Free Bono by Michka Assayas Page B

without exposing yourself, being raw. That’s the connection with great music and great art, and that is why it’s uncomfortable, that is why cool is the enemy of it, because that’s the other reason you wanted to join a band: you wanted to do the coolthing. Trying to capture religious experiences on tape wasn’t what you had in mind when you signed up for the job.
    What about your own sunglasses, then? Do you wear them the same way a taxi driver would turn off his front light, so as to signal to God that this rock star is too full of himself and not for hire at the moment?
    Yeah, my insincerity . . . I have learnt the importance of insincerity, the importance of not being earnest at all times. You don’t know what’s going on behind those glasses, but God, I can assure you, does.
    What else did Paul McGuinness encourage in you?
    He said to me when I was very young, like twenty-five: “You have something that very few artists have.” And I said: “I don’t think so, Paul.” He said: “No. You see the whole equation.” And that is . . . a curse and a blessing. But it’s a very interesting thing, and I’m not sure I understood what he meant back then. I’ve never really discussed it with him since, but I think I know what he means, which is: the gift is at the center of the contradiction, but the circumference is full of other stuff you have to figure out if you want the gift to really grow.
    A blessing, I understand. But why should it be a curse?
    It’s an end to laziness, it’s an end to being a passenger on a train somebody else is driving. You are responsible, no one else—not the record company, not the management. You’ve to develop other muscles in your bodyguarding of your gift.
    I don’t think you’ve talked much about your relationship with Edge, Larry, and Adam in terms of their families. How close did you get to thefamilies of your fellow musicians? You told me that in order to escape your father’s sternness, you wanted to go to places where you felt warmth. Was, for instance, going to Edge’s place as warm a feeling as going to Guggi’s or Gavin Friday’s?
    Edge’s family are extra-special people. They’re very laid back, they’re cool in the extreme. They’re not looking for the obvious. They’re both academics, they’re not very material. Edge’s father was very successful in business. I’m sure he could have been even more successful, but he couldn’t be arsed. [laughs] He’d rather hang out, he’d rather play golf. He and my father used to play golf on occasion. They got on pretty well, though my dad did complain once that Garvin was a little bit of a stickler for the rules. [bursts out laughing] He said: “He’s learnt that fucking manual off by heart.” But they both loved opera. In fact, it was a great moment when we played Madison Square Garden some years back, when they were both drunk and singing a duet from La Traviata, walking down Madison Avenue. It was the kind of place where you could always crash out. I remember coming back at four in the morning, and Mrs. The Edge would come down, rubbing sleep out of her eyes, and ask Edge if he was hungry, and . . . [gives a bewildered look] I thought this was just a different universe, completely. I was expecting, like: where is she stashing the weapons, OK? [laughs] As soon as he says: “Yes I’m hungry,” she’ll bring out the howitzer! But he’d say: “No, no. I’m OK, yeah. You go back to bed, I’m fine.” And then, it was all very easygoing. And his brother, Dick, was a bit of a genius. The government were paying for him to go to college in computer engineering. More than just a scholarship where they pay your studies, they were paying him to study. He was that good. And then he joined the Virgin Prunes. So there were two mad musicians in