U2's Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen Jr. realize
that much of the world thinks they are criminally lucky. The Edge works
out
most of U2's melodies on his guitar and Bono
writes the bulk of the lyrics, leaving bassist Clayton and drummer Mullen
Jr.
just a few empty bars to fill and plenty of leisure
time. But U2's less famous members are hardly dead weight. In fact, their
job
is to be live weight or at least ballast. They
are steady, difficult to impress and maddeningly unromantic. "If we're
in the studio
trying to build the rocket," says Bono, "Edge
is under the hood with his slide rule, I'm trying to become fuel, Larry
is pointing
out the reasons it'll never fly, and Adam's asking,
'Do we really want to go there?' They're always reasonable and usually
correct and I hate them for it."
The indispensable wisdom of the rhythm section
was proved most recently during the making of U2's new album,
How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb.
For all its success, U2 has never enjoyed making records, largely because
the force
and diversity of the band members' personalities,
combined with their politeness and respect for one another, turns the process
into something slow, sloppy and complicated
like democracy. There was hope, though, in October 2003, when the group
gathered in Dublin to give a close listen to
songs that Bono, 44, and the Edge, 43, believed were ready for release.
"All we needed
was the assent of the politburo and the record
would have been out for Christmas," says Bono. Clayton, 44, and Mullen
Jr., 43,
focused on each track and then voted decisively
that the songs were simply not good enough. "When it comes to signing off
on a
project," says Clayton, "you ask questions like,
'Have we got a first single to open the campaign?' Frankly, we were missing
more than just a first single." Says Mullen Jr.:
"It was awkward, but it had to be said."
With 2000's All That You Can't Leave Behind
an album that sold 4 million copies, spawned a $110 million grossing
North American tour and earned the band a Super
Bowl half-time-show slot U2 appeared to regain the coveted title of biggest
and best band in rock 'n' roll. But neither Clayton
nor Mullen Jr. could shake the feeling that the record had been overpraised
by a
public relieved to see aging rockers not thoroughly
embarrassing themselves. "On the last album there was lots of good feeling,"
says Clayton, "but only Beautiful Day was a hit.
I felt that, if our goal is still to be the biggest band in the world,
the new record
had to have three or four songs that would bring
in new people. Three or four hits."
When it became clear that Clayton and Mullen Jr.
were not going to budge, producer Steve Lillywhite was brought in to break
the deadlock. "They played me the record," says
Lillywhite, "and it was, well, it had the weight of the world on its shoulders.
It certainly wasn't any fun." After several lengthy
meetings, Bono and the Edge caved. "The songs were good," says Bono,
"but good won't bring you to tears or make you
want to leave your house and tour for a year. The bastards were right."
Acceptance of that, however, ushered in a typical
U2 mini-depression. The not-good-enough songs had taken a year to make,
largely because the members of U2 long ago convinced
themselves that they're unskilled musicians who, as the Edge says, must
"wait for God to walk through the room" before
they can write a good song. The humility is charming, but it also provides
a
convenient excuse for working slowly. "They operate
in total chaos," says Lillywhite. "They work slowly, get frustrated and
then
hold these epic meetings to bemoan how slowly
they're working and how frustrated they are. I love them, but sometimes
they
just need to put one foot in front of the other."
Knowing that a strong first single was U2's greatest
concern, Lillywhite, 49, who has produced the band on and off since 1980,
decided to re-record a promising track called
Native Son. He set the group up in a Dublin warehouse to
get a martial drum sound
reminiscent of its early days and persuaded the
Edge to "stop worrying about the fine line between White Stripes and Whitesnake"
--or between art rock and arena rock and just
let loose. When the music started to smolder, Bono grabbed a microphone.
"He was awful," says Lillywhite. "The song was
all about gun control an extension of his political beliefs. Bono doesn't
try that
kind of thing much anymore, but when he does,
you can feel the ambivalence from the band, and so can he. They want the
rock star."
Native Son was rewritten, stripped
of politics and retitled Vertigo. Gradually, it emerged as
the most rousing and ironically,
seemingly effortless opener of U2's career.
Despite Lillywhite's success with Vertigo,
the process didn't get any easier. U2 continued to work in moments of epiphany
followed
by days of wallowing. The Edge obsessed over
his guitar sound, Clayton and Mullen Jr. hung around to offer criticism,
encouragement
and rhythm, and Bono checked in via cell phone
during breaks from his various attempts to save the world. "He really wasn't
around
a hell of a lot," says Lillywhite. Nevertheless,
his lyrics were the only thing flowing with relative ease. "It's all done
in the morning now,"
says Bono cheerfully. "I used to stay out late
and try to walk the muse home. Now I get up fresh-faced at 7 a.m. and take
advantage
of her while she's passing out."
In another band, Bono's absences to lobby world
leaders for African debt relief and AIDS assistance might have been corrosive,
but while Mullen Jr. still refers to the singer
as the "little fella" in moments of annoyance, those moments are increasingly
rare.
"Part of it is all of us being past 40," says
Mullen Jr. "But the truth is, it's better for Bono not to be here. He gets
frustrated and feels
like he can be doing more important things, which
I think he's proven is true." When he returns, the band is actually eager
to talk politics.
"I really didn't like the idea of him appearing
in a photograph with George Bush," says the Edge. "Larry didn't like seeing
him with
[Vladimir] Putin. But Bono felt that in the end,
even though he agreed on some level, the benefits [of such photo ops] far
outweigh
the negatives. We're always discussing it, but
then we discuss everything."
After 10 months of endless talking and recording-studio
drudgery, U2 held another meeting and finally reached something approaching
unanimity on the new album. "I do believe we
have the hits now," says Clayton and he's right. How to Dismantle
an Atomic Bomb
is the catchiest album U2 has ever made, though
it is neither political the titular bomb refers to Bono's tempestuous
father, who died
in 2001--nor, as Vertigo suggests, a garage rocker.
Mostly it's perfectly rendered grandiose pop, enormous in sound and theme.
Bono sings about salvation (Yahweh), love (A
Man and a Woman), doubt (One Step Closer) and, on All Because of You, himself
("I like the sound of my own voice, I didn't
give anyone else a choice") in vocals crisper and more confident than those
on All That You
Can't Leave Behind. The rhythm
section supports him with typically selfless precision during the verses
and controlled fury during the breaks.
But the real star of Bomb is the Edge. On the
up-tempo tracks, his guitar swaggers with a grimy, lo-fi elegance. On the
half a dozen ballads,
he doesn't hesitate to sample the clean, echoing
minimalism he created on U2's earlier records. The result is an album that
references old
sounds for the devoted, integrates fuzzy new
ones for the kids and delivers a staggering number of indelible hooks.
The only notable
weakness is that the pursuit of those hooks keeps
Bomb rooted in the thrill-delivering formula of verse-chorus-verse-pedal-steel
solo,
depriving it of the mood-altering qualities of
Achtung Baby or The Joshua Tree. Listening to Bomb straight through a few
times is a bit like
staring into a closetful of sequins. But depth
is not what this album is after. It's a statement of competitiveness and
relevance, and the best
example of intelligent pop hitmaking this year.
Having gone through the agony of making hits,
U2 wants to make sure its songs will be heard. Radio has been unfriendly
to the band
for years (its last Top 10 hit was 1997's Discotheque,
which peaked at No. 10), so the group decided to cooperate with Apple on
a
customized black iPod and the now ubiquitous
Vertigo silhouette ads, though they didn't do it solely for a payday. "A
big car company
once offered us $25 million for one of our songs,"
says Bono, "and we turned them down. No money changed hands in this deal.
Downloading is the future, and we want to be
King Canute. Let's get on the surfboard and ride the wave." As of last
week, Vertigo
had ruled the iTunes download chart for most
of the past month. "We shall not go gently," says Bono.
U2 will start yet another world tour in March
2005, right after its members turn up for their presumed induction into
the Rock and Roll
Hall of Fame. None of them are particularly pleased
to be reminded that they released their first record 25 years ago, as the
hall requires
for inductees, but Bono admits he can't wait
to join his idols the Beatles and Bob Marley. Clayton and Mullen Jr., naturally,
have a
different take. "I suppose if people want to
shower you with honors, the only reasonable thing to do is accept them,"
says Clayton.
"But it does feel premature," says Mullen Jr.
"We're trying to stay focused on the big prize." Someone has to.