Walk on Water

The South of France isn’t everyone’s tasse de thé. Too much sun, too much money, too much of a reminder that the world divides unevenly into the have-nots and the have-yachts. But this slender strip of the Côte D’Azur at least attempts to buck that big-buck trend. Eze-sur-mer, situated on the coast-hugging road between Nice and Monaco, could almost be described as bohemian. Almost.

The Papaya Beach bar is just the sort of joint James Bond would choose to shake the sand out of his shorts after a spume-spattered encounter with Ursula Andress: straw ceilings, wood floors, attentive but first-name-friendly owners. Depending on the tide, the ocean is either a five or 25-second walk away.

Such is the carefully considered comfort of U2’s universe that even waiting for them is a pleasure these days. Fresh fruit is juiced, low-sodium sea-air plays in your hair and another platter of carb-free hors d’oeuvres arrives as if by magic.

Gazing out toward the turquoise horizon, you can’t help but notice a large yacht moored to your right. This vast vessel is owned by billionaire Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen.

“That’s not a yacht,” croaks a familiar voice. “It’s a bloody big ship.”

Bono adjusts his cowboy hat, the better to take in the boat. “It’s got two helicopter pads on it as well,” he says, puzzled. “What Paul wants two for I’ve got no idea. Arrivals and departures perhaps?”

“There’s a recording studio onboard, too, and a full-time sound engineer,” adds the man everyone calls the Edge, who has just arrived on foot.

“And something like 60 suites,” says Adam Clayton, ghosting into the bar.

Ever the king of the deadpan one-liner, Larry Mullen Jr., has the final word. “That is a ferry,” he declares. “A ferry with very influential friends.”


There is a certain joy in watching U2 reunite. Even if they have seen each other the previous evening, they greet like old friends after a long war. They neither hug nor gush, but there is a touching warmth as they salute the other members of their band. A band, lest we forget, whose career has now exceeded that of even Elvis Presley.

“What?” Bono says, always on the sniff for a new sound bite. “U2 have been together longer than Elvis? That’s brilliant! Can I use it?”

Go on, then. It’s on Blender.

“Have I mentioned,” Bono improvises, “that we’ve been together longer than Elvis?”

U2 are actually 25 this year: That’s a quarter century of their holy rock & roll. By way of celebration, the Edge (né David Evans) orders a cold beer, Clayton — off the booze now for the best part of a decade — opts in passable French for a dainty coffee and a glass of water. Mullen contents himself with some nibbles while Bono (Paul Hewson in a past life) tucks into Blender’s drink, blind to the trifling concept of beverage ownership.

We have convened today to discuss the state of the U2 nation, their intriguing take on the world, and their eleventh studio album, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb. But before we can contemplate the latter and its bewildering title, U2 has some business to attend to and politely invites Blender to sit in on an impromptu band meeting.

“We’re not fully agreed on what to do here,” Bono explains, “so maybe you should vote, too.”

The problem, if it can be called that, lies in the album’s running order. After numerous attempts, U2 have yet to find a satisfactory flow, leading them to believe that there may be too many songs. So, right now, they must decide which tunes should be sacrificed.

As it stands, the album is three seconds shy of an hour and, as Bono says, “too much of a good thing is a bad thing,” so drastic measures need to be taken.

“I have a theory,” Mullen begins, and a reverential silence descends as the drummer — traditionally the first band member to be shouted down in these situations — becomes what Bono immediately anoints “the best B-side you’ve ever heard.”

Later, another more experimental candidate entitled “Fast Cars” (“an Irish/Mexican vibe”) gets evicted, and the album becomes a lean and lithe 11 tracks.

“Without sounding totally phony,” Bono says, “I think this might be our second best — if not our best — album. It’s up there with Achtung [Baby]. It had to be. You can’t live like this and put out a crap album or else people are going to want to shoot you.”

Before the meeting winds up, Bono feels duty-bound to explain the album’s “sort of spooky, ’60s-ish” title.

“We’ve always found it appropriate to what the whole album deals with,” he says. “I was telling my mate Gavin Friday that I felt it was a great name for the album. And Gavin said, ‘Well, you know what that’s all about?’ I’m like, ‘What?’ And Gavin had it spot-on. He said, ‘It’s all about your dad.’ ”

Bob Hewson’s passing — he died in August 2001 from cancer, at age 75 — and its effect on his son run through the album like a river.

Blender reminds Bono of something he had said in a private moment at the time of his father’s death, during the Elevation tour. “I’m an orphan now,” Bono said. (He lost his mother, Iris, when he was 14.)

“I remember that conversation,” Bono says with a sigh, his pale blue eyes crinkling behind yellow shades. “That whole time, doing the gig, flying home every night to see the old man, sitting by the bed, still fighting…”

Bono’s relationship with his dad is tenderly documented on How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb, directly on “Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own” (which U2 played at Hewson’s funeral) and “One Step Closer to Knowing,” and indirectly on “All Because of You” and “Crumbs From Your Table.”

“These are the most direct and concise lyrics we’ve done,” says the Edge thoughtfully. “There’s no hiding behind mysterious metaphors.”

Yet, as with much of Bono’s writing, the personal becomes universal and the universal personal. Songs directly addressed to his “Da” could as easily be about a lover, a country or the entire human race.

“It struck me again and again when we were making the record,” Bono marvels. “A song about a specific time, a particular person or incident would suddenly sound like it was written about Africa or some great global theme, which, of course, as a writer, you must never try or you’ll burst through sheer pretentiousness. Which can be terribly messy.”

He laughs, but despite his high spirits today (when asked where his head is at he promptly replies, “About to be wedged right up Blender’s arse!”) there’s an untouchable sadness about Bono. “Funny, isn’t it?” he exhales, having anticipated the turn in the conversation. “The ‘man’ thing, growing up.” He breaks off to quote a new lyric. “Hey, Edge!” Bono shouts. “I’ve been born again, and again and again and again.”

There is a strong feeling in the U2 camp that it’s good to have Bono back. Throughout the making of 2000’s All That You Can’t Leave Behind, the band’s frontman had become so immersed in the laudable but all-consuming Jubilee 2000 campaign — a political and economic initiative to write off Third World debt — he appeared to have forgotten about the day job.

While three-quarters of U2 sweated, singerless, in the studio, Bono was spending time on Capitol Hill persuading senators and captains of industry to pardon millions of dollars’ worth of profit.“We were worried about how far Bono was getting into it,” the Edge admits. “If only for himself. It all worked out in the end, but there were times when we needed him and he wasn’t around. There were a few tense moments, definitely.”

But this time round, Bono is fully on message. Although he has wholeheartedly taken up the cause of bringing to the world media the horror of AIDS in Africa, he hasn’t shirked in his duty to U2.That said, first-time listeners may come away with the belief that this is “an Edge album.” Guitars — great, chiming armies of them — come at you from all angles. He even dusts off his echo-laden clang that once prompted Bob Dylan to remark to Bono, “Everyone’s going to remember your songs, it’s just that nobody’s gonna be able to play ’em.”

Edge chuckles. “You get into that thing where you’re worried that you sound too much like yourself. But that’s what I sound like. I can’t help it, that’s how I play the guitar. I think I just stopped worrying about it.”

“There’s even a reference to Boy,” Bono boasts, and mimics the guitar harmonics that baffled more conventionally minded musicians back in 1980.

“Drang, dur-ang!”

What happens when a copy of U2's new album is stolen months before it is to be released? Find out in the latest issue of Blender on newsstands now!