It’s hard not to take it personally. Irish rock group U2 decided to spam pretty much all of Western Civilization with their latest album by dumping it onto people’s iTunes accounts for free, whether they wanted it or not. They’ve unloaded it on pretty much everyone in the world – except me. Granted, it’s a huge exercise and my exclusion could be a mere oversight rather than a deliberate campaign to exile me from the broader pop cultural universe forever, but given a choice between accident and conspiracy, I choose the latter.
It’s hard not to take it personally. Irish rock group U2 decided to spam pretty much all of Western Civilization with their latest album by dumping it onto people’s iTunes accounts for free, whether they wanted it or not. They’ve unloaded it on pretty much everyone in the world – except me. Granted, it’s a huge exercise and my exclusion could be a mere oversight rather than a deliberate campaign to exile me from the broader pop cultural universe forever, but given a choice between accident and conspiracy, I choose the latter.
There are many potential explanations. But like a fully cooked piece of ravioli, there’s one that has floated to the surface and is ready to eat – U2 have refused to give me their album for that most obvious of reasons: jealousy. It’s little wonder. Whilst this petty envy could be a reaction to my towering musical genius, I suspect that’s just part of it. Allow me to explain – U2’s singer, Bono, is generally credited with inventing the mullet. However, a more forensic examination of history would reveal that I also contributed much to this crucial area of research. When the Nobel Prize for Science is awarded to those responsible for breakthrough developments in dodgy haircuts, Bono won’t want to share the honours.
It’s a pity they hate me, especially when we have so much in common. Like U2, I was in a band during my high school years. Being in a group was something I and my mullet took extremely seriously. At that time, U2 weren’t quite the globe-conquering mega band they are today; more like a cult. They inspired us, I think, at least a little. Truth be told, we probably aspired to be U2 but fell short at around the Pseudo Echo / Flock of Seagulls mark.
Starting a band is a curious thing. You can be in a band and never actually do anything. Unless, of course, you have an upcoming gig. It would have been 1987. We had just a few short weeks to prepare for our debut, live on the Balnarring foreshore. It required not only a lot of songwriting but an intensive period of rehearsals also. I’d never played so much in my life. There was so much to do but so little time. My voice was strained; my fingers, nothing but flaccid pieces of flesh hanging from the end of my wrist. But somewhere in those countless, sweaty hours of practice we learned how to work as a group. Before we knew it, Saturday night was upon us.
I’m not sure what the campers at Balnarring beach had done to deserve us. It’s a question that they would (doubtless) have asked themselves as we plugged in and unleashed our rock and roll assault. At the time, things just seemed to fall into place. However when I think about it now, the night must have required loads of co-operation from adults to make it happen. They’d acquired a great PA system, complete with foldback speakers and a huge mixing desk. The stage was, in actual fact, the back of a truck. There’s a lot to be said for performing on the back of a very large vehicle. To set up, all you have to do is park. Also, had the whole thing suddenly turned pear-shaped, we’d have the option of making our escape by simply driving away.
I also recall that there was no shortage of advice. These pearls of wisdom included making sure the members of the band spent time away from each other before the big gig. This was supposedly for the purpose of quiet reflection but probably to ensure the adults had a chance to set up the p.a., mixing desk and microphones without interference. I used my time wisely; sitting on a bunch of pine needles, hoping the voice I’d so comprehensively strained over the past few days would return and I’d stop sounding like a stomped-on bullfrog. Soon enough, it was time. We were helped onto the stage / truck (it was a lot higher than you might think) and began to share our original compositions with a group of kids and surly teenagers that had congregated around the play equipment and coin operated barbecues.
Last week, I listened to that performance for the first time in more than twenty years. To my surprise, the audience sounds enthused. So do we. Sure, the songs are rudimentary and there are a few moments that, with the benefit of a little more experience, we’d not repeat (drum solo, anyone?) but we sound like a band. As I remember it now, the whole thing was a great success. Our performance came to an end as the sun went down. There was no choice – we had plenty of high-tech sound equipment, but nothing in the way of lighting.
It strikes me that I’m being unfair to Bono, the Edge, Larry and the other one whose name presently eludes me. Perhaps the fault lies neither in our stars nor even in my iPod but in myself. I shouldn’t be expecting them to give me their album without offering them something in return. I could send some more recent efforts, but they’re too polished. Instead, I think I’ll send them our breakout performance from the Balnarring foreshore. It seems the fair thing to do. I hope U2 feel the same way. If not, I’ll just start up the truck and drive that sucker to safety.