|
PROLOGUE
I always knew I would be famous.
By the time I left school at 17, my life was planned down to the finest detail. I would form a rock band, make a series of epoch shifting albums, play technologically mind-blowing concerts in the biggest stadiums on the planet until I was universally acknowledged as the greatest superstar of my era. And I would indulge in all manor of diversions along the way: make films, write books, break hearts, befriend my idols ... oh, and promote world peace, feed the poor and save the planet while I was at it.
You might think I was just another arrogant teenage airhead with fantasies of omnipotence. Indeed, there were plenty around me at the time who did their best to persuade me this was the case. But I wasn't about to be put off by lesser mortals jealous of my talent. Because I knew, deep, deep in the very core of my being, that this wasn't just another empty dream. This was my destiny ...
So there I was, 35-years old, sitting in a shabby, unheated little excuse for an office above a bookie's in Piccadilly, watching the rain drizzle down my single, grimy window, wondering where it had all gone wrong. I wanted to be a rock star and wound up becoming a rock critic. To compound my torment, I was suffering from a bad case of writer's block with my newspaper deadline looming and the fucking telephone hadn't stopped ringing all morning with a succession of PRs pestering me about their shitty rock bands, all of whom I secretly resented for, I suppose, just being more famous than me. But at least talking on the phone gave me an excuse for not writing my column.
"It better be good," I snapped into the receiver.
"This is the voice of your conscience," announced my caller in a gravelly, wasted Dublin accent that reeked of smoke, late nights and fine wines.
"Bono," I said, in recognition.
"You can run but you can't hide," he laughed.
"The way I feel right now, I don't think I could even run," I sighed.
It was, indeed, Bono: rock legend, international superstar, roving ambassador for world peace and (though it is unlikely to feature prominently on his CV) a school friend of mine from Mount Temple Comprehensive.
"Where are you?" I enquired, listening to the echo of global distance bouncing down the phone line.
"Miami," he said. "Playground of America. Ever been to Miami? The gangsters look like fashion designers. Or maybe the fashion designers look like gangsters. Sometimes it's hard to tell..."
There was a time when we had both been singers in schoolboy bands, playing every toilet in Dublin, convinced against all the odds that we were the chosen ones, bound for glory. We moved in different circles these days. I wrote for a newspaper. He was the news. But every now and then, when something brought me to mind, Bono would call up out of the blue to fill me in on his latest adventures in the stratosphere of superstardom.
"I was out at a club last night," he said, slipping into raconteur mode, his voice an intimate whisper. "I think it was owned by some kind of mafiosi but, like I said, maybe it was just a fashion thing. Lots of men with moustaches and models draped over their shoulders, you know? Every man and woman in the place was puffing on enormous cigars. Clouds of smoke everywhere. Smoke rings rising up to the ceiling. There's something about a beautiful woman and a cigar, it's a very powerful combination, don't you think?"
"Until you kiss them and find out they taste like an ashtray," I grunted.
"You're such a romantic," said Bono. "So I'm led into this room at the back which is just filled with hundreds of little drawers, floor-to-ceiling. And each little drawer has a little plaque with a name on it. So I go up to one and see the name Madonna. Then I look at another one and it says Schwarzenneger. I'm still not that impressed. Then I look at another one and it says Sinatra! That's when I know this is the real deal. It's like a walk in humidor. All these personal stashes of illegally imported Cuban cigars maintained at perfect temperature and humidity for whenever they want to drop in and have a puff. I was looking for the president's name, cause I'm sure he has his own drawer in there somewhere. It was pure Miami. This whole city's like the shop window for the American dream."
As I listened, occasionally making encouraging noises, I watched a pigeon splashing about in a puddle that was building up on the ledge outside my rotting window frame. Miami seemed a long way away. Bono sounded woozy and happy after his night on the tiles but I had a strange feeling welling up in my chest, a disturbing swirl of conflicting emotions. I was pleased that Bono had called me. Flattered even. I liked and admired the man as much as anyone I had ever known. So why did his voice have the power to send a sharp stab of insecurity running right through my heart?
"I thought of you, cause I know you've always been a big fan of Frank," said Bono. "Did I ever tell you about our duet?"
That was it. Something popped in my head. "Stop!" I spluttered. "Enough! I should be doing a duet with Frank Sinatra! What's Sinatra to you? Just another famous scalp! I love Frank Sinatra. Leave him alone! Next you'll be telling me you've been asked to play James Bond."
There was a moment's uneasy silence, then Bono laughed. "Actually, the Edge and me have written the new Bond theme for Tina Turner."
"Oh, Fuck off!" I snapped. "The problem with knowing you is that you've done everything I ever wanted to do. I feel like you've lived my life."
Laughter echoed back down the line. "I'm your doppelganger," Bono said. "If you want your life back, you'll have to kill me."
Now there was a thought...
When I put down the phone I started to brood. Was Bono really my evil twin? Or was I his? Now that I thought about it, our careers had diverged early on and just kept on getting wider and wider apart. As he rose to the highest realms of fame and fortune, I had plummeted to the depths of anonymity, a rock and roll casualty, leaving only the briefest of traces in the margins of pop history, and that for being the first person to leave U2.
Oh yes. I didn't mention that, did I? But we'll get to it.
Perhaps I was the Yang to Bono's Yin. The dark counterbalance to his life of success and good fortune, absorbing all the bad luck and mischance that never seemed to go his way.
I pulled down a decaying, much-thumbed, hardback antique Oxford English Dictionary from my overcrowded bookshelves. Doppelganger: (ad. Ger. Double-ganger) The apparition of a living person; a double, a wraith. That's me alright, I thought. Just a phantom reflection of everything I ever wanted to be. And everything I ever wanted to be was personified by a bloke I had gone to school with. How cruel was that?
"Bono Must Die!" I typed into my computer. I blew it up, 72 point, bold, and printed it out. It looked good. I knew a few people who would wear that T-shirt.
"I, Bono," I typed. Perhaps I could sell my story to the National Enquirer. Bono Stole My Life.
Not that I hadn't achieved things in my own right. Deep inside, I knew that to be true. But in the blinding glare of superstardom, the small triumphs of ordinary existence don't always register. Instead you can easily become a footnote in somebody else's story.
So let me get something straight from the start. Contrary to what you may have read elsewhere, I do not have the dubious distinction of being to U2 what Pete Best was to the Beatles: the man who missed the gravy train. I know, it is right there in black and white in the group's authorised biography, 'The Unforgettable Fire'. In Chapter Four, biographer Eamon Dunphy informs his readers of the first fateful gathering of the band that would become U2, to which Bono, apparently, 'turned up with another Mount Temple pupil, Neil McCormick who, like everyone else present, fancied being lead guitarist'. However, after a few grim renditions of rock standards including 'Brown Sugar' and 'Satisfaction', 'Neil decided to bale out'.
That rather trivial little tale seems to follow me around wherever I go, the source of many other biographical presumptions. I still wince whenever I see myself described in print as an 'original member of U2', or worse, 'ex-U2', as if the defining moment of my entire life was petulantly stomping out of a rehearsal room back in my schooldays. So please read the following carefully: I wasn't there and even if I had been, any ambitions to become lead axeman in the nascent combo would surely have been hampered by the fact that I had only ever mastered three chords on my daddy's Spanish guitar, and I wasn't even sure which chords they were.
But if something is printed often enough it becomes the truth, or at least the official version. I think the members of U2 actually believe it themselves at this stage. Certainly, backstage in Miami at the launch of their 2001 world tour, manager Paul McGuinness kept introducing me as a member of the original line-up. The fact that a former alumni of his band might now be a music critic for conservative British broadsheet The Daily Telegraph seemed to amuse him immensely.
The pouting and gorgeous Andrea Corr was there, somehow looking even more desirable than usual with a pint of Guinness in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. "Did you really walk out on U2?" she asked, sounding suitably impressed.
"I told Bono the band wasn't big enough for the both of us," I replied. "If they'd have stuck with me, they could have really gone places." (Come on. What was I supposed to say to the most beautiful woman in Ireland? It was just a misprint?)
"How does it feel seeing them on stage?" Andrea asked. "Do you think, 'that could have been me up there?'"
Now that was cutting a little too close to the bone.
I looked around the room, crowded with familiar faces. The sleek uber rock figure of Lenny Kravitz lingered in a corner, dressed in fake fur entirely inappropriate for the climate, his expression hidden behind omnipresent, impenetrable reflective shades. He was silently accompanied by someone who appeared to occupy the role of mobile phone roadie. Lenny would hold out a hand and a gleaming, mettallic phone would miraculously appear in it. When his conversation was over, he would hold it out again and the roadie would slip it back into his pocket.
|
