U2 - The unforgettable fire

U2 are one of the very few bands active since the 1980s capable of achieving the status of rock "myth" on a par with the "classic" acts born and bred in previous decades. The secret of their success is a perfect blend of fury and epic sweep, of anxiety and spirituality, distilled into a traditional song format that nonetheless manages to renew old-school rock'n'roll with the suggestions and fascinations typical of post-punk and new wave.

Their story has a simple beginning, common to countless rock bands of every era. It's 1976 when future drummer Larry Mullen Jr. puts up a notice on the bulletin board of Mount Temple School in Dublin, Ireland's first non-denominational school: "Musicians wanted to form band." Dave Evans, guitarist, known as "The Edge," Adam Clayton, bassist, and Paul Hewson, singer, later renamed Bono Vox after a hearing-aid shop on a street in central Dublin, answer the call. They start out playing as Feedback, then become Hype, and finally, on the suggestion of Steve Averill of the Radiators, settle on U2, named after a type of American spy plane from the Second World War.

The four are very young: Mullen is 14, The Edge 15, Clayton and Bono 16. "I was good for nothing," the latter recalls. "The only job I could manage was working at a gas station. But music was the easiest thing in the world for me, it helped me escape the banality of life as a kid from the suburbs." The death of his mother, to whom he would dedicate "I Will Follow," marks a turning point for Bono: the band becomes his new family. As do the friends with whom he shares his adventures in underground Dublin, starting with those from the Lypton Village, a collective of teenagers trying to escape the grayness of the Ballymun suburb, a daily life split between school, religion and suburban squalor, by taking refuge in music, art, and eccentricity of manner and look. Bono is indeed one of the "leaders" of that strange gang, alongside one Fionan Hanvey, who would go on to become a cult name of dark-punk at the helm of Virgin Prunes. The brothers Richard and David Evans were also part of the "circle." While the latter, nicknamed The Edge, would go on to form U2, the former — renaming himself Dik Prune — would join forces with Friday and his Prunes.

By 1978 U2 are already tight enough to win a rock contest in Limerick, Ireland. "We were invincible because we were united. We were angry idealists who wanted to take on the whole world," Bono recalls. Shortly after, the crucial meeting with manager Paul McGuinness marks the official start of a dream career. Even though Cbs proceeds cautiously, deciding to press just a thousand numbered copies of U2's first single, an EP titled U2 Three containing three tracks: "Out Of Control," "Boy-Girl" and "Stories For Boys." It's above all the first of these that leaves its mark, with its overflowing charge of pathos and post-punk adrenaline. The fact is that the copies of the EP sell out within hours: Bono & co. are starting to become a reality, at least in Dublin.

1979 is also the year of their first tour of London venues. The following year U2 embark on a tour of Ireland and release a new single titled "Another Day." McGuinness lands a deal with Island Records (Bob Marley's label) worth 100,000 pounds, with which the band is able to release their second single, "11 O'Clock Tick Tock," and set off again on a UK tour supporting Fashion.

Boy and October, the first two albums released by the Irish band, are a cocktail of freshness, naivety and rock energy. The Edge's evocative guitar bursts and Bono's intense, raspy voice are already the U2 trademark. And the early songs are steeped in spirituality: Bono, The Edge and Mullen, who for a time frequented the Christian group Shalom, are the ones responsible for it. Only Clayton stays at a distance. While other bands feed on sex, drugs and rock'n'roll, U2 read the psalms. "There are few things, I believe, that can rival heroin for someone looking for a way out of a mediocre life," Bono claims. "In my case it was faith that lifted me up. It's more a matter of spirituality than religion. Our eyes are open to another world, one that exists beyond the monochrome, one-dimensional limits of the world around us." It's a radical, revolutionary form of Christianity. "More so than punk, a middle-class movement that then forced the working class to lend it credibility."

The driving single "I Will Follow," propelled by The Edge's incendiary guitar riff, is the masterpiece of the debut album, Boy (1980), its cover stamped with the innocent face of Peter Rowen, younger brother of Guggi of the Virgin Prunes. Just two simple chords are enough to set the song ablaze, built entirely around The Edge's incisive guitar work, with the Mullen-Clayton rhythm section underpinning everything and Bono's still-raw voice lending a sense of exuberant youthful freshness. Thanks also to the finely tuned production of trusted collaborator Steve Lillywhite, the U2 sound immediately stands out for its energy and emotional charge, combining the post-punk lesson of Joy Division — openly referenced in "A Day Without Me," a moving tribute to their leader Ian Curtis.

Epic anthems alternate throughout, like the aforementioned “Out Of Control”, pulled back from the debut EP, and “The Electric Co.”, a showcase for The Edge's mastery at building tight, effects-laden rhythmic layers, as also heard in “Twilight” and “Into The Heart”, which probes teenage fears and the desire to escape the adult world.

But there's no shortage of more wistful, heartfelt reflections either: “Shadows And Tall Trees”, for instance, is an urban ode gently rocked by Mullen's drums and acoustic guitar, with Bono intent on narrating nocturnal, underground worlds.

Overall, it's a debut that's perhaps still rough around the edges, but bursting with vitality, already showing off the full power and chemistry of the Dublin band.

October (1981) tackles the theme of adolescence already explored on the debut, but with greater self-awareness. It's with this very album that Bono and co. openly declare their faith. The record opens with Bono's cry intoning “Gloria”, which can be read as a prayer, a genuine hymn to God, but also as evidence of his bewilderment at the band's growing success and how hard it is to reconcile that with a Christian outlook on life. “Gloria” is a stunning distillation of rock energy and melodic talent: the driving verse, propelled by The Edge's riff, leads into the epic chorus where Bono is free to roam with his voice over the guitar's layered effects, while Clayton's inspired bass warps against Mullen's four-on-the-floor kick. The central theme of faith also surfaces in tracks like “Rejoice”, “With A Shout” and “Scarlet” (initially the album's working title), where Bono reiterates that his faith isn't a cliché but a feeling, rooted in his culture and his Irish upbringing.

Besides faith, October highlights the climate of tension that marked those years of conflict in Northern Ireland. In particular, with “Tomorrow” U2 tackle the political and religious strife setting their country ablaze, and the blood spilled on the streets of Belfast. “Tomorrow” is U2's most “Irish” song: the presence of traditional uilleann pipes in the accompaniment reveals the four Dubliners' ties to their country's folk tradition. The pipes, paired with Bono's emotion-charged voice, give this song a particular intensity, made even more pronounced in the finale by Bono's desperate falsetto.

But the song that perhaps gives the album its magic touch is the title track itself, “October”, a slow piece marked by piano, expressing the melancholy typical of autumn. The record closes with a song that's also a question, “Is that all?” — in other words, is this really all we have to say with our music? U2 wonder whether music is capable of making the world a better place.

Social and political themes increase on the third album, War (1983), supplanting the adolescent concerns of the early records. On the cover, the shaken, unsettling face of Peter Rowen, the boy from “Boy”. But now his gaze is stern and his lips are bleeding: it's childhood's indictment of war.

The knockout hit is the martial “Sunday Bloody Sunday”, which recalls one of Ulster's tragedies: the killing, in Derry in 1972, of thirteen civilians by British paratroopers. Introduced by a rolling drum pattern over which The Edge's immortal riff and Bono's vocalizing enter, with a folk-tinged electric violin woven in behind, the song is a hymn to peace, though it would be mistaken for nationalist propaganda.

U2's new sound shines through more inspired than ever: half shadowy wave, half solemn Celtic grandeur. Prime examples are the desperate “Like A Song”, where the fractured interplay of drums and guitar drives another of Bono's invectives against war and the world's injustices — also at the heart of the other tirade, “Seconds” (with The Edge front and center on vocals too, in an intense j'accuse against the arms race) — and also the vibrant “Two Hearts Beat As One”, a love song Bono dedicated to his wife Alison, carried by Clayton's four-string bass along distinctive post-punk lines.

But the album's true masterpiece is the aching anthem “New Year's Day”. It came from a curious spark: Clayton was trying to play Visage's “Fade To Gray” (the new romantic band featuring Billy Currie and Midge Ure of Ultravox, alongside the duo Steve Strange-Rusty Egan and three-quarters of Magazine) when he came up with the incredible bass line that would go on to be the song's backbone, paired with The Edge's dreamy piano figure and the driving drumming. Over this formidable sonic bed stretches Bono's voice, in another display of his piercing range. The single went straight into the UK chart, helped along by an effective music video shot amid Sweden's ice. The lyrics, meanwhile, draw on the struggle of Lech Walesa and Poland's Solidarnosc trade union, winner of the 1983 Nobel Peace Prize.

The farewell of “40” is an aching gallop toward infinity, with a gorgeous, hypnotic, seductive bass riff winding sinuously over the syncopated drums, as Bono intones the now-immortal pacifist slogan ⟦Q1⟧.

War seals the maturity of the “early U2”, the band born on the docks of Dublin's port and raised on post-punk. But it would turn out to be just one phase in their long and, later, even more successful career.

A white flag, raised by Bono on stage against the striking red-orange backdrop of Red Rocks (USA) during the concert immortalized in Under A Blood Red Sky, would make the “line” unmistakably clear: “I'm scared when I see people ready to kill to establish a border,” the U2 frontman recalls. “I'd love to see a united Ireland, but I don't think you can hold a gun to someone's head to make them adopt your point of view. The IRA always had sincere beliefs, but wrong ones. Now, after the Good Friday Agreement, my country has found hope again.”

Recorded live and released as a mini-LP, Under A Blood Red Sky gathers the best songs from the first three albums and early singles, clearly revealing the band's post-punk roots: direct, no-frills songs, cutting riffs, a sharp and vibrant rhythm section, and, above all, Bono's warm, evocative delivery. With eight tracks totalling 35 minutes of music, U2 prove here that they possess that rare, mysterious energy capable of turning a rock concert into a unique, unforgettable event.

Amid a tracklist of well-established hits, one gem worth flagging is “Party Girl”, one of the Dublin band's first truly memorable b-sides.

The rejection of war returns on The Unforgettable Fire (1984): the unforgettable fire in question is that of the Hiroshima atomic bomb, the ultimate symbol of the barbarity of war, of every war.

It's also the first album of the partnership with Brian Eno, master of ambient music, and with Daniel Lanois, the Canadian sound engineer and protégé of the "non-musician," still uncertain at this point how his approach might mesh with that of the four Irishmen. It's hard to say exactly what role Eno played in the maturation of the band's sound, but the fact remains that the more pronounced emphasis on keyboards, increasingly prominent in the construction of the songs, could well be put down to the long reach of the Woodbridge genius.

The strong, intense rock of the debut takes on a magical sheen, taking on ever more solemn and epic tones. The songs speak of an America in crisis, disillusioned by the failure to realize its own ideals: one track, "MLK," is a tribute to the Black prophet of peace Martin Luther King, while "Elvis Presley And America," with its Dylan-esque overtones, also looks across the ocean.

But what really launches the album is above all the single "Pride (In The Name Of Love)", sung by Bono in an epic, desperate register, and buoyed by a memorable guitar phrase from The Edge that perfectly distills his style, rich in power chords and delay. It's another heartfelt tribute to Martin Luther King, a figure who had left a deep mark on Bono and co.

"Pride" becomes one of the great anthems of the decade and, together with the moving title track, a majestic, symphonic evocation of the horrors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, propels U2 into the pantheon of world rock.

But the album also thrives on lesser-known yet no less precious and moving episodes, such as the visionary portrait of the mysterious city in "Promenade," the bitter reflection on the demons of drugs in "Bad" – white-hot emotion stripped of all embellishment (just two chords, the vocal line in perfect symbiosis with the guitar and drum hits) – and the melancholy elegy of homecoming in "A Sort Of Homecoming," one of the most classic ballads in the band's repertoire.

The Unforgettable Fire is the first U2 album to break into the "Billboard" Top 10, and it marks a turning point in the band's entire career, one that heightens their social commitment. The performance on the Live Aid stage at Wembley, where Bono leaps off the stage into the crowd, is followed by the "Conspiracy Of Hope" tour for Amnesty International, their contribution to "Sun City" against apartheid, forays with Greenpeace over the Sellafield case, and "Self Aid" in support of unemployed Irish youth.

Rolling Stone magazine proclaims U2 "the band of the Eighties."

But Bono and his bandmates reach the top of the charts in the United States and Britain (and beyond) in 1987, with The Joshua Tree. The title refers to a giant cactus that grows in Death Valley, renamed Joshua by the first Mormons who arrived in America, likening the place to Joshua's Promised Land. It's the album of maturity, a skillful synthesis of Eno's technology, the wild drive of the drums-bass-guitar trio, and Bono's vocal range, with a few forays into blues and country.

Built around the "rhythmic" phrasing of The Edge's guitar, with its trademark reverbs, power chords and delay, the songs shine for the sharpness of their arrangements and melodic power, gaining an epic charge that nonetheless stays a safe distance from the rhetorical excesses of the years to come. The album's working title was supposedly "Desert Songs," and not by chance: America's wild, boundless spaces serve as the dominant backdrop to a collection of reflections, stories and invectives that steers the sacred fire of the band's early days toward a more intricate songwriting, one capable of combining the raw essentiality of post-punk with blues and roots-rock textures, without giving up a pop vocation that translates into a handful of irresistible choruses.

The first half of the album is an astonishing run of hits, starting with the opening of "Where The Streets Have No Name," whose perfecting – according to Eno – took up half the recording sessions for the entire album. An all-time classic rock intro – the fading organ, The Edge's six-note delayed arpeggio, Larry Mullen's martial drumming – sets the stage for one of Bono's most memorable vocal performances, and he's also responsible for the lyrical spark (a trip to Ethiopia with his wife after Live Aid). The brilliance of the opener dissolves into the loping gait of "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," another vocal feat from Bono, this time grappling with a gospel tune with biblical overtones that questions the difficulties of faith. Rounding out the killer opening trio is the hugely successful – arguably beyond its merits – single "With Or Without You," a kind of "rock bolero" halfway between a love story and a religious confession, which starts off understated and takes off into a climax riding the strings of The Edge's "infinite guitar" (the guitar with adjustable sustain), showcasing Bono's vocal acrobatics.

With the prologue effectively closed by the rough-edged "Bullet The Blue Sky" – an indictment of Reagan-era America's imperialist policy in Nicaragua and El Salvador, driven by Adam Clayton's pulsing bass and The Edge's riffs mimicking the roar of war planes – the album reveals a second half that's even more surprising, with less famous but often even more evocative tracks. Like the semi-acoustic blues of "Running To Stand Still," which, following in the footsteps of the ever-enduring "Bad," works by subtraction, stripping the arrangements down to the bone (a slide guitar, a few electric flourishes, a handful of piano phrases, the closing harmonica) and leaving the spotlight to Bono, telling of the desolation of Dublin's heroin addicts among the Seven Towers, the seven buildings where junkies would go to shoot up. Emotion with the bare minimum of adornment, as in the wonderful "One Tree Hill," dedicated – along with the whole album – to Greg Carroll, the band's roadie, who died in a motorcycle accident in Dublin: the hill of One Tree Hill near Auckland, New Zealand, the young Maori's native land, provides the backdrop for a heartfelt remembrance of the lost friend, with Bono's aching vocalizations enriching a deeply personal lyric, full of emotion and lyricism.

Taking up the thread of political protest instead are two heart-stopping ballads: "Red Hill Mining Town" and "Mothers Of The Disappeared." The first stands alongside the British miners targeted by Margaret Thatcher, set to the notes of a heartfelt electric ode. The second, cradled by the patter of rain and Eno's synth, as well as Edge's acoustic guitar, is a hypnotic elegy paying tribute to the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo and the memory of Argentina's desaparecidos.

But the saga of America's boundless spaces and desert also returns: muted, amid the blues-country harmonica vibrations of "Trip Through Your Wires," and in full evocative force amid the blazing riffs of the splendid "In God's Country," the dark side of the American dream, with a rock'n'roll swagger and an intro very similar to that of "Where The Streets Have No Name." The apocalyptic jam session of "Exit" – the story of a religious serial killer inspired by Norman Mailer's novel "The Executioner's Song" – finally shows how U2 too had absorbed the lesson of Patti Smith's psychodramas.

The Joshua Tree seals U2's most creative period, launching them to the top of charts across the globe, with over 20 million copies sold, and setting a rock standard for the decade. But not only that: thanks to this album, Bono and his bandmates become a permanent fixture in the world's pop culture and collective imagination. This would be confirmed by a famous Time cover that same year, 1987 (an honor previously granted only to Beatles, Band and Who).

U2 complete their “Americanization,” both in sound and look. And in the United States they manage to collaborate with “sacred monsters” of the caliber of Bob Dylan, Robbie Robertson, Roy Orbison and B.B. King, with whom they perform on the Rattle & Hum tour, from which the eponymous live album is drawn, featuring new live versions of their classics, covers and a handful of new songs — notably the Motown-soul homage of “Angel Of Harlem,” the shadowy tension of “Heartland,” the tender romanticism of “Love Rescue Me,” and the hushed reflection of the ballad “All I Want Is You.”

What disappoints most are the new versions of historic anthems like “Helter Skelter” and “All Along The Watchtower,” but also the mannered Aor of tracks like “Desire” and “Silver And Gold,” coarse-grained outtakes, not unlike Jimmy Iovine’s all-too-mainstream production.

Much better, on the other hand, is the impressive run of stunning “B-sides” from that period, later collected on the compilation The Best of 1980-1990/ The B-Sides. To name a few: “Spanish Eyes,” “Sweetest Thing,” “Love Comes Tumbling,” “Walk To The Water.” All first-rate songs, which could easily have featured on the Dublin band’s best albums.

But back home, the “messianic” posturing of the four rock priests draws mockery from bands like The Joshua Trio and Sultans of Ping. The latter dedicate to them the irreverent “U Talk 2 Much” (“U2 talk too much”). The Dublin band also comes under fire from singer Sinead O’Connor, who accuses them of running the Irish rock scene like a mafia through their label “Mother Records.”

For U2, however, it’s time to change again. In 1991, in fact, with Achtung Baby, Bono and company usher in the technological turn of the Nineties. Ultrasonic confusion rises in place of the Wall that fell two years earlier. Berlin is the center of the world. So Berlin is the stimulus waiting to be experienced, for any form of expression intent on modernizing itself. Production is handed to two already-proven gurus: Daniel Lanois, already a trusted collaborator of the band, backed by the undisputed genius of production Brian Eno, the “fifth U2.” The location is Hansa Studios, the famous studio where David Bowie, again with Eno, recorded his “Berlin trilogy.” The “sixth U2,” photographer Anton Corbijn, signs the collage cover, built from images of a trip to Santa Cruz and Morocco.

From here on, U2 are no longer simply “musicians”: they are a full 360-degree spectacle, encompassing rhythm, harmony, image, photography, graphics, movement, theatricality, poetry. And it is out of all these elements that Achtung Baby springs. The Edge’s scraping sound is the nectar of the noisy intro to “Zoo Station”; Larry Mullen’s industrial beat and Adam Clayton’s rusty bass build frenetically; Bono’s filtered voice has now turned Luciferian, and the frontman, in a vaguely Dadaist lyric inspired by Berlin’s zoo, sings that he now feels ready. “I’m ready. I’m ready to say I’m glad to be alive. I’m ready, I’m ready for the push.” And this is the calling card of the new U2.

The second track, “Even Better Than The Real Thing,” is built on a classic rock structure and reveals an Edge perfectly at ease on slide guitar. But it’s on the third track that U2 confirm themselves as masters of crafting ballads destined to leave their mark on time: “One” will perhaps become the band’s most celebrated song. A track that is both evocative and spiritual, dealing with love in universal terms, sung by Bono with the devotion of a prayer.

The album’s second masterpiece is “Until The End Of The World,” requested by Wim Wenders for the soundtrack of his eponymous film. A study in bleak rock, framing a hypothetical dialogue between Jesus and Judas, steeped in a diabolical atmosphere that winks at blasphemy. The Edge’s sharp, metallic tone grows more aggressive, culminating in a cutting solo. “Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses” is another romantic ballad, driven by one of the band’s most compelling rhythms, pounded out by Mullen’s masterful hand. The track that follows is the only true breather up to this point, “So Cruel,” a less striking episode but not without its merits (above all its dry, precise rhythm section).

Opening the second half of the album is its manifesto, “The Fly”: The Edge’s hulking riff sounds like a menacing, relentless buzz, and Bono’s once again filtered voice has him stepping into the first of a series of alter egos he would stage for years to come; the chorus shows a brilliant interplay between the guitarist’s clean falsetto counter-melodies and Bono’s demonic voice. “Mysterious Ways” delivers substantial funky echoes and proves to be one of the most playfully wild tracks on the whole record. The Edge plays an instantly recognizable, irreplaceable wah, Adam Clayton lays down one of his best lines on the album, and Larry Mullen ties it all together with powerful drumming, including bongos with a vaguely African flavor. “Tryin’ To Throw Your Arms Around The World” is the album’s most joyful moment, with its breezy swagger. What follows, though, is the bittersweetness of “Ultra Violet (Light My Way),” which builds its emotion on a warm sense of distant hope. “Acrobat” is a taut, tense track, sharpened by a frantic, nervous Edge, lending further emphasis to Bono’s impassioned vocal. The finale is seemingly calm but laden with fear and gloom: “Love Is Blindness.” The anguished realization Bono arrives at is that love is blind, hence the parallel drawn between love and a looming sense of death. The Edge focuses on organ and keyboards, leaning on Clayton’s faint notes and Mullen’s subtle beats. The irony and din of modernity retreat to make room for a bitter reflection on disillusionment.

The subsequent “Zoo Tv” is an outsized show, inspired by writer William Gibson’s cybernetic universe and McLuhan’s notorious “global village.” A hell of sounds and information, bombarding the audience from dozens of screens linked to two satellites. It is in this context, and during the colossal tour, that an album is born which feels more like a collection of Achtung Baby b-sides.

Co-produced by The Edge, Brian Eno and Flood, Zooropa is not the most groundbreaking album, but it is certainly the most surprising, experimental and daring record the celebrated U2-Eno-Flood partnership ever made (minus Lanois, who was meanwhile busy promoting his new solo album). Bono himself would call the experiment “a surreal pop album.” And no description seems more fitting.

The vocalist picks up the multimedia remote control for his planetary TV, starts flipping channels, and up comes the title track: Edge’s cybernetic wah-wah counterpoints Bono’s voice, which by now seems to be the only human element amid Clayton’s bass and Mullen’s drums, electronically charged by Eno. There’s another channel change, and “Babyface” is Bono, Edge and co.’s answer to the splendid “Satellite Of Love” by their “muse” Lou Reed.

Things shift again with “Numb”: over an industrial base and a “mutant” rap, it almost feels like an alarm cry from an artist who, since the days of Kraftwerk, has become a “victim” of technology (or only of himself?). Eno’s synths intertwine with a steady electronic beat, while “Lemon” shifts into an electro-funk pop closer to certain sounds of Byrne’s Talking Heads: it is undoubtedly the most immediate track on the whole album, balancing traditional funk-rock instrumentation with Eno’s synths.

The fifth track, “Stay” (from the soundtrack of Wim Wenders’ “Faraway, So Close”) instantly joins the band’s classic repertoire: a simple bass-guitar-drums harmony is built over a solid synth base that seems to fill every space. Bono’s poignant delivery truly deserves praise for its intimate, almost confessional lyric (“a vampire or a victim”?).

A Stalinist fanfare taken from “Lenin’s favorite songs” serves as the intro to what Bono calls an “industrial blues.” On “Daddy’s Gonna Pay For Your Crashed Car,” Clayton takes center stage with a powerful, martial bass, and “Some Days Are Better Than Others” is likewise introduced by Clayton’s bass, this time much more liquid. Another loop comes to life, standing out amid the coils of Edge’s guitar and Eno’s ambient “noise” entertainment. The “fifth U2” then sits down at the piano-harmonium and decides to intone a track, “The First Time,” whose pallor strongly recalls Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground’s “Heroin,” with a nod to the parable of the prodigal son, just as “Dirty Day” also seems to pay homage to Lou Reed as well as to Charles Bukowski, to whom it is dedicated.

Finally, the last bit of channel-surfing: with "The Wanderer", Kraftwerk meets Ennio Morricone, while the "wanderer" himself — amid Ireland's bonfires, the desolate American landscapes of Wenders and Leone, and the heart of Europe — still roams in search of truth. Or of himself. Johnny Cash is the guest of honour in this strange world called Zooropa.

Meanwhile, the band's political commitment shifts to the scene of the Balkans in flames. For U2, Yugoslavia, torn apart by ethnic hatred, seems a metaphor for the Irish conflict between Catholics and Protestants. Together with Brian Eno, the Passengers project is born: "Miss Sarajevo", sung with Luciano Pavarotti, is a moving prayer for peace in which the election of a beauty queen becomes the symbol of the normality lost to war. "Tonight we should be ashamed to be Europeans", Bono shouts during a concert.

Then, again on the political front, would come the meetings with Salman Rushdie and the concert with Northern Irish Nobel Peace Prize winners John Hume and David Trimble.

The priests of rock shed their skin. Sequins and teardrop sunglasses replace the schoolboy jackets; shaved heads replace that post-punk mop of hair which, as Bono puts it, "infected entire ranks of second-division footballers". The introspection of the early days has given way to irony. The target is the "global market", which devours everyone and everything. Even rockstars. Farewell psalms. Welcome to the rock supermarket of the year 2000.

"Rock has grown old", Bono declares after the release of Pop (1997). "Changing is the only way to survive", adds guitarist The Edge. So the four apostles of Ireland's "sacred fire" land, of all places, in a post-modern discotheque that spins sounds, noises and images together in a centrifuge. Pop hooks, easier and more fleeting, less committed lyrics and pounding techno-style rhythms are meant, in the intentions of Bono and co., to represent "the music industry". But U2 know perfectly well that they themselves are cogs in that very system, with their rockstar whims and their pharaonic shows. So, by now, they prefer to rely on irony, both in the songs and in the staging of their concerts. The parable of end-of-century consumerist apocalypse, begun with the "Zoo TV" show, reaches its peak on the stage of the "PopMart Tour", a travelling rock supermarket that took off from Las Vegas and also landed in Italy for two dates, in Rome and Reggio Emilia. Everything becomes excessive, from the immense yellow arch looming over the stage to a nine-metre lemon, from an olive skewered on a 35-metre toothpick to a 700-square-metre megascreen overflowing with psychedelic and pop-art fragments.

U2's pure sound turns into a wild mix of hypnotic dance atmospheres and accelerated techno and jungle rhythms, an electro-pop that swings between Depeche Mode and Chemical Brothers. A foray into the glittering, fleeting world of discotheques, where there's room for the deliberately trashy dance of "Discotheque", but also for the guitar solos of the ballad "Staring At The Sun", perhaps the only real consolation for nostalgics (less biting is the other melodic episode, "If God Will Send His Angels", a sliver of bitter disillusionment that would be included in the soundtrack of "City Of Angels").

There's no shortage, however, of further points of interest, such as "Do You Feel Loved", a reflection on the end of a love affair that leans close to certain britpop sounds of the period (Suede, Blur), or the intense "Please", which mimics a dialogue with an IRA terrorist, desperately searching for the road to peace (“You had to win/ You couldn’t just pass/ The smartest ass/At the top of the class/ Your flying colours/ Your family tree/ And all your lessons in history/ Please… please… please get up off your knees…/ Please… please… leave me out of this…”). The song would also be paired with an evocative video, directed by Anton Corbijn.

But can we really speak of a commercial turn for the four former rock'n'roll purists? "We don't want to be crushed by these influences, but to document them," Bono will counter. "It's a bit like what the Beatles did. U2 will never be a dance band. If people dance to our songs, they'll do it at home, not on the dance floor." But for those nostalgic for the early U2 there's no room left: "Rock," Bono explains, "risked becoming mummified like folk music. We had to break free of the rigour of the Seventies and learn to laugh at ourselves. That's what we're doing with our latest shows."

Only back in 1988, they sang in "God Part II" (from Rattle & Hum): "I don't believe in the Sixties, the golden age of pop / The past is glorified, while the future grows ever more sterile". Today, U2 discover pop and look to the future. For them, as for other rockstars (David Bowie, Bruce Springsteen, Sting), rock has become too tight a suit, and reinvention has become almost a necessity. "Our most interesting songs have come out of experimentation," explains guitarist The Edge. "We try new things, because it's the only way to stay alive. Suddenly the bass-guitar-drums formula had grown stale. As it ages, rock has grown heavier. We're now working on new rhythms, but we can't make the quick changes Bowie does; we always have to account for four different opinions."

So, after collecting the best of their first ten years of activity on The Best Of 1980-1990 & The B-Sides, and to appease the more "traditionalist" soul of the band, at the dawn of the new millennium U2 attempt a (partial) return to the past with All That You Can't Leave Behind (2000). Across its eleven tracks, the Irish band tries to recover the simplicity of their origins, scattered in recent years among futuristic shows and forays into the discotheque. But in truth the fury of their early days is a distant memory, and one gets the impression that Bono and company's pop drift is by now irreversible.

There is, however, no shortage of exceptions, such as the single "Beautiful Day", which tells of the banal way a man can lose everything and yet still be happy. A song that delivers a few moments of real emotion, even if, musically, it borrows its melody from "The Sun Always Shines On TV", an old hit by a-ha.

Also effective are "Stuck In A Moment", where rock walks arm in arm with Motown-style soul inflections, the driving "Elevation", with its distorted guitar and a powerful drum-and-bass rhythm section backing Bono's vocal flourishes, and the well-judged "Walk On", which sounds a bit like the album's manifesto track, with lyrics that make clear what really can't be left behind: “L’amore/ non è una cosa facile/ l’unico bagaglio che ti puoi portare/non una cosa facile/ è tutto ciò che non ti puoi lasciare alle spalle”.

Several other songs, though, spin their wheels ("Wild Honey", "Peace On Earth", "When I Look At The World"), giving back a faded image of the four Irish rockers who once set the world alight.

Bono, fresh off his experience as actor and musician in Wim Wenders's film "The Million Dollar Hotel", calls the album "a return to our old-fashioned ballads", given that "pop tells people everything's fine, while our music says the opposite". Similar ideas to those already expressed many times before by the U2 frontman, who however has lately seemed to have lost his sense of consistency. After All That You Can't Leave Behind, the impression that U2 had turned into an unpretentious pop-rock band hasn't faded — if anything, it's grown stronger.

The Dublin band's work over the last decade was collected on The Best Of 1990-2000, an album that, in its limited edition, includes a second CD titled The Best Of B-Sides, a bonus DVD with an exclusive "History Mix" covering U2's career through the Nineties, a trailer for the anthology DVD "The Best Of 1990-2002", a previously unreleased live version of "Please" and the "backstage" footage from the video for the new single "Electrical Storm". The standard version, containing just one CD, instead collects only the classics (mostly singles) of the '90s decade, along with the two unreleased tracks: the aforementioned "Electrical Storm" and "The Hands That Built America", made for the soundtrack of Martin Scorsese's film "The Gangs of New York".

In 2004, U2 brought back old producer Steve Lillywhite to record How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb. The forgettable, energetic single “Vertigo” wouldn’t suggest anything special on its own, a power-pop tune that could belong to any of the countless young bands popping up like mushrooms every season. But it’s the second track, “Miracle Drug”, that will make old fans jump in their seats, from the very first jangle of The Edge’s guitar to the explosion of the rhythm section in the epic chorus, where Bono’s voice recovers the passionate timbre that rightly made him one of the most beloved frontmen of all time, and Clayton’s bass draws its simple but effective lines. Bono’s voice betrays the effort of trying to replicate past performances, and it’s representative of U2’s overall approach – from the rhythm section to The Edge’s guitar – aimed at recapturing the pathos of their early career; a nostalgic effect that also comes through in the often melancholy, reflective mood of the music and lyrics.

The operation only partly succeeds, though. Some choices made at the production stage are simply inexplicable, and they ruin several tracks. Keyboards, pianos and acoustic guitars, used almost always in an insignificant way, water down songs that are already not particularly original, like “Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own”, “One Step Closer” and “Original Of The Species”. Luckily there’s The Edge’s guitar, full of ideas and unmistakable, its echo resembling the blurred image of the memories it resurrects, and there are a few fine tracks, such as “City Of Blinding Lights”, where Clayton’s bass surges forward with old-time impetus, the classic ballad “A Man And A Woman”, and the closing “Yahweh”, which sounds like it could have come straight off The Joshua Tree.

Another false move, then, from U2. And yet that simple, epic rhythm section, that jangling guitar, that passionate voice still manage to conjure up the ghost of those kids who used to play “Gloria” on the Dublin docks, young, enthusiastic, with their hearts on fire. But if all U2 can offer in 2004 is just an echo, then it would be best if it really were a farewell – that, after all, would be far more dignified than so many other endings we’ve witnessed in rock history.

What it was fair to ask of No Line On The Horizon (2009) was, at the very least, that the band stop hiding behind the impossible promise of a return to past glories, come to terms with their current abilities, and put in a serious amount of work. Fortunately, the Eno/Lanois pairing brings a sound that’s intricate but capable of giving the songs color. What emerges is an album of half-tones and shades, expansive in scope and grey like its cover.

The liquid keyboards that open “Magnificent” serve as a preview of a fine dive into the past, courtesy of The Edge’s guitar, which rediscovers now-distant epic flourishes over which Bono becomes a refined interpreter. Elsewhere, the link to the past grows fainter: as in “Moment Of Surrender”, a long, pathos-laden gospel number, or the evocative sprawl of “Fez-Being Born”, where the melody follows the storytelling line of images.

The track that best represents this new direction is called “Unknown Caller”, a splendid choral moment in which guitar and rhythm section simply frame the interplay of voices, until space is finally given to an intensely deep solo from The Edge.

At this point it should be clear that the brashness of the single “Get On Your Boots” is only a minor aspect. Placed at the center of the album, this winking little funk number is, along with its companions “I’ll Go Crazy…” and “Stand Up Comedy”, simply a moment of freedom, of rock’n’roll in the strictest sense – not coincidentally, these are the only three tracks not co-written by the producers – and, however unpopular with many fans, it breaks things up without causing any major dip in quality. Because, in the end, the real worth of No Line On The Horizon is confirmed precisely by its core numbers, like the solid, powerful “Breathe” or the crescendo of the title track. These are songs that stay on the right course while waiting for the more elevated moments, among which we must mention the delightful “Cedars Of Lebanon”, a seductive, hushed ballad that closes the album with the best lyrics of the bunch (lyrics which, to be fair, don’t generally shine on this record).

No Line On The Horizon marks U2’s return to music, though that doesn’t mean we're talking about great style. The style here is, rather, finally self-aware, finally mature, finally hard-won; the songs are written and arranged with class and diligence, if not passion, in a way that manages to rise above the limits of age.

In “U2byU2”, the extremely detailed autobiography of U2 released a few years back, the band (Adam Clayton first and foremost) very often cites “theatricality” as a defining trait of their music. But, as we know, U2 have long forgotten what that word means, because it is precisely the lack of theatricality that characterizes U2’s studio career in the 2000s (even though they seem rather good at bringing it out when it comes to dreaming up Apple-branded marketing stunts, as questionable as they are effective).

Songs Of Innocence (2014) continues this negative trend, this near-total inability to turn music into visual suggestion. It lacks that vital multi-sensory quality that characterized all of their output up to 1997. Theatricality, precisely.

Danger Mouse’s production is powerful and at times even bold. The Edge limits his famous futuristic guitar riffing to only a few moments and even indulges in some grit reminiscent of Jack White/The Black Keys, though these moments remain marginal, for fear of going too far. Adam’s bass and Larry’s drums are so compressed that they merge into a single mass, which can be grating but is something U2 had never accustomed us to before. Bono is clearly the most engaged of the band (as is increasingly the case), but he’s now locked into the high, piercing timbre that has defined him in recent years, and he prefers to rely on this autopilot rather than search for new solutions that an expressive voice like his could offer through the cracks of age.

But the songs? For the most part, the songs simply aren’t there. “The Miracle (Of Joey Ramone)”, “California (There Is No End To Love)”, “Song For Someone”, “Iris (Hold Me Close)”, “Volcano” are disconcertingly all one single song, in which the latest-era Coldplay meet the latest-era Killers who meet the latest-era Editors, and together they all decide to make a B-sides record. The Beach Boys quotations and the mild Arcade Fire-style inspiration on “California” (swept away by a chorus even Chris Martin would have found too grating) aren’t enough; the resilient bass line of “Iris” isn’t enough, immediately swallowed up by a whirlwind of sound that makes it perhaps one of the ugliest songs the band has ever written; the sheer nerve of the Ramones tribute on opener “The Miracle” isn’t enough either.

Things improve when the band dares a little more, as on the vaguely experimental “Raised By Wolves”, the aggressive “Cedarwood Road”, with The Edge toying with an almost surf-rock guitar, or on “This Is Where You Can Reach Me Now”, an enjoyable tribute to the sound of The Clash, dedicated to Joe Strummer, which wouldn’t have been out of place on “War”. But even in these moments the band is searching for itself without managing to find itself, like a dog chasing its own tail.

Amid so much bad taste, the only track worth noting in the first half of the album is “Every Breaking Wave” (not coincidentally the oldest piece here: sketched out during the No Line On The Horizon sessions, it was played in a stripped-down version on the 360 tour): pandering just enough, it’s a sprawling piece of self-quotation that nonetheless has enough character to take flight.

Is that all? Does U2 crash so relentlessly against itself? Actually, no, because there is something that works, no ifs or buts. The closing “The Troubles” (featuring guest Lykke Li, who sounds a lot like Sinéad O’Connor) has the scent of Irishness and soul, and is rich with sampled violins over an aching trip-hop groove that opens up gorgeously in the chorus, underscored by The Edge’s lean, relaxed guitar. And above all, there’s “Sleep Like A Baby Tonight”. This song really is something else. As if U2 had found, at the bottom of some drawer, a bit of that magic dust of inspiration they were steeped in back in the mid-Nineties. Bono takes off his sunglasses and rediscovers all the charisma he’d left behind on the Zoo TV tour stage, showing off a self-deprecating falsetto, while a terrifyingly beautiful, heavily distorted guitar slithers along slowly like a reptile, between a sharply gentle Larry and an Adam at the top of his game.

The awareness that U2, while fully capable of writing great and evocative songs, have chosen by design to chase chart-friendly pop (in a pathetic attempt not to look like fifty-five-year-olds) permeates all of their recent output. There's nothing remotely "innocent" about this Songs Of Innocence. And speaking of which, the album's title references William Blake's collection "Songs Of Innocence and Experience." In fact, a second album, titled "Songs Of Experience," has already been announced by the band for the coming months. If their idea of experience is as sharply focused as their idea of innocence, a duet with Avicii is just around the corner.

Songs Of Experience represents the inverse peak of their journey, the apotheosis of a style they themselves have, if not invented, then certainly institutionalized over the last fifteen years: the pop-rock song marked by heavy use of choruses and a stiff, flat rhythmic base that invites mediocre dancing, sung by a voice that, having long lost its old splendor, has turned into something clinical, plastically suited to any occasion — much like the new songbook itself, now anonymous and devoid of any spark. It's a long, self-consciously tortured work that ultimately reveals itself as yet another attempt to come out on top, to position themselves as guides for a generation of listeners who are increasingly bored and simply looking for background noise. The back-and-forth with fellow travelers Coldplay also becomes obvious, if not blatant — a band both imitated and photocopied by Bono and co. over a now fifteen-year-long trajectory. Nothing is spared, least of all the lyrics, sermons of a dispiriting banality, where words are tamed and rendered palatable for anyone who doesn't dare to be too curious. Yet the story carries on in glory, buoyed by the affectionate support of fans and of a critical establishment that, barring a few isolated cases, applauds in disconcerting fashion.

Following the publication, by Bono Vox, of the book "Surrender: 40 canzoni, una storia", in late winter 2023 U2 decided to release a hefty compilation titled Songs Of Surrender, a sequence of forty historic tracks closely tied to the book edited by the frontman a few months earlier. The new arrangements, overseen personally by The Edge with the collaboration of Bob Ezrin, in most cases offer fresh interpretive keys to songs that had already been handed down to posterity with very different characteristics. The guitarist himself stated that the project began with the clear goal of examining the end result obtained on these songs once every structurally dispensable element had been stripped away.

Some tracks, even on first inspection, appeared better suited to the purpose and didn't require major stylistic overhauls: hits like "One," "With Or Without You," "All I Want Is You," "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," "Stuck In A Moment You Can't Get Out Of" and "Peace On Earth" retain, even here, that empathetic, magnetic pull already present in the refined original mixes, even if the final result feels rather negligible.

Then there are cases like "Pride," sung and played almost as if gathered round a campfire, "Vertigo," "Electrical Storm," the mournful "Sunday Bloody Sunday," the folk-tinged "I Will Follow" and "Desire," and even "The Fly," with its emblematic jab aimed at arrogant, know-it-all eternal smart-alecks — all of which manage to capture a hint of fresh perception.

"Walk On" deserves a separate mention: on this occasion given the subtitle "Ukraine," already presented by U2 in this new version with specially altered lyrics (not the only track on the list to receive this kind of change) in support of Global Citizen's "Stand Up For Ukraine" campaign, a fundraiser for the war-torn Ukrainian people that had involved numerous famous artists the previous year.

A year later, U2 decided that their Zoo TV Tour finally deserved a release, but Zoo Tv Live From Dublin 1993 (2024) is just a five-track EP that, while skillfully condensing the sonic energy and revolutionary charge of those shows, represents above all a missed opportunity: the chance to officially capture on record, for the first time (bootlegs aside), one of the most important live experiences in the Irish band's history.

A rather questionable move overall, one that squanders a great opportunity to produce the first major live album of their career since Under A Blood Red Sky.

Perhaps stung by the disappointing results of their recent studio efforts, today's U2 wisely prefer to look backward, piecing the puzzle back together as long as the overall picture still holds together.

This time it's about celebrating a twentieth anniversary, that of an album which at the time was met with a lukewarm reception (despite taking home 8 Grammys), but which, given what followed, might have deserved (perhaps) a bit more acclaim. How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb, released on November 22, 2004, resurfaces in a new edition, paired with "How To Re-Assemble An Atomic Bomb," a shadow album, as the Irish band themselves called it, in How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb (20th Anniversary) (2024).

Maybe it's down to the low standards that Bono and company have accustomed us to in recent years, but there does seem to be something worth salvaging here… Perhaps not the opening "Picture Of You (X+W)," raw and brash, which is also one of two tracks — along with "Happiness" — where the specter of the atomic bomb that gives the album its title surfaces, a true obsession for U2 ever since the days of "The Unforgettable Fire."

On the musical front, there was nonetheless a clear goal: to return to rock with a more guitar-oriented sound, after the pop and syrupy ballads of All That You Can't Leave Behind. In this respect, though, it's better to turn to the vibrant "Evidence Of Life," which brings The Edge's chiming guitars back to the fore and, together with "Country Mile" and "Happiness," is one of the collection's completely unreleased songs. This last track, presented as a sort of "single" from the "shadow album," revives the bass-guitar-drums rock formula, with Bono's "yeah"s recapturing the adrenaline of "Vertigo" (the lead single from the main album) amid acidic distortion and dancefloor groove.

But what really reignites the flame of the Unforgettable Fire is above all the lengthy "Luckiest Man In The World," known to fans under its working title "Mercy": an early demo that leaked online almost twenty years ago and is now officially released, bringing to light a stunning vocal performance from Bono over a molten mass of guitars. All things considered, "Are You Gonna Wait Forever?", released as the B-side of "Vertigo," would also have deserved a spot on the official tracklist: an anthem of hope and perseverance in which Edge's guitar energy fuses with a chorus that captures U2 at their most radio-friendly.

On the more intimate side, "I Don't Wanna See You Smile" deserves a mention, with its delicate arrangement and melancholy nature, which, combined with a stripped-down production, allows Bono's voice to come through with real authenticity. More curious are the experiments of "Treason," originally written and recorded with Dave Stewart (Eurythmics), with its driving rhythm and sly guitar in the vein of "Mysterious Ways," and "Theme From The Batman," a brief solo instrumental by The Edge recorded for a cartoon.

"An immediate response to current events." That's what U2 stated at the launch of Days of Ash. The Irish band resurfaces unexpectedly three years after yet another lackluster showing on Songs of Surrender, with a six-song EP "inspired by the many extraordinary and courageous people fighting on the front lines for freedom."

Given the premises outlined above, Bono and co. spend the whole record steering toward a West sodomized by a lying, warmongering, classist ruling class, intersecting in no uncertain terms with the grim drama of the present, starting with the opening track “American Obituary,” nomen omen for a condition that has become unsustainable and is now plain for all to see. The reference is to Renee Good, the activist and poet brutally and senselessly killed during a controversial anti-immigration ICE raid on January 7, 2026. And they do it with a song that brings the four Irishmen back to something like the glories of “All That You Can't Leave Behind,” perhaps the band's last album with a pop-rock charge still worth mentioning, before the great musical vacuum that has, alas, defined them for the last twenty-five years, amid insipid ditties and dreadfully uninspired releases.

Having breathed that first sigh of relief, the following “The Tears of Things” does even better: it's a bittersweet acoustic ballad that builds melancholically in its second half, in which U2 namecheck Mussolini, David and Michelangelo for a cryptic invective that, with newfound poetry, denounces the barbarities being perpetrated in Gaza.

“These tracks on the EP couldn't wait; these songs were impatient to be released. They're songs of defiance and dismay, of lament,” said Bono in a statement. Produced by the ever-reliable Jacknife Lee, who also appears directly as a featured guest on the interlude “Wildpeace” alongside electro-soul singer Adeola, Days of Ash marks an unexpected return to form for U2.

“We keep looking to vivid rock and roll as an act of resistance against all this horror we see on our little screens.” So says Bono Vox in a statement issued as U2's spokesperson, explaining the need for Easter Lily, the Irish band's second surprise EP, released on April 3, 2026 — Good Friday, to be precise. A choice in keeping with the group's Easter-themed approach, having already surprise-released a first EP, Days oh Ash, on February 18, Ash Wednesday.

The title immediately brings something else to mind too: a heartfelt tribute to Patti Smith and one of her masterpieces, as Bono himself explains: “Her album Easter gave me so much hope when it came out in 1978. I wasn't even 18 yet.” And further: “With 'Easter Lily' we asked ourselves some very personal questions, like: Do our relationships hold up in these difficult times? How hard do we fight for friendship? Can our faith survive the distortion of meaning that those algorithms love to reward? Is all religion garbage that keeps destroying us? Or can answers be found in its cracks? Are there ceremonies, rituals, dances that we're missing in our lives?”

If the thematic premises behind the six songs on U2's second EP of the year are as spiritual as they are existential, the music once again points to an unexpected rebirth. Starting with The Edge's guitar in the opening moments of “Song for Hal,” which sounds almost like it stepped straight out of the band's finest years.

The first song on Easter Lily is dedicated to Hal Willner, U2's longtime collaborator who died in 2020 from Covid complications. It's a deeply felt, at times epic tribute, preceding the equally accomplished “In A Life,” which too was very likely pulled from a drawer of memories kept shut for far too long.

U2 really do seem reborn, at least in part and without any overreaching ambition, especially given the melodic quality and the absence of crowd-pleasing formulas that set it apart from everything they've been in recent years and beyond. It's as if they'd rediscovered body and soul to voice their dissent against a shameful era, overflowing with obscenity and simply insane and inhuman political choices. “Resurrection Song” taps, right from its title, into a feeling of hope, a search for a possible paradise. The Edge is by far the most inspired of the four, weaving textures once again worthy of his reputation.

Brian Eno also makes a welcome reappearance on the closing “Coexist (I Will Bless The Lord At All Times?)” — the track's intro alone makes that clear — before Bono launches into his latest sermon in the guise of a lost preacher, amid children and mothers to be blessed and drones circling with no awareness whatsoever. It's a dirge over an ambient bed, conceived as a prayer, that brings a fine EP produced by Jacknife Lee to a fitting close. Without a doubt the best run of songs the four of them have put together in at least twenty years.

Contributions by Silvia Tabellini (“Boy,” “October”), Sigfrido Menghini (“Under A Blood Red Sky”), Edoardo Frasso (“Achtung Baby,” “Songs Of Innocence”), Marco Santoro (“Zooropa”), Paolo Sforza (“How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb”), Ciro Frattini (“No Line On The Horizon”), Cristiano Orlando (“Songs Of Surrender”), Giuliano Delli Paoli (“Days Of Ash,” “Easter Lily”)

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