signal change, shifting tastes, and the succession of cultural references. Bono and his bandmates will cling to reality as if to a lifebuoy; they will sing of the world’s ills, denounce injustices and massacres, wars and oppression, keeping fatigue at bay with technology, seeking the spark that will rekindle the old bonfire. It is a show we have no desire to watch, one that is fine for Las Vegas, where the re-enactment of legend – from Elvis onwards – is a form of entertainment for audiences whose approval is guaranteed.

Show business must not be so arrogant as to rehash ideas that have already been exhausted; it must allow history – including that of pop, which has undergone revolutions – to unfold in its various phases, in its progression, in its present and in its long past. Let us remember that thirty-five years ago, the fair-haired Kurt Cobain roused us with “Nevermind”, just when we had almost given up hope. We take pleasure in catching a glimpse of a photo of Michael Stipe, who was the graceful voice of R.E.M. and the last incarnation of the counter-culture, and who now devotes himself to poetry and paintings, or David Byrne, who enjoys putting on musicals and producing books in limited editions. They are all figures who are too mature to repeat themselves, yet still very much alive – though many are not: Lou Reed and Tom Verlaine, Bowie and David Crosby. They are held in high regard. Then there’s always the matter of Jagger and Richards, and even Paul McCartney, who still plays “Let It Be”, but there we’re amongst the angels; the air is thin. Hearing of a U2 comeback, in a bid to keep the show on the road, we just can’t stomach it. If we then turn our gaze the other way, we catch a glimpse of the timid, young rock bands emerging on today’s talent shows – those meat-grinders of maximalism – and our hearts sink. So it’s better to rummage through the oddities, the stuff that nineteen-year-old musicians are putting out there on today’s platforms. That’s where the electric current still flows, and you might even get a shock.