Killing Bono by Neil McCormick

school gymnasium-cum-theater, ill suited to the acoustics of rock ’n’ roll. It was the venue for a regular Saturday-night disco, which, in Ireland in 1976, meant a pasty-faced DJ playing a well-worn selection of prog- and heavy-rock records (Zeppelin, Rory Gallagher, Yes) while boys in denim jackets headbanged energetically. The limited numbers of girls who had been persuaded to attend would hug the wall and wait for a slow song (usually Zep’s “Stairway to Heaven” or something equally unromantic by Eric Clapton). The headline band, Ratt Salad, were a typical Dublin covers mob, pumping out twelve-bar boogies with lots of lead solos and lyrics name-checking American cities the participants had, in all likelihood, never visited.
    This was all new to me, however. I had never been to a disco before, let alone one with live bands, and I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to behave. I walked down to St. Fintan’s with a neighborhood pal, Ronan, and we huddled against a back wall, shoulders hunched, the collars of our bomber jackets pulled up around our faces, waiting for something to happen. Experience had taught us to be wary of the older local boys, who would seek out eye contact only to challenge you to a fight. “What you lookin’ at?” was a question from which you were unlikely to escape unscathed, so mostly we just looked at our feet.
    A very small crowd from Mount Temple had turned out to support the band and we acknowledged each other with the wariness that comes with being on hostile territory. Alison was there, along with Bono’s out-of-school gang, a close-knit group of misfits from Ballymun who called themselves (for reasons lost in the mists of childhood self-mythologizing) Lypton Village. I found the Village, with their stance of self-conscious weirdness and plethora of dryly delivered in-jokes, a somewhat intimidating presence. They were friendly toward me (particularly after I received a welcoming pat on the back from Paul) but I was so out of my element I sensed danger everywhere. If a fight was going to break out, it was likely to be between the Village and the locals—and thus I judged it better just to pretend not to know anybody. I waited for the gig to start in a state of quiet agitation, an undercurrent of fear heightening my sense of anticipation.
    Feedback’s second show was an almost unmitigated disaster. The sound was poor, with the drums echoing off the back wall and the instrumental mixture criminally out of balance. The cover versions were hackneyed and lumpen, lacking both the finesse of faithful reproduction and the energy of inspired reinvention. While members of the Village threw themselves about in front of the stage in a physical display of support, the rest of the denizens of the hall stood frozen in skeptical silence, gauche teenage boys determined to project seen-it-all-before machismo. Eager to bridge the gap opening up between band and audience, Paul responded by talking too much, babbling away between songs, determined to elicit a response. The response he got, however, was not especially encouraging. “Play the fuckin’ song, ya eejit!” someone yelled after a particularly verbose introduction.
    And then they played “Nights in White Satin.” The girls launched heartily into their oohs and aahs but couldn’t hear themselves through the PA. Neither could anyone else. When Orla began her flute solo, it at last became clear that the backing microphones had mysteriously ceased to function. Paul, guitar slung around his neck, dragged his mic and stand across to Orla and, after a few bars of complete musical confusion, Dave recommenced playing the instrumental section for the second time while Paul crouched in front of Orla, holding the mic to her flute. Then, just as the band seemed to be finding their groove, everyone turned to Adam for his all-important lick, whereupon the startled bassist commenced playing, late and