I got my U2 tickets yesterday. Two general admission floor seats for their Minneapolis show in September. I’ve seen them three times, twice in ’97 and once in ’01, and each show has been better and more exhilarating than the last. The last time I saw them was on the Elevation tour, and we were right at the front tip of the stage, near where Bono spent most of his time.
My friend Paul and I were so close, that we could see and hear everything. Bono wiping off a few gallons of sweat throughout the show, song suggestions from the Edge, and I was one of the few to laugh at an obscure Frank Sinatra reference Bono threw out and he looked at me with a grin and shrugged at his failed joke. During “Where the Streets Have No Name”, Paul, I, and all 20,000 present vomited with glee.
At one point, in an effort to impress our heros, Paul and I started to make out with each other. We shouted, “Hey, the Edge!” and then we forcefully kissed and rubbed each other’s backs while staring at him. He frowned his disapproval, and so chastened, we simply shook hands with each other. Nodding to us in assent, he then played his greatest solo ever for “The Fly”, while staring at Paul and I shaking our hands to the song’s rugged beat. We never sexually experimented in order to impress a celebrity again.
And so I look forward to the show this fall. Paul and I have learned many lessons, and I anticipate learning so much more this time, possibly from Adam Clayton (but probably not). One thing, however, is certain: I will go backstage after the show and mutilate a cat in the presence of the band. They will politely thank me for the gruesome display, and give me a ride back home. It will be the best concert ever.