Step Across This Line Part 3

But now the new producer, Christopher Hall, and the rest of the team made a heroic effort to save the project by relocating it in Sri Lanka. And Sri Lanka did indeed give us approval to film. (In writing.) President Chandrika k.u.maratunga herself said she was strongly behind the project. Because of the Indian refusal, and the continuing controversy surrounding The Satanic Verses, The Satanic Verses, she met with Sri Lankan Muslim MPs to rea.s.sure them about the content of our screenplay and to tell them that the project was economically important for Sri Lanka. she met with Sri Lankan Muslim MPs to rea.s.sure them about the content of our screenplay and to tell them that the project was economically important for Sri Lanka.

So it was all on again. The hurt at my treatment by India remained una.s.suaged, but at least the film would be made. We found locations (in some ways Sri Lanka was actually an improvement on India in this regard), offered work on the crew to many local people, cast a number of Sri Lankan actors in featured roles. The spirit of cooperation we encountered was a delight. (The Sri Lankan army offered to help us stage the war scenes called for by the script.) We set up a Colombo production office and planned to start filming in January 1998.

Then it all went wrong again. An article appeared in The Guardian, The Guardian, written by a journalist named Flora Botsford, who was also attached to the BBC in Colombo, and who, in the view of Chris Hall and the production team, used her inside knowledge of the problems we'd had to stir up a controversy. Local Muslim MPs, who had previously made no objection to the filming, now ascended their high horses. It seems too that this article alerted the Iranians, who then brought pressure on the Sri Lankan government to revoke permission. The entente cordiale that we had worked so hard to establish was breaking down. written by a journalist named Flora Botsford, who was also attached to the BBC in Colombo, and who, in the view of Chris Hall and the production team, used her inside knowledge of the problems we'd had to stir up a controversy. Local Muslim MPs, who had previously made no objection to the filming, now ascended their high horses. It seems too that this article alerted the Iranians, who then brought pressure on the Sri Lankan government to revoke permission. The entente cordiale that we had worked so hard to establish was breaking down.

The Sri Lankan government was busily trying to get sensitive devolution legislation through its national a.s.sembly, and needed the support of opposition MPs. This meant that a tiny handful of parliamentarians were able to demand political concessions in return for their votes. And so, although the Sri Lankan media were strongly in favor of our project, and Muslim as well as non-Muslim commentators wrote daily in our support, permission was in fact revoked, abruptly and without warning, just one day after we had been a.s.sured by government ministers that there was no problem, and we should just go right ahead and make our film.

All our bright hopes came to nothing. Like Sisyphus, we had to watch the undoing of all our work, as the great rock of our production ran away downhill into a Sri Lankan ditch. There is nothing as painful to a writer as wasted work, unless it be seeing the disappointment on the faces of people who have spent months and years working on your work's behalf. As for me, the rejection of Midnight's Children Midnight's Children changed something profound in my relations.h.i.+p with the East. Something broke, and I'm not sure it can be mended. changed something profound in my relations.h.i.+p with the East. Something broke, and I'm not sure it can be mended.

The story of a failure, then. But what has once been thought cannot be unthought, Friedrich Durrenmatt wrote. Nothing stays the same. Governments change, att.i.tudes change, times change. And a film brought into half-being by the publication of its screenplay may yet manage, someday, somehow, to get itself born.

A POSTSCRIPT.

This essay was written at a gloomy moment in the continuing saga of the adaptation of Midnight's Children Midnight's Children. It turns out, however, that the cautious optimism of the last paragraph may have been justified. First, my own relations.h.i.+p with India has happily been renewed (see "A Dream of Glorious Return"). Second, the screenplays I wrote now form the basis of a stage adaptation of the novel for the Royal Shakespeare Company, directed by Tim Supple (who also staged a wonderful adaptation of Haroun and the Sea of Stories Haroun and the Sea of Stories at the National Theatre a couple of years ago). Third, there is once again much interest in turning at the National Theatre a couple of years ago). Third, there is once again much interest in turning Midnight's Children Midnight's Children into a feature film . . . into a feature film . . .

November 1999

Reservoir Frogs

(OR, PLACES CALLED MAMA'S) For the first time since the decline of Dadaism, we are witnessing a revival in the fine art of meaningless naming. This thought is prompted by the U.S. release of the British film Trainspotting, Trainspotting, and by the opening of Lanford Wilson's new play and by the opening of Lanford Wilson's new play Virgil Is Still the Frogboy. Virgil Is Still the Frogboy. Mr. Wilson's play is not about Virgil. No frogs feature therein. The t.i.tle is taken from an East Hampton, L.I., graffito to whose meaning the play offers no clues. This omission has not diminished the show's success. Mr. Wilson's play is not about Virgil. No frogs feature therein. The t.i.tle is taken from an East Hampton, L.I., graffito to whose meaning the play offers no clues. This omission has not diminished the show's success.

As Luis Bunuel knew, obscurity is a characteristic of objects of desire. Accordingly, there is no trainspotting in Trainspotting; Trainspotting; just a predictable, even sentimental movie that thinks it's hip. (Compared to the work of, say, William S. Burroughs, it's positively cutesy.) It has many admirers, perhaps just a predictable, even sentimental movie that thinks it's hip. (Compared to the work of, say, William S. Burroughs, it's positively cutesy.) It has many admirers, perhaps because because they are unable even to understand its t.i.tle, let alone the fas.h.i.+onably indecipherable argot of the dialogue. The fact remains: they are unable even to understand its t.i.tle, let alone the fas.h.i.+onably indecipherable argot of the dialogue. The fact remains: Trainspotting Trainspotting contains no mention of persons keeping obsessive notes on the arrival and departure of trains. The only railway engines are to be found on the wallpaper of the central character's bedroom. Whence, therefore, this choo-choo moniker? Some sort of pun on the word "tracks" may be intended. contains no mention of persons keeping obsessive notes on the arrival and departure of trains. The only railway engines are to be found on the wallpaper of the central character's bedroom. Whence, therefore, this choo-choo moniker? Some sort of pun on the word "tracks" may be intended.

Irvine Welsh's original novel does offer some help. The section t.i.tled "Trainspotting at Leith Central Station" takes the characters to a derelict, train-less station, where one of them attacks a derelict human being who is, in fact, his father, doling out a goodly quant.i.ty of what Anthony Burgess's hoodlum Alex, in A Clockwork Orange, A Clockwork Orange, would call "the old ultraviolence." Clearly, something metaphorical is being reached for here, though it's not clear exactly what. In addition, Welsh thoughtfully provides a glossary for American readers: "Rat-a.r.s.ed-drunk; w.a.n.ker-masturbator; thrush-minor s.e.xually transmitted disease." At least an effort at translation is being made. Out-and-out incomprehensibilists disdain such coziness. would call "the old ultraviolence." Clearly, something metaphorical is being reached for here, though it's not clear exactly what. In addition, Welsh thoughtfully provides a glossary for American readers: "Rat-a.r.s.ed-drunk; w.a.n.ker-masturbator; thrush-minor s.e.xually transmitted disease." At least an effort at translation is being made. Out-and-out incomprehensibilists disdain such coziness.

How many readers of Anthony Burgess's novel A Clockwork Orange, A Clockwork Orange, or viewers of Stanley Kubrick's film, knew that Burgess took his t.i.tle from an allegedly common, but actually never used, British simile: "queer as a clockwork orange"? Can anyone recall the meaning of the terms "Koyaanisqatsi" and "Powaqqatsi"? And were there any secrets encrypted in "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," or was it just a song about a flying girl with a necklace? or viewers of Stanley Kubrick's film, knew that Burgess took his t.i.tle from an allegedly common, but actually never used, British simile: "queer as a clockwork orange"? Can anyone recall the meaning of the terms "Koyaanisqatsi" and "Powaqqatsi"? And were there any secrets encrypted in "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," or was it just a song about a flying girl with a necklace?

Nowadays, dreary old comprehensibility is still very much around. A film about a boy-man called Jack is called Jack. Jack. A film about a crazed baseball fan is called A film about a crazed baseball fan is called The Fan. The Fan. The film version of Jane Austen's The film version of Jane Austen's Emma Emma is called is called Emma. Emma.

However, t.i.tular mystification continues to intensify. When Oasis, the British pop phenoms, sing "(You're My) Wonderwall," what can they mean? "I intend to ride over you on my motorbike, round and round, at very high speed"? Surely not. And Blade Runner Blade Runner? Yes, I know that hunters of android "replicants" are called "blade runners": but why? And yes, yes, William S. Burroughs (again!) used the phrase in a 1979 novel; and, to get really arcane, there's a 1974 medical thriller called The Bladerunner The Bladerunner by the late Dr. Alan E. Nourse. But what does any of this have to do with Ridley Scott's movie? Harrison Ford runs not, neither does he blade. Shouldn't a work of art give us the keys with which to unlock its meanings? But perhaps there aren't any. Perhaps it's just that the phrase sounds cool, thanks to those echoes of Burroughs, Daddy Cool himself. by the late Dr. Alan E. Nourse. But what does any of this have to do with Ridley Scott's movie? Harrison Ford runs not, neither does he blade. Shouldn't a work of art give us the keys with which to unlock its meanings? But perhaps there aren't any. Perhaps it's just that the phrase sounds cool, thanks to those echoes of Burroughs, Daddy Cool himself.

In 1928, Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dali co-directed the Surrealist cla.s.sic Un Chien Andalou, Un Chien Andalou, a film about many things, but not Andalusian dogs. So it is with Quentin Tarantino's first film, a film about many things, but not Andalusian dogs. So it is with Quentin Tarantino's first film, Reservoir Dogs. Reservoir Dogs. No reservoir, no dogs, no use of the words "reservoir," "dogs," or "reservoir dogs" at any point in the movie. No imagery derived from dogs or reservoirs or dogs in reservoirs or reservoirs of dogs. No reservoir, no dogs, no use of the words "reservoir," "dogs," or "reservoir dogs" at any point in the movie. No imagery derived from dogs or reservoirs or dogs in reservoirs or reservoirs of dogs. Nada, Nada, or, as Mr. Pink and Co. would say, "f.u.c.kin' or, as Mr. Pink and Co. would say, "f.u.c.kin' nada. nada."

The story goes that when the young Tarantino was working in a Los Angeles video store, his distaste for fancy-pants European auteurs like, for example, Louis Malle manifested itself in an inability to p.r.o.nounce the t.i.tles of their films. Malle's Au Revoir les Enfants Au Revoir les Enfants defeated him completely (oh reservoir les oh f.u.c.k) until he began to refer to it contemptuously as-you guessed it-"those, oh, reservoir dogs." Subsequently he made this the t.i.tle of his own movie, no doubt as a further gesture of anti-European defiance. Alas, the obliqueness of the gibe meant that the Europeans simply did not comprenday. "What we have here," as the guy in defeated him completely (oh reservoir les oh f.u.c.k) until he began to refer to it contemptuously as-you guessed it-"those, oh, reservoir dogs." Subsequently he made this the t.i.tle of his own movie, no doubt as a further gesture of anti-European defiance. Alas, the obliqueness of the gibe meant that the Europeans simply did not comprenday. "What we have here," as the guy in Cool Hand Luke Cool Hand Luke remarked, "is a failure to communicate." remarked, "is a failure to communicate."

But these days the thing about incomprehensibility is that people aren't supposed to get it. In accordance with the new zeitgeist, therefore, the t.i.tle of this piece has in part been selected-"sampled"-from Lou Reed's wise advice: "Don't eat at places called Mama's," in the diary of his recent tour. To forestall any attempts at exegesis ("Author, Citing Dadaism's Erstwhile Esotericism, Opposes Present-Day 'Mamaist' Obfuscations"), I confess that as a t.i.tle it means nothing at all; but then the very concept of meaning is now outdated, nerdy, pre-ironic. Welcome to the New Incomprehensibility: gibberish with att.i.tude.

August 1996

Heavy Threads

EARLY ADVENTURES IN THE RAG TRADE.

In the summer of 1967, which I do not recall anyone calling the Summer of Love back then, I rented a room in a maisonette directly above a legendary boutique-legendary, I mean, at the time; there was something about it that was instantly recognized as mythic-called Granny Takes a Trip. The maisonette belonged to a woman called Judy Scutt, who made up a lot of the clothes for the boutique, and whose son Paul was a university friend of mine. (They were members of a family famous in medical circles for having six toes on each foot, but in spite of the psychotropic spirit of the age they insisted, disappointingly, that they themselves were not Six-Toed Scutts.) Granny Takes a Trip was at World's End, at the wrong end of the King's Road in Chelsea, but to the a.s.sorted heads and freaks who hung out there, it was the Mecca, the Olympus, the Kathmandu Kathmandu of hippie chic. Mick Jagger was rumored to wear the dresses. Every so often John Lennon's white limo would stop outside and a chauffeur would go into the shop, scoop up an armload of gear "for Cynthia," and disappear with it. German photographers with platoons of stone-faced models would arrive once or twice a week to use Granny's windows as backdrops for their spreads. Granny's had famous windows. For a long time there was a Warhol-style Marilyn painted over the gla.s.s. For a further long time there was the front end of a real Mack truck bursting out of a painted Lichtenstein-y explosion. Later, every boutique on the planet would boast an imitation-Warhol Monroe or a Mack truck exploding from its shopfront, but Granny's was the first. Like of hippie chic. Mick Jagger was rumored to wear the dresses. Every so often John Lennon's white limo would stop outside and a chauffeur would go into the shop, scoop up an armload of gear "for Cynthia," and disappear with it. German photographers with platoons of stone-faced models would arrive once or twice a week to use Granny's windows as backdrops for their spreads. Granny's had famous windows. For a long time there was a Warhol-style Marilyn painted over the gla.s.s. For a further long time there was the front end of a real Mack truck bursting out of a painted Lichtenstein-y explosion. Later, every boutique on the planet would boast an imitation-Warhol Monroe or a Mack truck exploding from its shopfront, but Granny's was the first. Like Gone With the Wind, Gone With the Wind, it invented the cliches. it invented the cliches.

Inside Granny's it was pitch dark. You entered through a heavy bead curtain and were instantly blinded. The air was heavy with incense and patchouli oil and also with the aromas of what the police called Certain Substances. Psychedelic music, big on feedback, terrorized your eardrums. After a time you became aware of a low purple glow, in which you could make out a few motionless shapes. These were probably clothes, probably for sale. You didn't like to ask. Granny's was a pretty scary place.

Granny's people were scornful of the brash boutique-land of the "right," Sloane Square end of the King's Road. All those Quant haircuts and thigh-high "snakey boots," all that s.h.i.+ny plastic, Vidal Sa.s.soon, England-swings-like-a-pendulum-do palaver. All that light. light. It was almost as uncool as (ugh) Carnaby Street. Down there people said "fab" and "groovy." At Granny's, you said "beautiful" to express mild approval, and, when you wanted to call something beautiful, you said "really nice." It was almost as uncool as (ugh) Carnaby Street. Down there people said "fab" and "groovy." At Granny's, you said "beautiful" to express mild approval, and, when you wanted to call something beautiful, you said "really nice."

I started borrowing my friend Paul's bedspread jackets and beads. I started nodding my head a lot, wisely. In the quest for cool, it helped that I was Indian. "India, man," people said. "Far out." man," people said. "Far out."

"Yeah," I said, nodding. "Yeah."

"The Maharis.h.i.+, man," people said. "Beautiful."

"Ravi Shankar, man," I said. At this point people usually ran out of Indians to talk about and we all just went on nodding, beatifically. "Right, right," we said. "Right." "Right."

In spite of coming from India, I was not cool. Paul was cool. Paul was what a girl in a teen movie had called "straight from the fridge." Paul had access to endless long-limbed girls and an equally endless supply of dope. He had a father in the music business. It would have been easy to hate Paul. One day he persuaded me to pay twenty pounds to take part in a photo session for aspiring male models that was being run by a "friend" of his. He said I could wear his clothes. The "friend" took my money and was never seen again. My modeling career failed to take off.

"Wow," said Paul, first shaking, then nodding his head philosophically. "Bad scene."

At the heart of our little world was Sylvia. (I never knew her last name.) Sylvia ran the shop. She made Twiggy look like a teenager with a puppy-fat problem. She was very pale, probably because she spent her life sitting in the dark. Her lips were always black. She wore mini-dresses in black velvet or see-through white muslin: her vampire and dead-baby looks. She stood knock-kneed and pigeon-toed after the fas.h.i.+on of the period, her feet forming a tiny, ferocious T. She wore immense silver knuckle-duster rings and a black flower in her hair. Half Love Child, half zombie, she was an awe-inspiring sign of the times. I had been there for several weeks without exchanging a word with her. One day I plucked up my courage and went into the shop.

Sylvia was a dim purple presence in the bottomless depths of the boutique.

"Hi," I said. "I just thought I'd drop in and introduce myself, since we're all living here, you know? I just thought it was time we got to know each other. I'm Salman," and at this point I kind of ran out of steam.

Sylvia loomed out of the dark, coming up close and staring, so that I could see the contempt on her face. Eventually, she shrugged.

"Conversation's dead, man," she said.

This was bad news. This was like heavy. Conversation Conversation was was dead? dead? Why hadn't I heard? When was the funeral? I was and am a talkative sort of fellow, but I stood before Sylvia's scorn, stunned into silence. Like Paul Simon in "The Boxer," I was enthralled by the tribes of "ragged people" of whom Sylvia was clearly a dark princess, I wanted to be among them, I was "looking for the places only they would know." How unfair that I was doomed to be excluded from the inner circles of the counter-culture, to be banned forever from where it was at, on account of my chattiness. Conversation was dead, and I didn't know the new language. I slunk tragically out of Sylvia's presence, and barely spoke to her again. Why hadn't I heard? When was the funeral? I was and am a talkative sort of fellow, but I stood before Sylvia's scorn, stunned into silence. Like Paul Simon in "The Boxer," I was enthralled by the tribes of "ragged people" of whom Sylvia was clearly a dark princess, I wanted to be among them, I was "looking for the places only they would know." How unfair that I was doomed to be excluded from the inner circles of the counter-culture, to be banned forever from where it was at, on account of my chattiness. Conversation was dead, and I didn't know the new language. I slunk tragically out of Sylvia's presence, and barely spoke to her again.

Some weeks later, however, she taught me a second lesson about those unusual times. One day-I think it was a Sat.u.r.day or Sunday, and it was only around noon, so naturally n.o.body was up, and the shop was shut-the doorbell rang for such a long time that I struggled into a pair of red crushed-velvet flares and staggered downstairs to the door. On the doorstep was an alien: a man in business suit and matching mustache, with a briefcase in one hand and, in the other, a copy of a glossy magazine open at the page on which a model was wearing one of Granny's latest offerings.

"Good afternoon," said the alien. "I have a chain of shops in Lancas.h.i.+re . . ."

Sylvia, naked beneath a rather inadequate dressing gown, cigarette dripping from her lips, came down the stairs. The alien turned a deep shade of red and his eyes started sliding around. I retreated.

"Yeah?" said Sylvia.

"Good afternoon," the alien finally managed. "I have a chain of shops in Lancas.h.i.+re selling ladies' fas.h.i.+ons and I am most interested in this particular garment as featured here. With whom would I speak with a view to placing a first order for six dozen items, with an option to repeat?" It was the biggest order Granny Takes a Trip had ever had. I was standing a few paces behind Sylvia, and halfway up the stairs, now, was Judy Scutt. There was a tingle of excitement in the air. The alien waited patiently while Sylvia considered matters. Then, in one of the defining moments of the sixties, she nodded a few times, slowly, fas.h.i.+onably. fas.h.i.+onably.

"We're closed, man," she said, and shut the door.

Where Granny's stood, opposite the World's End pub, there is now a cafe called Entre Nous. I have lost touch with Judy Scutt, but I do know that her son Paul, my friend Paul, became a serious casualty of the sixties. His brains fried by acid, he was working, when I last heard of him, at simple manual jobs: picking up leaves in a park, that sort of thing.

Recently, however, I met a man who claimed not only to know Sylvia but to have gone out with her for years. This was genuinely impressive.

"Did she ever speak to you?" I asked him. "Did she actually have have anything to say about anything to say about anything anything?"

"No," he said. "Not a bleeding word."

October 1994

In the Voodoo Lounge

Clap your hands, Mick Jagger commands Wembley, and seventy thousand people obey. It looks like one of those ma.s.s calisthenics demonstrations the Chinese used to go in for. Yeah yeah yeah WOO, he prompts us in the middle of "Brown Sugar," and yeah yeah yeah WOO we reply. "You're in good voice tonight," he flatters us, and for a moment we feel as if we're all in the band. When I was twenty I was "volunteered" from a student audience to ding a cowbell for Robin Williamson and Mike Heron's Incredible String Band, but on the whole it's better singing back-up vocals for the Rolling Stones. In a successful stadium rock show, the audience becomes the event as much as the performers or the set, and Jagger knows that. So for two and a half hours, while Keith plays his monster riffs and kisses his guitar, and Charlie lays down the law on his drums, Mick plays us.

What's that like, like, facing tens of thousands of people and working them like a small room? A couple of years ago (never too early to begin your research) your correspondent found himself, for a few minutes, up on the Wembley stage with U2, and is accordingly able to offer a brief report. facing tens of thousands of people and working them like a small room? A couple of years ago (never too early to begin your research) your correspondent found himself, for a few minutes, up on the Wembley stage with U2, and is accordingly able to offer a brief report.

Light surrounds you like a wall. You can just about see beyond the bouncers to the first rows of upturned faces but, beyond that, zilch. The s.p.a.ce feels almost intimate; then the invisible crowd roars like a sci-fi beast and you, well, if you're a novelist who has somehow strayed out here, you panic. What are you supposed to do with an audience this big? Sing Sing to it? But-as in all the best nightmares-you can't sing a note. At which point, the authentic Rock Star takes charge. Standing next to the Star, watching him coax, caress, and control the invisible Hydra out there, you feel more than impressed. You feel grateful. to it? But-as in all the best nightmares-you can't sing a note. At which point, the authentic Rock Star takes charge. Standing next to the Star, watching him coax, caress, and control the invisible Hydra out there, you feel more than impressed. You feel grateful.

I had met Bono a few times, but when I looked into his face on the Wembley stage I saw a stranger there, and understood that this was the Star-creature that normally lay hidden in him, a creature as powerful as the big beastie it sang to, so overwhelming that it could be let out only in this cage of light. The Star-creature in Mick Jagger was rampant at Wembley on Tuesday night. It had been going a lot longer than U2; it was old and huge and brilliant.

All the old-age jokes have been trotted out this past week: Rock 'n' Wrinkle, Crock 'n' Roll. I sat next to a man who remembered seeing the Stones on their first tour, September 1963. Thirty-two years ago-thirty-two years!-I saw that tour, too; as a sixteen-year-old schoolboy I skived off from school on the bus. My neighbor and I couldn't agree on who had topped the bill that autumn: one of those guys who died in a plane crash, he thought, while my vote was for Gene Vincent singing "Be-Bop-a-Lula." But we were both wrong. It was the Everly Brothers and Bo Diddley. The Stones have been going so long that their original audience's memory has started playing tricks; that's that's how long. how long.

On your way to a galaxy-sized rock supershow like Voodoo Lounge, Voodoo Lounge, you must pa.s.s through meteor showers of facts and factoids. As well as all the age stuff-did you know their average age is higher than the cabinet's?-you hear, once again, the old yarn about Keith Richards having all his blood changed; from a disgruntled hatter who failed to gain Jagger's favor you learn that the great man has a "really tiny head"; it is even suggested-is there no respect anymore?-that Mick has a penchant for exaggerating his a.s.sets by shoving a.s.sorted fruit and vegetables down the front of his leggings. We also know, by now, that even though the tour is sponsored by Volkswagen ("Stones Team Up with Beetles"), Mick drives a Mercedes; and that, in spite of all their rebellious postures, they're just social climbers, really, in it for the money and the sw.a.n.k. We know that the Ramones are retiring and have advised the Stones to do the same, and that they won't, not while the megabucks are pouring in. We have heard that squillions of dollars are raining down upon our heroes. you must pa.s.s through meteor showers of facts and factoids. As well as all the age stuff-did you know their average age is higher than the cabinet's?-you hear, once again, the old yarn about Keith Richards having all his blood changed; from a disgruntled hatter who failed to gain Jagger's favor you learn that the great man has a "really tiny head"; it is even suggested-is there no respect anymore?-that Mick has a penchant for exaggerating his a.s.sets by shoving a.s.sorted fruit and vegetables down the front of his leggings. We also know, by now, that even though the tour is sponsored by Volkswagen ("Stones Team Up with Beetles"), Mick drives a Mercedes; and that, in spite of all their rebellious postures, they're just social climbers, really, in it for the money and the sw.a.n.k. We know that the Ramones are retiring and have advised the Stones to do the same, and that they won't, not while the megabucks are pouring in. We have heard that squillions of dollars are raining down upon our heroes. What can a poor boy do 'cept to sing for a rock 'n' roll band? What can a poor boy do 'cept to sing for a rock 'n' roll band? Maybe, these days, they should be singing "Diamond Life" instead. Maybe, these days, they should be singing "Diamond Life" instead.

Even a thirty-two-year devotion to the Rolling Stones can fray, under such a bombardment, into irritability, especially when the Canadian mafia in charge of seat allocation bungs you behind a pillar, and it takes a friendly stadium security officer to get you a seat you can actually see the show from. I'll admit to sharpening a few adjectives while waiting for the dinosaurs to appear.

Then came dragon-fire, and all carping became instantly redundant. Mark Fisher's "Cobra" set came to life: the high-tech serpent head in the sky belched flame. Fisher, also responsible for the recent Pink Floyd and Zoo-TV stages, is currently the man to call if you want to spend a fortune turning sports stadia into futureworlds. The show's promoters like to compare the tour to a military operation, but that misses the mark. What's more astonis.h.i.+ng is to reflect that all this theatrical gigantism-"250 personnel, four days to construct, three different steel crews leapfrogging around the country, 8 miles of cable, the world's largest mobile Jumbotron video screen, 56 trailers, 9 buses, and a Boeing 727, 3,840,000 watts of power produced by 6,000-horsepower generators," it says here-is being employed in the cause of mere fun. Only rock 'n' roll, but I like it. Only rock 'n' roll, but I like it. Good to know that pleasure has its armies, too. Good to know that pleasure has its armies, too.

And from the moment the Stones launched into "Not Fade Away" to the single encore of "Jumping Jack Flash," there was pleasure, two and a half hours of it. The set was a pyrotechnic marvel, cascading with light, erupting into fireworks, and conjuring up, during "Sympathy for the Devil," those marvelously eerie giant inflatables-Elvis, a snake, a Star Child, a Hindu G.o.ddess-who danced like huge voodoo dolls, slaves to the rhythm, above Jagger's Baron Samedi capers. And the sound was good too, every note rich and clear, every word audible and resonant; and the high-definition video screen was the best I've seen. But none of this is the point.

The point is that the Stones were amazing. Their force, their drive, the sheer quality and freshness of Mick's singing and the band's play-ing (Keith Richards, during "Satisfaction," seemed at one point to be mouthing "I love this song"); Mick's athleticism and grace of movement (once he would Walk the Dog and do the Funky Chicken the way Tina Turner showed him; now there's something almost Oriental in his dancing, like a Bharat Natyam dancer with 3,840,000 watts of power coursing through him); and Keith, planted front and center with his feet wide apart, whanging his guitar in cla.s.sic rock-G.o.d style, Keith with his ruinedMount Rushmore head, effortlessly dominating the stage while Mick skipped, leapt, and zoomed. Keith does not run. He leaves that to his mate. (He should probably leave the singing to Mick, too. At the very least he should not tempt fate and the critics by singing songs called "The Worst.") By their second song, "Tumbling Dice," it was clear that the new "engine room," in which Charlie Watts had been joined by the ba.s.s guitarist Darryl Jones, was as tight and potent as ever. It was also evident, from her duet with Mick on "Gimme Shelter," that the backup vocalist Lisa Fischer was a bit of a star herself. Not content with having come onstage in what looked like leather underwear, and f.u.c.k-me stilettos with bondage straps all the way up her calves, *9 *9 she also unfurled a rich, s.e.xy voice with sustained high notes that could spear you in the heart. she also unfurled a rich, s.e.xy voice with sustained high notes that could spear you in the heart.

The new songs just about held their own against the wonders of the back catalog, but it was the cla.s.sics that really got us going; inevitably, because this music-the "Satisfaction" riff, the dirty genius of "Honky Tonk Woman"-has sunk so deep into our blood that we may even be able, by now, to pa.s.s the knowledge on genetically to our children, who will be born humming "how come you dance so good" and those old satanic verses, "pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name." And how satisfying that the Stones haven't fallen into the Bob Dylan trap of murdering their old songs. As a result, Wembley was full of kids bopping happily to songs that were older than they were but felt new. This is not a nostalgia show; these songs are not museum pieces. Listen to Keith's guitar playing on "Wild Horses." These songs are alive.

There was a gray-haired geezer in a pink T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans-still crazy after all these years-who got himself frog-marched out by a squad of Meat Loafs. There was a dark-haired girl in an outfit that seemed to have been painted onto her body who stood up in the posh enclosure and danced so voluptuously, during "Sweet Virginia," that people (men) turned away from the stage to watch her. There was some mutual nipple kissing between Mick and Lisa Fischer that got our attention back. There was an ovation for Charlie Watts. You couldn't have wished for more. The Rolling Stones may not be dangerous now, they may no longer be a threat to decent, civilized society, but they still know how to let it bleed. Yeah yeah yeah WOO.

July 1995

Rock Music-A Sleeve Note

Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention are playing at the Albert Hall. It's sometime in the early seventies. (As they say, if you can remember the exact date, you weren't there.) Halfway through the gig, an enormous black guy in a s.h.i.+ny purple s.h.i.+rt climbs up onto the stage. (Security was lighter in those innocent days.) He's swaying gently, and insists on playing with the band.

Zappa, unfazed, asks gravely, "Uh-huh, sir, and what is your instrument of choice?"

"Horn," mumbles the Purple s.h.i.+rt Guy.

"Give this man a horn," Frank Zappa commands. But the moment the Purple s.h.i.+rt Guy blows his first terrible note, it's clear his horn skills leave much to be desired. Zappa briefly looks lost in contemplation, chin in hand. "Hmm." Then he moves to the mike. "I wonder," he muses, "what we can think of to accompany this man on his horn." He has a flash of mock inspiration. "I know! The mighty Albert Hall pipe organ!"

The mighty Albert Hall pipe organ has in fact been declared strictly off limits to the band, but now one of the Mothers actually climbs up the face of the great beast, scrambles into the organist's cubbyhole, pulls out every single stop, and almost brings the grand old hall cras.h.i.+ng down with his deafening rendition of "Louie, Louie."

Va-va-va / va-voom!

Meanwhile, down on the stage, the Purple s.h.i.+rt Guy tootles away, blissfully happy, totally inaudible, while Frank Zappa looks fondly on like the benevolent, subversive wit he is.

Wit is not the quality most often a.s.sociated with rock music, and when one listens to the Cro-Magnon grunts of most rock stars, one can readily appreciate why. In spite of the Spice Girls, however, rock 'n' roll actually has a long history of verbal, musical, and off-the-cuff felicities and dexterities.

Here is Elvis, claiming to be itchy as a man on a fuzzy tree.

Here's John Lennon's quickness of tongue. ("How do you find America?" "Turn left at Greenland.") Here's Randy Newman, proving, in "Sail Away," that a song can be simultaneously anthemic and satirical. ("In America, there's plenty food to eat / Don't have to run through the jungle and scuff up your feet.") Here are Paul Simon's surreal-a.s.sociative lyrics. ("Why am I soft in the middle / when the rest of my life is so hard?") And here is the troubadour beyond categories, Tom Waits, telling his raw wanderer's tales of alley cats and raindogs. ("I got the cards but not the luck / I got the wheels but not the truck / but heh I'm big in j.a.pan.") In all this there is much for literary folk to study and admire. I don't subscribe to the lyrics-are-poetry school of rock aficionado over-claiming. But I know I'd have been ridiculously proud to have written anything as good as this. And I'd have loved to have had the talent, the humor and speed of thought of Frank Zappa in the Albert Hall that night.

May 1999

U2.

In the summer of 1986 I was traveling in Nicaragua, working on the book of reportage that was published six months later as The Jaguar Smile. The Jaguar Smile. It was the seventh anniversary of the Sandinista revolution, and the war against the U.S.-backed Contra forces was intensifying almost daily. I was accompanied by my interpreter Margarita, an improbably glamorous and high-spirited blonde with more than a pa.s.sing resemblance to Jayne Mansfield. Our days were filled with evidence of hards.h.i.+p and struggle: the scarcity of produce in the markets of Managua, the bomb crater on a country road where a school bus had been blown up by a Contra mine. One morning, however, Margarita seemed unusually excited. "Bono's coming!" she cried, bright-eyed as any fan, and then added, without any change in vocal inflection or dulling of ocular glitter, "Tell me: who is Bono?" It was the seventh anniversary of the Sandinista revolution, and the war against the U.S.-backed Contra forces was intensifying almost daily. I was accompanied by my interpreter Margarita, an improbably glamorous and high-spirited blonde with more than a pa.s.sing resemblance to Jayne Mansfield. Our days were filled with evidence of hards.h.i.+p and struggle: the scarcity of produce in the markets of Managua, the bomb crater on a country road where a school bus had been blown up by a Contra mine. One morning, however, Margarita seemed unusually excited. "Bono's coming!" she cried, bright-eyed as any fan, and then added, without any change in vocal inflection or dulling of ocular glitter, "Tell me: who is Bono?"

In a way, the question was as vivid a demonstration of her country's beleaguered isolation as anything I heard or saw in the front-line villages, the dest.i.tute Atlantic Coast bayous, or the quake-ravaged city streets. In July 1986, the release of U2's monster alb.u.m The Joshua Tree The Joshua Tree was still nine months away, but they were already, after all, the masters of was still nine months away, but they were already, after all, the masters of War. War. Who was Bono? He was the fellow who sang "I can't believe the news today, I can't close my eyes and make it go away." And Nicaragua was one of the places where the news had become unbelievable, and you couldn't shut your eyes to it, and so of course he was there. Who was Bono? He was the fellow who sang "I can't believe the news today, I can't close my eyes and make it go away." And Nicaragua was one of the places where the news had become unbelievable, and you couldn't shut your eyes to it, and so of course he was there.

I didn't meet Bono in Nicaragua, but he did read The Jaguar Smile. The Jaguar Smile. Five years later, when I was involved in some difficulties of my own, my friend the composer Michael Berkeley asked if I wanted to go to a U2 Five years later, when I was involved in some difficulties of my own, my friend the composer Michael Berkeley asked if I wanted to go to a U2 Achtung Baby Achtung Baby gig, with its hanging psychedelic Trabants. In those days it was hard for me to go most places, but I said yes, and was touched by the enthusiasm with which the request was greeted by U2's people. And so there I was at Earl's Court, standing in the shadows, listening. Backstage, after the show, I was shown into a mobile home full of sandwiches and children. There were no groupies at U2 gigs; just a nursery. Bono came in and was instantly festooned with daughters. My memory of that first chat is that I wanted to talk about music and he was keen to talk politics-Nicaragua, an upcoming protest against nuclear waste at Sellafield, his support for me and my work. We didn't spend long together, but we both enjoyed it. gig, with its hanging psychedelic Trabants. In those days it was hard for me to go most places, but I said yes, and was touched by the enthusiasm with which the request was greeted by U2's people. And so there I was at Earl's Court, standing in the shadows, listening. Backstage, after the show, I was shown into a mobile home full of sandwiches and children. There were no groupies at U2 gigs; just a nursery. Bono came in and was instantly festooned with daughters. My memory of that first chat is that I wanted to talk about music and he was keen to talk politics-Nicaragua, an upcoming protest against nuclear waste at Sellafield, his support for me and my work. We didn't spend long together, but we both enjoyed it.

One year later, when the giant Zooropa Zooropa tour arrived at Wembley Stadium, Bono called to ask if I'd like to come out onstage. U2 wanted to make a gesture of solidarity and this was the biggest one they could think of. When I told my then fourteen-year-old son about the plan, he said, "Just don't sing, Dad. If you sing, I'll have to kill myself." There was no question of my being allowed to sing-U2 aren't stupid people-but I did go out there and feel, for a moment, what it's like to have eighty thousand fans cheering you on. The audience at the average book reading is a little smaller. Girls tend not to climb onto their boyfriends' shoulders during them, and stage-diving is discouraged. Even at the very best book readings, there are only one or two supermodels dancing by the mixing desk. Anton Corbijn took a photograph that day for which he persuaded Bono and me to exchange gla.s.ses. There I am looking G.o.dlike in Bono's Fly shades, while he peers benignly over my uncool literary specs. There could be no more graphic expression of the difference between our worlds. tour arrived at Wembley Stadium, Bono called to ask if I'd like to come out onstage. U2 wanted to make a gesture of solidarity and this was the biggest one they could think of. When I told my then fourteen-year-old son about the plan, he said, "Just don't sing, Dad. If you sing, I'll have to kill myself." There was no question of my being allowed to sing-U2 aren't stupid people-but I did go out there and feel, for a moment, what it's like to have eighty thousand fans cheering you on. The audience at the average book reading is a little smaller. Girls tend not to climb onto their boyfriends' shoulders during them, and stage-diving is discouraged. Even at the very best book readings, there are only one or two supermodels dancing by the mixing desk. Anton Corbijn took a photograph that day for which he persuaded Bono and me to exchange gla.s.ses. There I am looking G.o.dlike in Bono's Fly shades, while he peers benignly over my uncool literary specs. There could be no more graphic expression of the difference between our worlds.

It's inevitable that both U2 and I should be criticized for bringing these two worlds together. They have been accused of trying to acquire some borrowed intellectual "cred," and I of course am supposedly star-struck. None of this matters very much. I've been crossing frontiers all my life-physical, social, intellectual, artistic borderlines-and I spotted, in Bono and Edge, whom I've so far come to know better than the others, an equal hunger for the new, for whatever nourishes. I think, too, that the band's involvement in religion-as inescapable a subject in Ireland as it is in India-gave us, when we first met, a subject, and an enemy (fanaticism) in common.

An a.s.sociation with U2 is good for one's anecdote stock. Some of these anecdotes are risibly apocryphal. A couple of years ago, for example, a front-page Irish press report confidently announced that I had been living in "the folly"-the guesthouse with a spectacular view of Killiney Bay that stands in the garden of Bono's Dublin home-for four whole years! Apparently I arrived and departed at dead of night in a helicopter that landed on the beach below the house. Other stories that sound apocryphal are unfortunately true. It is true, for example, that I once danced-or, to be precise, pogoed-with Van Morrison in Bono's living room. It is also true that in the small hours of the following morning I was treated to the rough end of the great man's tongue. (Mr. Morrison has been known to get a little grumpy toward the end of a long evening. It's possible that my pogoing wasn't up to his exacting standards.) Over the years U2 and I discussed collaborating on various projects. Bono mentioned an idea he had for a stage musical, but my imagination failed to spark. There was another long Dublin night (a bottle of Jameson's was involved) during which the film director Neil Jordan, Bono, and I conspired to make a film of my novel Haroun and the Sea of Stories. Haroun and the Sea of Stories. To my great regret, this never came to anything either. Then, in autumn 1999, I published To my great regret, this never came to anything either. Then, in autumn 1999, I published The Ground Beneath Her Feet, The Ground Beneath Her Feet, in which the Orpheus myth winds through a story set in the world of rock music. Orpheus is the defining myth for both singers and writers-for the Greeks, he was the greatest singer as well as the greatest poet-and it was my Orphic tale that finally made a collaboration possible. It happened, like many good things, without being planned. I sent Bono and U2's manager, Paul McGuinness, pre-publication copies of the novel, in typescript, hoping that they would tell me if the thing worked or not. Bono said afterward that he had been very worried on my behalf, believing that I had taken on an impossible task, and that he began reading the book in the spirit of a "policeman"-that is, to save me from my mistakes. Fortunately, the novel pa.s.sed the test. Deep inside it is the lyric of what Bono called the novel's "t.i.tle track," a sad elegy written by the main male character about the woman he loved, who has been swallowed up in an earthquake: a contemporary Orpheus's lament for his lost Eurydice. in which the Orpheus myth winds through a story set in the world of rock music. Orpheus is the defining myth for both singers and writers-for the Greeks, he was the greatest singer as well as the greatest poet-and it was my Orphic tale that finally made a collaboration possible. It happened, like many good things, without being planned. I sent Bono and U2's manager, Paul McGuinness, pre-publication copies of the novel, in typescript, hoping that they would tell me if the thing worked or not. Bono said afterward that he had been very worried on my behalf, believing that I had taken on an impossible task, and that he began reading the book in the spirit of a "policeman"-that is, to save me from my mistakes. Fortunately, the novel pa.s.sed the test. Deep inside it is the lyric of what Bono called the novel's "t.i.tle track," a sad elegy written by the main male character about the woman he loved, who has been swallowed up in an earthquake: a contemporary Orpheus's lament for his lost Eurydice.

Bono called me. "I've written this melody for your words, and I think it might be one of the best things I've done." I was astonished. One of the novel's princ.i.p.al images is that of the permeable frontier between the world of the imagination and the one we inhabit, and here was an imaginary song crossing that frontier. I went to Paul McGuinness's place near Dublin to hear it. Bono took me away from everyone else and played the demo CD to me in his car. Only when he was sure that I liked it-and I liked it right away-did we go back indoors and play it for the a.s.sembled company.

There wasn't much, after that, that one would properly call collaboration. There was a long afternoon when Daniel Lanois, who was producing the song, brought his guitar and sat down with me to work out the lyrical structure. And there was the Day of the Lost Words, when I was called urgently by a woman from Principle Management, who look after U2. "They're in the studio and they can't find the lyrics. Could you fax them over?" Otherwise, silence, until the song was ready.

I wasn't expecting it to happen, but I'm proud of it. For U2, too, it was a departure. They haven't often used anyone's lyrics but their own, and they don't usually start with the lyrics; typically, the words come at the very end. But somehow it all worked out. I suggested facetiously that they might consider renaming the band U2 + 1, or, even better, Me2, but I think they'd heard all those gags before.

During an alfresco lunch in Killiney, the film director Wim Wenders startlingly announced that artists must no longer use irony. Plain speaking, he argued, was necessary now: communication should be direct, and anything that might create confusion should be eschewed. Irony, in the rock world, has acquired a special meaning. The multi-media self-consciousness of U2's Achtung Baby/Zooropa Achtung Baby/Zooropa phase, which simultaneously embraced and debunked the mythology and gobbledygook of rock stardom, capitalism, and power, and of which Bono's white-faced, gold-lame-suited, red-velvet-horned MacPhisto incarnation was the emblem, is what Wenders was criticizing. Characteristically, U2 responded by taking this approach even further, pus.h.i.+ng it further than it would bear, in the less well received phase, which simultaneously embraced and debunked the mythology and gobbledygook of rock stardom, capitalism, and power, and of which Bono's white-faced, gold-lame-suited, red-velvet-horned MacPhisto incarnation was the emblem, is what Wenders was criticizing. Characteristically, U2 responded by taking this approach even further, pus.h.i.+ng it further than it would bear, in the less well received PopMart PopMart tour. After that, it seems, they took Wenders's advice. The new alb.u.m, and the tour. After that, it seems, they took Wenders's advice. The new alb.u.m, and the Elevation Elevation tour, is the spare, impressive result. tour, is the spare, impressive result.

There was a lot riding on this alb.u.m, this tour. If things hadn't gone well it might have been the end of U2. They certainly discussed that possibility, and the alb.u.m was much delayed as they agonized over it. Extra-curricular activities-mainly Bono's-also slowed them down, but since these included getting David Trimble and John Hume to shake hands on a public stage, and reducing Jesse Helms-Jesse Helms!-to tears, winning his support for the campaign against Third World debt, it's hard to argue that these were self-indulgent irrelevances. At any event, All That You Can't Leave Behind All That You Can't Leave Behind turned out to be a strong alb.u.m, a renewal of creative force, and, as Bono put it, there's a lot of goodwill flowing toward the band right now. I've seen them three times this year: in the "secret" pre-tour gig in London's little Astoria theater, and then twice in America, in San Diego and Anaheim. They've come down out of the giant stadia to play arena-sized venues that seem tiny after the gigantism of their recent past. The act has been stripped bare; essentially, it's just the four of them out there, playing their instruments and singing their songs. For a person of my age, who remembers when rock music was always like this, the show feels simultaneously nostalgic and innovative. In the age of ch.o.r.eographed, instrument-less little-boy and little-girl bands (yes, I know the Supremes didn't play guitars, but they were the Supremes!), it's exhilarating to watch a great, grown-up quartet do the fine, simple things so well. Direct communication, as Wim Wenders said. It works. turned out to be a strong alb.u.m, a renewal of creative force, and, as Bono put it, there's a lot of goodwill flowing toward the band right now. I've seen them three times this year: in the "secret" pre-tour gig in London's little Astoria theater, and then twice in America, in San Diego and Anaheim. They've come down out of the giant stadia to play arena-sized venues that seem tiny after the gigantism of their recent past. The act has been stripped bare; essentially, it's just the four of them out there, playing their instruments and singing their songs. For a person of my age, who remembers when rock music was always like this, the show feels simultaneously nostalgic and innovative. In the age of ch.o.r.eographed, instrument-less little-boy and little-girl bands (yes, I know the Supremes didn't play guitars, but they were the Supremes!), it's exhilarating to watch a great, grown-up quartet do the fine, simple things so well. Direct communication, as Wim Wenders said. It works.