Dad’s Top 10 Favorite New LPs of 2018

December 20, 2018

Does the music of 2018 sound any different than the music of 2008? I’m just asking. The top three albums of ’08 were Lil Wayne’s The Carter III, Coldplay’s Viva la Vida, and Taylor Swift’s Fearless. The music of 1978 (Best selling LP: soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever) was light years from records of 1968 (Top seller: Are You Experienced? by the Jimi Hendrix Experience). Is new music new in any way? I mean there’s good stuff but it seems like we’re in a stylistic holding pattern. Maybe I’m just getting old and don’t know where to look. Other than Greta Van Fleet (who sound more 1968 than 2018), there wasn’t any new music that I went apeshit over.

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This was a great year to pick up vinyl but my long-standing tradition of weekly record shopping went right out the window as the finances tightened.  The high point was buying vinyl all over the world, including New York, London, Leeds, Oslo, Chicago, Washington DC, and even Abu Dhabi. All of it ended up on Andrea and my new YouTube channel, Vinyl Fetish. The channel gave us a great opportunity to talk about our favorite records, often after a night out on the town. There was more vinyl consumed than CDs this year, but most of it was old jazz sides.

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We also really dialed back the live shows. There was a point in my life when I saw live music six nights a week. (The seventh night was cheap beer night at the Stein Club in Atlanta.) Between the traveling, the budget, and the fact that our babysitter went and had a baby of her own, there weren’t too many nights rocking out. But some of the highlights were seeing Mexican greats Café Tacuba in Portland and jazz legend McCoy Tyner at Blue Note in Greenwich Village. We saw the great Bowie tribute band, Bowievision, twice. One of my most blissed-out moments was seeing the classic ska band, The Dekkertones, in a London pub full of skinheads. Yes, I skanked.

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Regardless of all the new music I missed in 2018, the top two are albums I played to absolute death. The first was the “new” John Coltrane album, Both Directions at Once. The tracks were unreleased gems from 1963 that were found on a shelf somewhere and turned into an album by his son Ravi. The pure thrill of  hearing a new Coltrane album full of brilliant improvisation by his greatest quartet (including McCoy Tyner) was beyond measure. The packaging on Trane’s old Impulse! label was top notch. And my video review did pretty well, too!

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The other was Paul McCartney’s Egypt Station. I’ve bought each new McCartney album on the day of its release since Wings’ London Town (Friday, March 31, 1978). Some have been brilliant. Paul at age 76 is still brilliant. Like all his albums, I was unsure at first listen but it just grew and grew on me and I’m still not tired of playing it. His epic tune “Despite Repeated Warnings” (in the vein of “Band of the Run”) is the perfect take-down of Trump (“Take away the keys and lock him up”) and an affirmation of the will of the people (“Yes, we can do it!”). When most geezers are making peace with their maker, Paul is firing on all cylinders, creating an album were each song is chocked full of insight and tasty treats. I just wish he didn’t feel the need to take the act on the road again with the same old band and a voice that is no longer built for three-hour concerts. You’re good, Paulie. The studio is your domain. Show the kids how it’s done.

So I didn’t have enough this year for a Top 20, but here are ten albums I absolutely loved this year.

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  1. Paul McCartney – Egypt Station
  2. John Coltrane – Both Directions at Once: The Lost Album
  3. Paul Weller – True Meanings
  4. Kacey Musgraves – Golden Hour
  5. Greta Van Fleet – Anthem of the Peaceful Army
  6. Janelle Monae – Dirty Computer
  7. Bruebeck Brothers Quartet – Timeline
  8. Pistol Annies – Interstate Gospel
  9. Darling Machines – Darling Machines
  10. Father John Misty – God’s Favorite Customer

And it’s next on my “To Buy” list so I fully anticipate that Elvis Costello’s Look Now belongs on that list somewhere. Here’s to a better income in 2019 and the joy of purchasing more new music. And to something interesting happening.

 

 

 

 

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What I’ve Learned about Countering Violent Extremism (is the opposite of what I’ve been told to believe)

August 3, 2018

I’m pro-radicalization. I want to radicalize people to be critical of power structures and constructs. I want them to ask questions about government, gender, guns, and Genesis. I want them to dig deep and talk to people outside of their comfort zone. I want them to show up on the front line. I want to admit that they can be well-meaning but wrong.

The latest buzzword in my academic field is CVE – Countering Violent Extremism. It basically represents a constellation of various strategies to prevent people from becoming violent religious and right-wing extremists. (I can already hear right-wingers asking, “But what about violent left-wing extremists?” To which I would say, “Touché.”) It is inherently of value to people like myself working to reduce hate crimes. My first exposure to this work was this spring when I was flown to the Middle East to participate in a United Nations/Haditha program to explore the role of gender in CVE.

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In those three days, I heard zero about surveillance or government programs to profile Muslims. I heard from ex-jihadists and ex-skinheads and people working in community-based groups to rescue teenage girls who thought running away to Syria to become a bride of an ISIS fighter seemed kinda cool and rebellious. I was honored to be in their company to talk about the my research on the role toxic masculinity plays in right-wing extremism.

So when I got an invite from the U.S. Embassy to be a part of a “CVE Community Leaders Exchange” in the United Kingdom, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. I had presented on confronting hate crimes to the British delegation when they visited Portland earlier this year and now ten of us, from Portland and Seattle, would be on a ten day trip to talk to community agencies in Luton, London, and Leeds, England. (Why didn’t we get to go to Liverpool?) The Portland delegation was four folks who work for the city, including a police captain who heads the youth service division, and me, representing the Coalition Against Hate Crimes. The Seattle delegation had a similar mix of city officials and community advocates. The trip, organized by a non-profit called Cultural Vistas, would allow us a chance to observe important community work on the issue.

To be clear, I think most of the people in our group had no interest in “CVE” anything, and were motivated by learning how community groups help young people. As a criminologist, this was my connection to the whole thing.

Off to the UK

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Our first stop was three days in Luton, England. Luton had been a hotbed of activity for the right-wing, anti-Muslim English Defense League (EDL), as well as Al-Muhairoun (ALM), the Islamacist group that had been linked to several terror incidents including last summer’s attack on the London Bridge. We spent our days talking to people who are working to divert youth from this type of extremism. This included teachers at the Al-Hikmah School and Mosque, and youth intervention workers, and Carnival mask makers, scholars studying right-wing nationalism, and a group called the Luton Tigers who gets kids on the football pitch as an alternative to radicalization. The young imam at Al-Hikmah explained that the best way to strengthen their Muslim faith was to clarify the teachings of the Koran, which are in direct opposition to the call for violence.

What I learned right off the bat was that all this work was done by committed community leaders desperately working to help young people make the most of their lives instead of becoming Nazis or jihadists. Instead of talking, these people were doing. Unlike their critics, they were actually working with those most at risk. I didn’t see one single covert government plot unfolding or double agent spying for MI5. I just saw motivated people putting their shoulder to the wheel.

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Then we headed down to London where I slipped off to a “Free Tommy Robinson” rally in front of Scotland Yard. Robinson is the nationalist leader of the EDL who was jailed for contempt of court. The small crowd of rabid older white blokes (many in Trump hats) wanted their Islamaphobic leader released and, briefly, set on me for holding an anti-Nazi sign. It was a reminder of how important this work was as a British member of parliament had been stabbed to death by one of Robinson’s followers, while he shouted, “Britain first!” (And five police officers were attacked at the rally I attended, making it all even more dire.)

While in London, we had a long morning in the basement of the Home Office (essentially the UK’s Department of Justice) learning about modifications to the Prevent program, Britain’s primary CVE program. The initial rollout went all kinds of sideways, with some horror stories of Muslim kids being wrongly profiled and thrown onto “Terrorists!” watch lists. We got the government line on the attempt to overcome the “toxic” branding of the program with a more bottom up, community-based model, which is what we witnessed in the field. Maybe it was the English accents, but it felt a little bit like we were sequestered in the inner sanctum of the Orwell’s Ministry of Information, so we asked the hard questions about CVE and civil liberties.

What we heard in Luton, London, and Leeds, was that when you asked critics of the Prevent program what should be done to divert youth from violent extremism, their answers were exactly what Prevent was doing in 2018. There was just an awareness gap. The program needed a PR campaign, said we Americans who know the value of a good advertising budget.

After our morning at the Home Office we had another community meeting at the new U.S. Embassy building, followed by a reception. Other than having to walk past a giant grinning photo of Donald Trump (who was having his secret meeting with Vladimir Putin as we walked in), everyone was completely hospitable and happy to host our delegation. When I lived abroad, I was always mindful of where my embassy was just in case things got weird (or I lost my passport). It was a true thrill to be inside. We took a group photo and I posted it online. From Stone Mountain punk to American diplomat. Kinda cool.

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That’s when things got strange. A friend who works with the Council for American Islamic Relations (CAIR) in Portland began posting on Facebook that we were complicit in some anti-Muslim governmental “training.” It just seemed silly at the time. I had just been watching the World Cup with the Muslim founders of the Luton Tigers. My only training was in what team to cheer for after England was knocked out of the cup. (France?) There was a hysterical storm brewing back in Portland, but we continued on. Most assuredly there are folks in the Muslim community who have been burned by “CVE” efforts in the past, but it wasn’t what we were seeing at all. There seemed to be a disconnect.

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Up to Leeds, where I had last been in 1982 to see the Rolling Stones play. We did some fantastic site visits to communities that are on the front lines in the battle for souls. We visited a domestic violence shelter where a bad-ass Bangladeshi sister works to counter violent extremism by teaching men how to respect women. We went to a refugee service center where committed activists work to counter violent extremism by plugging migrants into the needed resources to build secure lives in their new home. We went to the Makkah Mosque where leaders from the local Muslim, Jewish, and Sikh communities talked about how strengthening faith networks worked to counter the pull of violent extremism. And we ended up a in a community center in the Harehills, the poorest section of Leeds, talking to a cop named Ash. Ash had, with the help of the neighborhood kids, built this center with his bare hands to create a meaningful community-based way to counter violent extremism. Four walls, two floors, plus a gym and football pitch, just from the energy of his desire to create alternatives for young people. Wow.

In none of these experience was there anything about surveillance or undermining the civil liberties of any group, especially Muslims. There was only committed community activists, including police officers and imams, who were going above the expectations of their role to give youth an alternative to become violent nationalists or jihadists.

Fake News?

So imagine my surprise when I was contacted by young journalist at a Portland weekly, the Portland Mercury, asking what was going on over there in England. The folks from CAIR had her ear and there must be some conspiracy afoot because anything associated with the government is inherently oppressive to minorities, right? I tried to let her know that our trip was nothing of the sort and was motivated by learning how to protect those communities from the rising tide of hate in America. I even sent her some boring pictures of the delegation sitting in various settings, listing to community presentations. Those pics weren’t used.

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The Mercury’s piece was entitled, “City Officials Attend a Conference on Controversial Anti-Terrorism Surveillance Strategy” (with a creepy stock photo of someone doing some lurking). At first I laughed at the sophomoric reporting. There was no conference, just a series of community meetings. And, again, the issue of surveillance was never even on the table. How to get girls to play soccer and how to get boys to not join Nazi gangs were. That wasn’t headline grabbing, I guess. What Portland readers got was more hysterical knee jerking that conflated old and dealt-with criticisms of the UK’s Prevent program with Trump-era Department of Homeland Security anti-terrorism strategies. Suddenly, I was a part of Trump’s Muslim profiling thought police! And my friends at CAIR were convinced that I was either an agent of the Trump regime (Have they read this blog?) or a dupe of a massive Alex Jones-level conspiracy.

The whole charade has been deflating. It insults the efforts of those who are committed to do this work to protect youth and their communities as well as the delegation itself. I spent 10 days away from my family because I wanted find strategies to help Oregonians be safe from the wave of hate that has surged under the Trump presidency, targeting, among others, the Muslim community. The city workers and police in our delegation all had the same goal – find what works at preventing people from going down the rabbit hole of extremism and hurting (and killing) our friends and family. Certainly research must be done on what strategy is the most effective, but we saw plenty of anecdotal evidence on how small groups of people can change the world.

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The other piece of this is locked into the binary thinking that breeds hysteria and, dare I say it, fascism. Here we have the simple good vs. evil duality. Reality is alway more complex. There is a large voice in Portland that thinks anything associated with the government is evil. All cops are evil and, I guess by extension, all equity workers for the city are evil. It requires little effort because everything drops into their binary paradigm. Just post an article from a few years ago and you’ve “proven your point.” Understanding the real world takes effort. First hand contact implies risks to challenging your perfect perspective. I can think all Trump supporters are “crazy racists.” Actually talking to them might upset what “I KNOW.” The Portland and Seattle city workers on this trip impressed me with their desire to work for social justice. And my conversations with Prevent coordinators in the UK (who were not white people, by the way) made it clear that Prevent had to make up for its past mistakes and rebuild trust with all the communities it serves. They were ready to do that heavy lifting, not from behind their laptops, but in the streets of some of the toughest streets in England.

The hysteria of the Mercury piece and those that still think we were all on some Trump secret mission threatened to affect important community relations in my city. Since the 2001 terrorist attacks, the local police bureau has engaged in numerous outreach efforts with the Muslim community and there has been a meaningful flow of good will and joint efforts to work to protect those communities. I have been a part of much of that work and it flies in the face of the “Cops suck” chant from the teenage anarchist crowd that gets so much attention. I wonder if my colleagues at CAIR have any practical ideas on how to fight extremism. I’m hoping it’s not more division between “them” and “us.” As much as I respect their work, I would inform them that there is only us.

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Like the local leaders I met in the UK, we will continue to strengthen those community relations, build local capacity, and help young people build the strength to resist. Resist. This resistance builds bridges, not more walls. It smashes ignorance (on all sides) with truths. We fight hate by reaching out to our critics to find a common path forward. We’re in this together.

In the end, the trip really wasn’t about “CVE,” but BCC – Building Community Capacity. I learned some good lessons that I can’t wait to share.

 

Witnessing the end of the American Century from the former British Empire

14 July 2018

All good/bad things come to an end. It was 229 years ago today that the French revolutionaries, fueled by the principles of The Enlightenment (and the American Revolution), stormed the Bastille Prison in Paris, marking the beginning of the end King Louis XVI of the old regime. I’m on a train to London, watching the ripples of the Trump visit, which includes his slamming the Prime Minister and almost running over the queen to get his photo op. At least 250,000 people filled the streets of London to protest Trump but it seems almost pointless. Nobody has done more to overthrow King Donald of Orange than Donald J. Trump. I have a meeting at the U.S. Embassy on Monday and I just hope they’ve steam-cleaned the carpets.

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As we mark the 100th anniversary of the end of World War I in November, we will also be marking the beginning of the American Century. Centuries last one hundred years, so ours seems to be winding down quite nicely. We should have it wrapped up by November 11. They used to say the sun never sets on the British Empire and now what have they got left? Bermuda? All empires end and the world is watching the fading of America. The only remaining question is whether or not Trump will salute Putin on Monday when they meet in Helsinki. (After all, he saluted a North Korean general so why the hell not?)

I may be being a bit overdramatic. I’ve just seen the U.S. president floating through the air as a giant baby in a diaper. My emotions might be more in charge than my insight as a political scientist, but there is a theory at work here.

My very first academic publication was in the area of World Systems Theory. WST looks at the impact of the rise and fall of the global economy over centuries. Before I began studying Nazi skinheads, I was studying the birth of the world market by running complex statistical analyses of Dutch shipping records from the early 1600s. (I can’t begin to tell you how boring that was – Thank you, Nazi skinheads!) This theory sees global economic class devisions. Imagine “third world” countries as the workers of the world, selling their labor in the earth’s great factory, making shit for the enjoyment of those in the first world, known as the “core.”

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At the top of the ladder is the global hegemon, the top dog of both wealth and political influence. The top dog changes about every 100 years. In the 1600s it was Spain. In the 1900s it was the USA. Fairly accurately, World Systems Theory predicts that a country gets about a century at the top and then there is some global economic shake-up. Suddenly there is a new sheriff in town. The end of WWI saw the demotion of Britain as America and her mighty industrial economy (driven by some serious “Gilded Age” corruption, by the way) stormed through the clouds like Eddie Rickenbacker.

The United States of America won’t last forever. Other than China, most nations have a relatively short life-span. Germany only goes back to 1871. Yugoslavia ceased to exist in 2003. Whether or not you think God likes you best, there is no guarantee of a nation’s permanence. Even less sure is a nation’s dominance on the world stage. With our current buffoonery creating a vacuum of world leadership and only division at home, it appears the writing is on the wall for the once exalted “land of the free.” America first!

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There is a feeling of doom in the United States but it’s even more depressing witnessing it from abroad. I was having a pint in a pub in Luton, England last night. A patron, hearing my accent, asked, “What the fuck’s happened to your country?” I could only cry in my beer and try to assure him that good people will rally against this tyrant like we did against theirs two centuries ago. (They’ve got their own questions to ask about the passage of Brexit, which is already dismantling their stability. Maybe we can be buddies as the world watches us go down the toilet.) Trump is an embarrassment to us Yanks abroad. There were plenty of Americans in the streets on London yesterday (and up in Scotland today). As I changed my dollars to pounds and saw the devaluing of the buck to the bob, I figured the end might come sooner than we expect. Economists have been predicting that the Obama recovery looks to implode into a Trump recession at any minute. America first! the said as the ship sank.

Who the next global hegemon will be is anyone’s guess. WST predicts that it’s typically the ascendent economic power, so we might best learn how to speak Chinese. But Russia is in the running and with the recent indictments further linking Trump’s presidency to Putin’s power, my money is on the Ruskies. What will Vlad and Don talk about in that closed door session in Finland? Maybe where Trump will leave the keys to the White House in exchange for his new job as a Russian oligarch (and wife #4!). Russia first!

Sociologists are fond of saying that a fish doesn’t know it’s in water until you take it out. It’s hard for us to see the end of American dominance while the illusion of it still surrounds us. Both the Romans and the Nazis thought their reign was unbound by time. America might still have a few good years in it if we can replace the current kakistocracy with a vibrant participatory democracy, but odds are the Democrats will turn a cake walk into a mud bath. So you might be best served by thinking of options outside the USA! USA! Investing in rubles, perhaps.

When historians write about the madness of King Don, they will talk about how he drove a once great nation into the ditch, like a rich chauffeured brat who demands the keys to the car he has never driven. But he didn’t do it all by himself. We encouraged him because we thought it would be entertaining. And it was, until it wasn’t.

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Jukebox Hero 4: I’m Wide Awake – U2 (Part 2)

I’m occasionally posting some chapters from my “rock memoir,” Jukebox Hero. April 29th is always a day I think of this little story.

Jukebox Hero 1: Queens of Noise – The Runaways

Jukebox Hero 2: I Will Follow – U2 (Part 1)

Jukebox Hero 3: Right Here, Right Now, Watching the World Wake Up From History

Jukebox Hero 4: Feed the World U2 (Part 2)

April 29, 1985 is a date that will live in infamy, and not because it was the day the president declared May “National Elders Month.” It was the day I finally became a rock star. It was also the last day of classes of my wild college career. I was about to graduate from Emory with a double major in Sociology and Political Science. It was also No Business As Usual Day, a day of national protest against Ronald Reagan, the military industrial complex, and the race toward nuclear annihilation. I had organized a major teach-in on campus that afternoon that was the culmination of my college activism. And perhaps, most importantly U2 was playing at the Omni Coliseum. I had used my connections to get tickets right up front and couldn’t wait.

By 1985, U2 was on their way to being the biggest band on the planet and people knew I had an inside line. “Introduce me to The Edge!” The best I could do was suggest that if you wanted to meet the band in Atlanta, just hang out at Martin Luther King, Jr.’s tomb on Auburn Avenue. They would surely be there to pay their respects to the man who was all over their new album. He was born and rested in Atlanta. I’d have been there if I hadn’t had classes and the big rally. That advice paid off as Bono, Larry, Adam, and Edge stopped by and were mobbed by white kids.

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At the show, the crowd was beyond excited. Those who hadn’t seen the band before knew, from videos like U2 Live at Red Rocks, that U2 shows were more like religious events, with Bono risking his neck to get close to the fans. At most concerts, after 20 minutes, you’ve pretty much got the experience and are ready for the next stimuli. At a U2 show, you just didn’t want it to end. The Red Rockers did a fair job opening the show, but when the Irish lads opened with a rare B-side, “11 O’Clock Tick Tock,” the place was transformed.

As usual, I had girl drama at the time. I was sort of between girlfriends. I had been dating Mary, who was a manager of the Record Bar at Lennox Square. I had just started dating Starla, who was an Emory freshman and working model. That spring I was in love with a Bangle (another chapter), so of course I went to the show with my friend Paige, who was a friend from Athens and manager of The Kilkenny Cats. Mary, and Starla both managed to find me on the floor of the arena, which added to the vibe that I was at the center of something big.

Throughout the show, I pressed against the stage and tried to catch Bono’s eye. He finally saw me and in the middle of a song, shouted, “Randy!” Paige smiled and the people around me looked at me curiously. When he came over to me, I handed him a No Business As Usual flyer hoping he would announce it to the 18,000 people at the Omni. He looked at the piece of paper with confusion and just went into the next song. Bono mentioned spending time with MLK that afternoon and then they finished the concert with “Pride.” But no one was going anywhere.

The crowd was singing, “How long to sing this song,” from the U2 song “40” when the four came back on stage. Bono talked about how anyone can be a rock star and then asked if anyone in the audience could play guitar. He pulled a tall, curly-haired guy out of the front row who was more than happy to be on stage with U2. Bono carefully removed his biker gloves and handed him an acoustic guitar. Turns out after all that, the dude couldn’t play the guitar at all. Bono looked down to me in a bit of a panic and asked, “Randy, can you do this?” I looked at Paige and then at Mary, who beamed a big smile, and I gave my hand to the rock star so he could pull me on to the stage. I was magically lifted through the barrier that divided fan and band.

Bono, placed the guitar on my shoulders and gave me the chords for Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” – G-D-C, G-D-Am. I knew the chords from my Folk Guitar class at Redan High, and had learned to play a few Dylan and Neil Young songs since then. I could do this. Of course, I was on stage with my favorite band, in my hometown, in front of 18,000 screaming fans, including Starla, who I was really hoping to impress. In the one picture that survives from that night, I look like I belong in the band. I did. I was in U2!

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We rocked out on “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door.” I couldn’t really see the crowd because of the lights, or hear them, because I was trying to hear myself play the right chords through the monitors. I just remember looking at the carpet on the stage and thinking, “OK, this is just like jamming in a living room in Dublin.”  It felt so right, like I belonged there. All those years of playing air guitar in my room to Who records, imagining thousands of screaming rock fans. There was no Eddie Van Halen solo but I went for the power chord, especially on the E minor. I focused on getting it right but I knew everyone there imagined it was them on stage. I was there to represent the dream of every rock fan. I think that was Bono’s idea of the whole bit.

At the peak of the song, Bono, Larry, Adam, and The Edge walked off the stage and left me to play by myself. I could now hear the crowd cheer. I did my best Gene Simmons imitation and wagged my tongue at them. The band returned and ended the song in a big crash. I’m sure it was better than I could’ve imagined, but I barely remember it. It was a truly out of body experience.

I climbed back down to my seat, acting like the whole thing was planned. U2 launched into “Gloria” and I got a thousand hugs, including from Starla. After the show, I saw the band’s tour manager who said that Bono had been trying to call me. In the days before cell phones and cheap answering machines, I relied on my dorm mates to answer the phone in my room. Turns out Bono had called my room and somebody on the hall hung up on him, thinking it was a crank call. Mary let me know she had backstage passes and if I would say goodnight to Paige, I could meet up with the band.

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I ditched poor Paige and Mary and I joined the “special” people who had after-show passes. Lots of record business types and maybe a few contest winners. I hit the deli tray and scarffed cheeses while Mary got the band to sign her Boy poster. I was a friend not a hanger on. The Edge came up and gave me a pat on the back, complimenting my crappy guitar playing and then Bono approached me, with a handler keeping the over zealous fans at arms’ length. He seemed really wiped out by the show but we laughed about how funny it was that I was in the right place at the right time to help out. He suggested I come by the hotel for breakfast the next day and then he disappeared into the catacombs of The Omni.

The next day I rode my scooter down to the Ritz-Carlton on Peachtree for my breakfast date with Bono. They were heading off to the next show in Jacksonville, Florida so we didn’t have too much time to socialize. The Maitre ‘D didn’t want to seat us because of our attire. Bono was in ratty jeans and a gypsy shirt and I was wearing a blue tie-dyed jump suit I had bought on King’s Road in London. Fortunately, a young waitress whispered in his ear. Probably something about him being the biggest rock star around and me being a guy in a tie-dyed jump suit. We caught up and talked about our demo project and my love life. Why on earth I spilled my guts to him about my failed romance with a Bangle, I’ll never know. But he listened intently. Then we talked about the activism on college campuses around issues like the contras in Nicaragua and apartheid in South Africa. I explained to him the whole No Business As Usual Day thing and he said he’d wish he’d announced it at the concert. Bono also mentioned he would be doing a record with Steven Van Zandt protesting apartheid, which ended up being the brilliant “Sun City” record.

I noticed a change in this version of Bono who had suddenly become a global icon. He paused before he said anything, like the wanted to make sure he said the right thing. Maybe he thought people were going to start quoting everything that came out of his mouth. He was certainly more thoughtful, but I missed the more playful guy from The Summit in Howth.

I have to admit that, things for me seemed to change a lot after that show. I couldn’t go a day without someone shouting out, “Hey, aren’t you that dude that played with U2?” Half my friends were convinced the whole thing was staged, including the bit with the guy who couldn’t play guitar. I tried to tell them that they did that bit at every show on the tour. I gave up on my romance with The Bangle and gladly became Starla’s boyfriend. But June was around the corner and I knew that I needed to be in Europe for the summer of 1985. I had rigged up a scam with Steve and Babs to keep each other in the transcontinental loop. We devised a way to call each other collect to payphones on specified times. They would be standing in a payphone on Rathmines Road and I’d be in a payphone on North Decatur Road and one of us would tell the international operator it was a collect call. We did this for months and the Irish and American phone companies never caught on. When Steve told me that U2 was playing in Dublin on June 29 with In Tua Nua and R.E.M., I had my summer agenda.

The fact that U2 was playing with R.E.M. made it like a summit of the new generation. Both were at the peak of their coolness. They were brand new sounds that had been around long enough to prove they weren’t one hit wonders, like Men Without Hats. Since R.E.M. was from Georgia and everyone is family in Georgia, I had plenty of back-stories about them, especially the patron saint of the hipster South, Peter Buck. One of those stories involved my flight to Dublin for this show.

The June 29th show was at Dublin’s Croke Park and since In Tua Nua was on the bill I got in again as a drum roadie. Arriving back in Ireland for my fourth summer abroad, I felt like a seasoned traveler. I had graduated from college and been accepted to graduate school in the fall. When I heard about the U2 show, I had only saved up enough to buy a one way ticket but I figured I had a few months to worry about how to get home. I’d be living the high life of a drum roadie now that In Tua Nua was on Island Records and my A&R work was being sponsored by Bono himself.

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The show itself was wonderful. Pete Buck was surprised to see me backstage and I told him the whole Babs-Steve-Bono story. It was a sunny day and U2 had pulled a massive crowd. Squeeze was also on the bill. The Irish crowd had not yet caught on to the Southern gothic charm of R.E.M.. Their swirling music was an extension of the red clay in my blood but the lads and lasses just seemed confused. Fortunately, In Tua Nua, again at the bottom of the bill, dipped enough reels and jigs in their modern rock to keep the crowd warmed up for the Kings of Dublin. My all-access pass got me around all the security, but by this time U2 was, collectively, becoming as big as the John Paul 2, so I only briefly got to chat with Bono (who himself wasn’t the pope, yet). I got a friendly hug and up they went to the adoring adulation. Their encore included a version of Bruce Springsteen’s “My Hometown.” I felt in that moment how the kindred souls of artists crossed oceans and decades. I wanted in on that.

That summer I really began to feel like I belonged in Dublin. I knew my way around. I knew the locals. I knew music writers and music makers. I would go to birthday parties for B.P. Fallon, the famous Irish DJ. I’d go the home of Bill Graham, the famous Hot Press writer, and listen to Aretha Franklin records. Babs had even planned to fix me up with their new roommate, the very cool Clodagh Latimer. The problem was, I had quickly gotten over my ill-begotten romance with a Bangle and now had my first actual girlfriend. Although, my love of Starla didn’t stop me from spending a lot of time that summer with Clodagh’s friend, Sineád O’Conner, who was working delivering telegrams dressed as a French maid.

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Being in Dublin with my double degree from Emory in my back pocket in Sociology and International Studies (turns out I was one credit shy of the Political Science major) made me relish my nights in the pubs even more. I fell in love with Irish pubs on my first visit. Here were halls full of people who were not watching prime TV, but having conversations. The political conversation was part of the DNA of the Irish. I learned more about U.S. policy in Latin America from a guy at the end of the bar at the Rathmines Inn than I did in all of my Ivy League courses and American “liberal” media. With a pint of the black water (Guinness to you), there were no strangers or off-limits topics. Way back in London, in 1982, I had learned to sublimate my Americaness. After all, Ronald Reagan was willing to make Europe the frontlines for his nuclear strategy. (When two tribes go to war, one point is all you can score.) But by 1985, my Irish accent seemed real.

There wasn’t as much roadie work as I had hoped so when In Tua Nua booked a show in London, I hitched a ride. I’d been planning on making it to London for the massive Live Aid show on July 13th and In Tua Nua’s show was on the 12th. Nowadays, I imagine most folks just fly, but in those days it was common practice to take the ferry and then train or coach it the rest of the way. I was becoming a veteran on that ferry. The band boarded together and we sang and played in the lounge as we made our way across the Irish Sea to Wales. Once we docked in Holyhead, the band hopped the speedy train to London and I was stuck in the more “scenic” coach.

The show was a big one for London as it was the coming out of The Communards, Jimmy Sommerville’s new group. I had been indoctrinated to his previous combo, The Bronksi Beat, earlier that year. I had moved around at the Turtles Record chain. After the Stone Mountain store, I moved to the Emory Village store, across from the university. Then I ended up at Ansley Mall Turtles. It was a great store, next to Piedmont Park and in the heart of Atlanta’s gay community. It was a big growing experience for a kid from a Klan town who was trying to leave his bigotries behind. And at the beginning of the summer of 1985, if a guy with a mustache and an undershirt walked in the store, there was a good chance he wanted a copy of Tina Turner’s Private Dancer or Bronski Beat’s Age of Consent. On cassette. I could see how the popularity of an out gay group meant so much to my gay workmates. Atlanta might have been an urban enclave but it was still in The South. So I was excited to see Sommerville’s new group.

Live shows in London are always about more than the music. It’s a scene. A global scene! Fans from all over the world are there, especially in the summer. In Tua Nua was on fire that night. Their new single, a cover of “Somebody to Love,” was getting airplay. I remember bassist Jack Dublin in rare form and Steve sailed away on the fiddle. After the show, a few jokes were made about the “gayness” of the audience but music fans were music fans and The Communards sounded amazing. I could feel the old homophobia melt away as Sommerville sang “You Are My World.” Love is the thing. Unfortunately, after packing up the gear we left the show early for a big dinner in London. I had one of those filet of sole dishes where the fish face stares right at you. But I knew I would need protein for the next day’s marathon.

I snuck out of the hotel early the next day to find my ticket for Live Aid. I had given a half-assed attempt to get one from Island Records, but I was never very good at that. It was too much like asking directions from your car. The Live Aid phenomenon was sweeping the globe and the concerts promised to be the definite music event of my generation and U2 was right in the middle of it!

It all began in late 1984 when Bob Geldof, of the Boomtown Rats, cornered Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher about butter. While famine gripped the people of Ethiopia, Britain sat on tons of surplus butter that could be used for cooking. One thing led to another and Geldof invented the celebrity all star single. “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” featured all the biggest British pop stars of 1984, including Adam and Bono from U2, billed as Band Aid. It was a moving moment in music, that’s been imitated a thousand times since. That Christmas, instead of gifts, I donated money to African famine relief in peoples’ names. I was hugely unpopular.

But the famine relief began to gain momentum. Michael Jackson and Quincy Jones did an American version of the Band Aid single called “We Are the World.” It was a cheesy mess, only rescued by the weird appearance of Bob Dylan. After that talk, began about the Live Aid concert. There would be two major ones, at Wembley Stadium in London and JFK Stadium in Philadelphia, with a host of smaller shows around the world, connected via satellite. I was only 5 years-old when Woodstock brought a generation together in 1969. I was 21 in 1985, and not going to miss this gathering of the tribes. The line-up was announced and was the who’s who. Most of the people who had been on the Band Aid and USA For Africa singles would be performing. Dylan would be in Philly, but Paul Weller, a major icon during my mod phase, would be playing with The Style Council in London. There were plenty of surprises as well. Led Zeppelin would reform for the US show and The Who would play Wembley. Paul McCartney was top of the bill for the UK show, so there was a massive rumor that there would be a sort of Beatles reunion, with Julian Lennon filling in for John. How the hell could I miss that?

With no real plan to get in, I hit Oxford Street and looked for touts selling tickets to the sold out event. Sometimes they hung outside record stores, like HMV, to scalp hot seats. It was too early and the streets seemed bare for a Saturday morning. I knew every music fan in London was on their way to Wembley. So I hopped a train north.

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The train was full of musos talking about this phenomenal event. Queen would be there, and David Bowie. Somehow Prince Charles and Lady Diana were on their way. Phil Collins was supposed to play at both the London and the Philly shows. Were The Beatles performing? And of course, lots of excitement about the U2 set. I arrived at the platform and the word was out that the Bobbies were busting ticket scalpers right and left. This was a charity event, after all. A scared looking kid sold me a ticket for face value and then disappeared into the crowd. I was in! Miracles happen.

Inside the massive, sun soaked stadium I wasted no time in making my way right to the front. Since I was by myself, there was no reason to sit in the stands. I was going to see pretty much all my favorite performers in one day. I had to be as close as possible. I had gotten used to the crush of European shows and knew I would be getting intimate with a few thousand folks. With the flush of Royal Guard horns, the show began with Status Quo playing “Rockin’ All Over The World,” beamed in to TVs all over the planet. I instantly noticed the unity of the crowd. Heavy metal Quo fans bopping with trendy London kids who were there to see Nik Kershaw, along with the classic rock fans, all grooving to save the starving children of Africa. It was a unity that was sadly lacking when I went to the first Farm Aid concert later that year in Champaign, Illinois.

The summer heat was tempered for the crush of us in the front by hoses that sprayed down the crowd. This only created more heat as girls climbed on their boys’ shoulders to get the attention of the hosers. It was hard to focus on the films on famine in Ethiopia or the presence of Princess Diana with super-cool English girls being hosed down by men in front of the stage.  When the live satellite link came in from the U.S. show things heated even more. It was The Beach Boys performing “California Girls” half a world away as the drenched London girls bobbed and danced. The world seemed united by rock music. I felt like I was part of something monumental, a global jukebox.

There wasn’t much down time between sets as the stage was sort of a rotating Lazy Susan and when one act would finish, the stage would just rotate 180 degrees and the next act would begin their short set. As Sade rotated away, the equipment for U2 rotated in. The crowd exploded. Yeah, a Beatle reunion would be godhead but, now that The Clash were gone, U2 was the only band that mattered. When Bono, Larry, Adam, and The Edge walked on stage you knew it would be one of those Woodstock moments, like Hendrix playing “The Star Spangled Banner,” that people would talk about forever. After all, U2 CARED.  If there was any band of island guys that could save Africa, it was them. And they did not disappoint.

Each band got only 20 minutes to perform. It didn’t matter if you were Elton John or the Boomtown Rats. That meant that each act got about four or five songs. U2 played only two. They came on to the strident “Sunday, Bloody Sunday,” which seemed an odd choice in this moment of planetary unity. Were they trying set the Irish and English fans against each other? “I’m so sick of it!” I tried to get as close to the stage as possible. Maybe Bono would see me and pull me onstage to play another song. The crowd bounced to the marching beat of the hit.

But then they slid into “Bad,” the hypnotic song I had seen brought to life a year before in Windmill Lane. It was a perfect balance. The group had taken to extending the song live to work random songs into the simple structure. Today Bono carried them through the Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” and “Ruby Tuesday” and Lou Reed’s  “Walk on the Wild Side” and “Satellite of Love,” which seemed perfect for the feed the world message that was being beamed around the Earth. Then something beautiful happened. U2 was playing to the 82,000 people in the stadium and the untold millions around the world (including every MTV viewer in the United States). But in the global audience, Bono brought it down to the most personal level.

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He climbed down from the stage, apparently something organizer Bob Geldof had prohibited, and found one person. One girl. He hugged her while the band played the riff. He hugged her for a long time. It wasn’t a rock star hugging a fan. It was one person hugging another in a world full of pain and starvation. The whole thing took on a different feel at that moment as the embrace was projected on the massive jumbotrons and off to the satellites. People began hugging each other randomly. I looked up and saw Princess Diana wipe a tear from her eye. This wasn’t just about music. We were saving lives. Our own.

The rest of the day was an extension of the bliss. Dire Straits debuted their new song with Sting, “Money For Nothing,” which I would hear a million more times in 1985. Phil Collins did a set and then hopped on the Concord to make it to the Philly show to play with Led Zeppelin. When the supersonic jet flew right over Wembley, everyone in the stadium waved goodbye. Bryan Ferry was smooth and The Who were hard. David Bowie played my least favorite Bowie song (“Modern Love”) and my most favorite (“Heroes”), which brought another round of tears. Queen staged a massive comeback and had the entire place acting out the video for “Radio Ga Ga.” And then Paul McCartney appeared, complete with a broken P.A., to end the show with a version of “Let It Be.” It wasn’t a Beatle reunion, but it was a Beatle. My first. Everyone came in for the finale and then, in the middle of July, Bob Geldoff kicked off, “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” Feed the world.

The crowd continued to sing the chorus as the house lights came on. The stadium began to empty out and I realized I had been jumping up and down for 14 hours. No food, No bathroom break. Just pure musical bliss and I was as close to the magic as possible. There was a mad dash to the trains to get to any pub that had satellite TV (a rare thing in 1985). People had not had enough and wanted to see the rest of the U.S. show. I’d hope to catch it on RTE, the Irish network, as members of In Tua Nua, including Steve, were manning the phone banks and taking donations. I got to a pub in the West End in time to see Dylan, with Keith Richards and Ron Wood, play something. I couldn’t tell what. Some rambling thing that might have been a song. And then the far cheesier “We Are The World” finale, which didn’t really seem that cheesy any more. The talk of the pub was how much better U2 was than Bob Dylan himself, even if they were Irish.

I spent the next few days bumming around London. I put up about a hundred Nightporters stickers around town, especially outside cool clubs, like The Marquee. I took Sineád shopping on Carnaby Street and picked up some new mod clothes and caught a film. And I headed back to Dublin to spend the rest of the summer listening to fiddle players in pubs, tracking down rare Thin Lizzy and Christy Moore records and trying to not be American. Steve and I ran into Larry Mullen in Howth. He said he remembered my performance at the Atlanta show. Even if he didn’t, it didn’t matter. I was in the band.

When I finally came back to Atlanta, I had to find a new place to live. I lived in the dorms all four years of college and during the breaks I would stay on couches (usually Tim’s) or sneak into the dorm and camp in my room. Anything to stay out of Stone Mountain. So I was happy to land a very Parisian apartment in North High Ridge. It was an ancient apartment complex wedged between the punk rock neighborhood of Little 5 Points and the yuppie neighborhood of Virginia-Highlands. My first week there, I only had a sleeping bag, my stereo and a Jonathan Richman record. The third floor flat had branches from a massive oak tree that came into my porch overlooking North Avenue, so I dubbed the place The Treehouse. There were two murders on the block that week. I was right where I wanted to be.

As U2 became megastars, I heard less from Bono, but I still sent him tapes. The following spring he sent a short letter to the Treehouse to let me know the project was still on.

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Randy,

Just a note from me… at the bottom of the sea…learning how to swim? Are you riding the crest of a wave – Are you still in love??

I see Steve and Babs and Mike Scott quite a bit now that I’m home. I still haven’t done a full appraisal of the USA tapes but so far so good. I will ring… and thanks again.

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By 1986, Tim had left The Nightporters to form drivin’’n’cryin’, with Kevn Kinney. Tim had moved into the Treehouse and Kevn was sleeping on our couch. I sent Bono a tape of the band performing like on WREK, the Georgia Tech station. The news came around that U2 would be doing a big benefit tour for Amnesty International with a reformed Police. I had started the first Amnesty International chapter at Oxford College, so I was happy to see we were still on the same page, saving humanity.

Someone made a call somewhere and I found out that I was having lunch with Bono the day before the June 11 show at the Omni. It was actually Babs’ mom who arranged the thing. Mrs. Kernel was proud that her son-in-law was in show biz and invited Bono out to lunch, along with several U2 fans she knew. We met at a small bistro in midtown and when Bono arrived, he said hello to Mrs. Kernel and her flock and then made a B-line to me. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Randy, I am a drivin’’n’cryin fan.” I was quite pleased. First of all, he was actually listening to all this music I was sending him. But secondly, I thought Tim’s new band was something unique and really had potential. About a year later, drivin’’n’cryin’ was signed to Island Records, U2’s label, and I have to think that getting that cassette tape to Bono had something to do with it.

The lunch was fine. Bono ignored the guests for the most part as he and I talked politics and I munched my tuna melt. In the past year I had been getting deep into the Van Morrison back catalog. The previous summer in Dublin I had asked Steve Wickham what led him to move from playing classical violin to rock fiddle. Steve just slapped on Side 2 of Van’s 1979 album Into the Music, and it blew my fucking mind. And when I discovered Astral Weeks it was all over. I could see the direct link from “Madame George” to “Bad.” In a pause from the geo-political discourse, I looked at Bono and said, “You know, I understand where the magic of The Unforgettable Fire comes from. It’s Astral Weeks!”

He smiled and just said, “Shhhhh.” He then laid it all out. The magic of the Irish muse. “Randy, it’s like a river. It’s always there. You can just step into it. There’s a constant flow of creative energy. It’s available to all.” It was there in James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake.  It was in the poetry of William Blake. And it was in the music of Van Morrison and U2. Could I tap into that? Wasn’t that how Jack Keroauc wrote? “First thought, best thought.” Maybe I should just start with a poem or two. That conversation had a huge impact on me. Yeah, I had zero musical talent, other than being able to stumble through “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” on an acoustic guitar. It gave me permission to step into my own river. It might be writing or it might be teaching. I would just let it go.

That afternoon we had a sociological conversation that I have been relating to my students ever since. We got into a deep discussion about the dysfunctional Irish family. Bono related how it all starts with the lack of birth control in Ireland. You can ban anything you want, but you can’t stop young people from having sex, which occasionally leads to pregnancy. Since Catholic nations frown upon “illegitimate” children, young couples get married at an early age. The young father is now stuck in matrimony. The older he gets, the more children that follow.  Dad escapes to spend an increasing amount of time down at the pub with the guys. (For ages, Irish pubs were manly domains.) The absent father leaves a void back home that is filled by the eldest son. A close bond develops between the son and the mother, who misses the intimacy she had with the father. But when drunk dad comes home, there’s the classic male conflict over the protection and possession of the mother. It’s pure Freud.

Bono’s story became a staple for me for a couple of reasons. Ireland’s Catholic prohibitions created a black market for birth control (and no doubt back alley abortions). Each trip to Dublin I’d smuggle in a box of Trojans for my friends. Since they were a banned item, the rubbers would often end up tacked to a wall as a symbol of defiance. Fortunately for the women of Ireland, the island began allowing the sales of condoms in 1993 and legalized divorce in 1995. But the main reason I’d pull out Bono’s story is that it gives an example of why incest is a universal taboo, found in all cultures. Such conflicts can destroy the most important social unit there is, the family. Fathers and sons fighting over mothers or mothers and daughters fighting over fathers. Not good. Maybe Irish families are a little less functional than average. Maybe it’s a good thing that pubs close at 11 pm and not later. Regardless, when the topic of cultural taboos comes up, I can drop into the lecture, “I was having lunch with Bono one day…”

The Amnesty International show was great, of course. It was wonderful to see The Police back together again. And it was strange to see Joan Baez doing “Shout,” the Tears for Fears song. Peter Gabriel brought the house down with “Biko,” the song about the South African political prisoner. U2’s set ran through their more political a fare, all your MLK songs, “Sun City,” a Beatles song (“Help”) and two Dylan songs (“Maggie’s Farm” and “I Shall Be Released”). They were in full salvation mode.

My summers in Dublin in 1986 and 1987 I didn’t see Bono much. I was firmly in the Waterboys’ camp by then. Aside from running into Adam Clayton in the occasional pub, they were occupying the stratosphere. I had heard glimpses of their new album, The Joshua Tree, through Steven who was still the on-call fiddle player. It was clear that they were still in love with Americana and that this album would be a monster.

When it was released in the spring of 1987, I was in LA for one of my rock and roll holidays. My friend Kelly Mayfield had lent me her Nissan Sentra and I was cruising the city with KNAC blasting when they began debuting the new songs. I drove up to Mullholland Drive to the winding sound of “Where the Streets Have No Name.” It was bliss. The radio station had a special announcement – U2 tickets for a concert at the Forum would go on sale in 10 minutes. I saw several cars make U-Turns and head toward ticket outlets in Hollywood. I bombed down Lauralhurst Canyon Boulevard to “Bullet the Blue Sky.” By the time I got to Sunset, KNAC announced the show had sold out but a second would go on sale in a few minutes. More radical U-turns as kids heard the news along with the brilliant new songs. All over LA, the streets must’ve looked like a Seventies cop movie as U2 fans raced to ticket booths. I would be back in Atlanta on the date, so I just enjoyed the music with the windows rolled down in the Nissan. As I headed toward Beverly Hills, a third show went on sale. They were record sell-outs and every cool kid had to be there.

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That summer I was back in Europe with a Eurail student pass. I needed to expand my radius of travel from my Dublin HQ. I explored Switzerland, Southern France, and Northern Italy, where my (now former) girlfriend, Starla, was living. I had three tapes in my Walkman; X’s See How We Are, Run DMC’s Raising Hell and The Joshua Tree. I was in Paris when The Joshua Tree tour stopped in the city of lights. I made a call and got two passes to the July 4th show at the Paris Hippodrome.  A female friend of mine from Emory, Sharon, was going to school at the Sorbonne and I agreed to take her in exchange for a free place to sleep. The band was brilliant and I watched squeezed against the barricade. I got a bit angry at the French fans who tried to sing along to every song. This was my band! I lost my concert shirt in the crush and there was tear gas fired into the crowd, but the concert was eventually released on DVD and you can occasionally see my blonde head bobbing in the sea of bad French singers.  The next morning I snuck out of the girls’ dorm at the Sorbonne (with the dorm master chasing me down the street and yelling rude things in his native tongue).

I had only been back in Atlanta a day when I got the call to head to New York to become drivin’n’cryin’s manager. Their deal with Island had them in RPM studio with Anton Fier  producing. I had barely unpacked when I headed back to NYC to begin a month of big-time recording. I was sad that my big garage band project with Bono had fizzled, but if it had played any role in getting DNC on U2s label, that was enough. And now I was managing a band on Island Records.

U2’s tour finally hit the east coast while I was at the studio. On September 10, they were scheduled to play the Nassau Coliseum in Long Island. DNC’s A&R person, Kim Buie arranged three tickets for myself, Kim, and actor River Phoenix who had been hanging out with us in the studio. For some reason, on the night of the show, neither could go. River was nice enough to send his limo to haul me out to Uniondale. I was feeling blessed at being inside of U2 mania and gave the spare two tickets to guy who looked like a hard-up fan hoping for a miracle. Once inside the arena, I found those two seats occupied by a pair of college girls. They told me they had just bought them from some guy outside for a hundred bucks each. The dude owes me. With interest.

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The band was now firmly in the zone. They were doing the shows that would become the Rattle and Hum film. Bono was older and more dramatic, lapsing into Morrisonesque spoken word bits about televangelists and El Salvador. He was morphing into a cult leader. Teenage boys were now dressing like him, with mullets and wide-brim hats. And girls would follow the Bono Boys around the arena hoping to touch the wannabe hem of their wannabe garments. I saw it many times. While I waited for River’s limo to rescue me from Long Island, I wondered where all this adoration would end up.

The tour finally made it to Atlanta on December 8, but I didn’t go. That’s the anniversary of John Lennon’s murder and it was the first annual drivin’n’cryin’ benefit for the homeless. Fortunately, U2 was doing two nights at the Omni, so I caught them on the ninth. My seats were on the floor, close to their little island stage that they would do a short set from. They opened with “Where the Streets Have No Name” and the crowd was rapt in ecstasy. When they came out to the little stage to sing “People Get Ready,” I caught Bono’s eye and got the nod.

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We had breakfast at the hotel the next morning and, again, had trouble being seated because of our attire. But this time there was a copy of a recent Time Magazine in the lobby that just happened to have my breakfast date’s picture on the cover. Apologies all around. I slipped Bono a rough mix of the new DNC album and talked to him about how Starla had dumped me for some guy she met in Paris. (Why did I always feel the need to talk to him about my girl problems???) Mostly, we talked about the music and what it’s like to be at the center of a phenomenon. Bono paused for a moment and said, “I’m just a kid from the bad part of Dublin who wanted to be in a punk rock band.”

That was the last conversation I had with Bono. The popularity of drivin’’n’cryin’ didn’t keep pace with the supernova that was U2. Peter Buck told me he was asking for me backstage at the 1992 Zoo TV concert at the new Georgia Dome, but I no longer ranked high enough for a backstage pass. It seems like each show I was farther and farther away from the band. Just another fan. Bono had become a world actor for social justice. He got George W. Bush to significantly boost aid to African AIDS prevention. He kept his sunglasses on during his audience with the Pope. He’s the biggest rockstar on earth! And I’m just trying to rock my sociology classes. But I was at the Agora Ballroom in 1981. And yeah, that was me onstage, playing with the band.

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Jukebox Hero 3: Right Here, Right Now Watching the World Wake Up

I’m occasionally posting some chapters from my “rock memoir,” Jukebox Hero. This seemed like a relevant piece in the wake of Generation Z’s moment in history. Here are some others:

Jukebox Hero 1: Queens of Noise

Jukebox Hero 2: I Will Follow

Jukebox Hero: Bridge Chapter A– “Right Here, Right Now”

I took a break from my trips to Europe after 1987 when I got the job managing the Atlanta band drivn’n’cryin’. The Europe I knew was on the frontline of the cold war between the U.S. and the Soviet Union. The Frankie Goes To Hollywood song, “Two Tribes” was more of a cautionary tale than a dance hit. “When two tribes go to war, one point is all that you can score.” I had marched in CND (Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament) parades in London and a cheered when 70,000 protestors blockaded the RAF Greenham Common nuclear missile base in Berkshire, England in 1983. The window of my squat in Brixton looked out at a massive mural of a nuclear holocaust. Western Europe was Ground Zero for the beginning of the end.

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I met a Russian kid named Yuri in Denmark in 1986 who had recently defected to Finland and told me that the Soviet people were deathly afraid of the madman living in the American White House, Ronald Reagan. In 1984, I had tried to see George Harrison’s English house in Henlely-on-the-Thames only to be told that Beatle George had moved his family to Australia out of fear of nuclear war. I made it to West Germany twice, only to witness a heavy presence of the American military and anger that American and Soviet egos were pushing Europe towards nuclear annihilation.

The U.S. policy that was just a budget item or back page news story to most Americans was more than life and death to Europeans. It was mass extinction.

By 1989, I had a good 7-years in protesting the Reagan-Bush arms race under my belt. In 1983, at the tender age of 19, I became a lobbyist in Washington DC for the nuclear freeze movement. When Mikhail Gorbachev began the Soviet period of Glasnost in the late 1980s, it seemed like World War III might be avoided and, more, importantly, that I could finally get into the Soviet Union with a duffle bag full of Levis.

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So it was with intense excitement that I watched the Iron Curtain begin to crack in the last minutes of the 1980s. I watched East and West Germans take sledgehammers to the Berlin Wall from a TV in my apartment in Atlanta with tears streaming down my face. People were escaping the oppressive regimes in Romania and Hungary and by 1991 the Soviet Union was collapsing.

I had to get back to Europe to be a part of this moment in history. Just like I had to be in London in 1985  for Live Aid, I had to be back at the frontline for the end of the Cold War. The door to Eastern Europe was finally open and their was a blank slate for the new decade. When I was offered a teaching assistantship in London for an Emory study abroad course, I packed my bags.

MikeM91

In 1991, I was 27-years-old and fully invested in the rock-and-roll lifestyle. I had been teaching undergrads at Emory but spent most of my time on the road or in the studio with drivin’ n’ cryin’. With my long bleached hair and black stretch jeans, I probably didn’t look like the typical university TA.

Once in London, I tried to turn on the American students to the city I knew and loved; shopping in Camden Market, seeing bands at the Marquee Club, and endless pub crawls. While there, I got hooked on going to the theater in the West End, seeing Les Miserables four times. I sent a postcard to my girlfriend, back in Atlanta, that said, “I’m still straight but I LIVE for the musical theater!” And it wasn’t just American university kids in those seats. I started to notice a new subculture in the West End, Russian tourists.

One of the places I loved to take the students was my favorite dance club, the Camden Palace.  The hall opened in 1900 as the Camden Theater but had been the Palace since 1982. It was at the Palace in 1983 I had met a nice German girl at the bar. I was trying to chat her up when she realized the guy at the bar next to me was Limhal. Limhal was the poofy-haired singer of Kajagoogoo who were topping the pops that summer with the airy hit, “Too Shy.” Despite the rumors that he liked boys, Limhal scooped in and purloined my fraulein. Damn you, Limhal!

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In the summer of 1991, Thursdays were “guitar rock” nights at the Palace. Kids from around the globe met to dance to R.E.M., Happy Mondays, and Ned’s Atomic Dustbin. There was a song by The Wonder Stuff, “The Size of the Cow” that always filled the dance floor; Americans, French kids, Italians, and the ever-trendy London scenesters. I loved Thursday nights at the Palace because the music kicked ass and you didn’t need a partner to dance with. It was like being at a rock concert. You just hit the floor of the old theater and felt the energy of the crowd.

One particular night in late July, I dragged a few students to the ornate club. I wanted to share the fun of dancing to the new music of the decade with the youth of the world. London always felt like the center of the hipster planet. In London, you can find the best African music, the coolest Middle Eastern late night cafés, and the most over-the-top South American dancers. Going to London, was never like going to “Merry Old England.” It was always like being present in all that was important to the world.

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On that night, the floor was particularly rocking. There was a new wave of kids making it to London from the newly free Eastern European countries. You could identify the “Easterners” because they grew up completely removed from any black culture and danced like it. It didn’t matter. For the first time since before Hitler fucked everything up, Europe felt truly united. The next song was Jesus Jones, “Right Here, Right Now,” which was inspired by the fall of communism. The Russian kids and the Czech kids crammed on to the dance floor. Taking their lead, the German kids and the Swedish kids followed.

There were so many people on the dance floor for this song, no one could move. Instead, everyone hugged and jumped up and down and wept. This is what freedom felt like. We weren’t East and West anymore. We were kids who wanted to dance and not get nuked. I had danced at the Palace in 1982 amid fear of atomic bombs. In 1991, I danced in love with the world. We had all survived the long war. You know it feels good to be alive.

I was alive and I waited for this

Right here, right now, there is no other place I want to be

Right here, right now, watching the world wake up from history.

I still get chills every time I hear that song. I’m sure there are Baby Boomers who have one song that crystallizes what it meant to be a part of that generation, but for me it’s that Jesus Jones song that finally plugged me in to my time on Earth; a song that would later become a K-Mart ad and a Ford commercial.

Later that summer, while traveling through Eastern Europe, I was on a train pulling into a station in East Berlin. It was 3:30 in the morning and there was one East German kid on the platform with a beat up boombox. He was playing a tape of the Scorpions’ new song “Winds of Change” over and over. I just listened to the lyrics about the new Europe bounce around the crumbling old regime. Music had the power to ferry us through massive historical shifts. For the rest of our human existence, historians would muse about this massive global right turn, but, in the moment it occurred, it all came down to a song.

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In 2003, Vladimir Putin told Paul McCartney that it wasn’t Ronald Reagan that ended the Cold War, it was The Beatles – that once Russian kids heard that sound, they stopped caring about the Communist Party and just wanted to join the world party. When they grew up, they pulled the plug on the USSR and came out to dance.