Killing Bono (4 page)

Adam Clayton arrived at Mount Temple in 1976 and made an immediate impact. There was his dress sense, for one thing. The school did not have a uniform policy but among the pullovers and anoraks that passed for teen fashion in Dublin in the late seventies Adam's long Afghan coat with shaggy trimmings and decorative stitched flowers certainly stood out. He would, from time to time, sport a caftan beneath this beloved garment and went through a phase of wearing a yellow workman's helmet on top of his mop of blond curls.

Adam was a gangly, upper-middle-class English boy with an insouciant line in faux sophistication that seemed to implicitly suggest he had already “been there, seen that, done it” at the age of not-so-sweet sixteen. He had certainly been to more places and seen and done more than most of his contemporaries at Mount Temple, arriving at school fresh from a holiday in Pakistan, where he had hung out with hippies, smoked joints and engaged in a torrid romantic affair (or so he claimed). Adam had a rebellious, confrontational attitude toward authority that was only mildly disguised by his broad smile and impeccable manners. He carried a flask of coffee around with him, from which he would pour himself cups during lessons. When asked by exasperated teachers what he thought he was up to, he would politely explain that he was having a cup of coffee, always remembering to add “sir” or “miss' where appropriate. Adam was unfailingly courteous but determined to go his own way—which was often straight to detention.

The last of the future superstars was Larry Mullen. He was in the year below mine, and was a handsome, self-contained blond kid who, at that stage, simply did not register on any of our consciousnesses. But Larry was the start of it all.

In autumn 1976, during my second year at Mount Temple, a notice appeared on the board in the Mall, the corridor that ran the length of the principal school building where we used to hang out. “Drummer looking for musicians to form band. Contact Larry Mullen, third year.” At thirteen, my brother was a year below Larry, but, as the proud possessor of a Teisco Stratocaster–copy electric guitar, Ivan was invited to audition. On Saturday, September 25, 1976, he turned up at Larry's modest semidetached house in Artane along with Paul, Adam, Dave and his elder brother, Dick Evans.

So that's Ivan McCormick, right? Despite spending most of his life as a musician, being present at the early rehearsals for the group that would become U2 is Ivan's sole claim to anything approaching fame. And then a sloppy biographer handed it to his older brother, robbing him of even this footnote in rock history. So I am happy to have this opportunity to set the record straight. My brother was the loser who let superstardom slip through his careless fingers, not me.

The assembled ranks of would-be rock stars crowded into the Mullens' kitchen to discuss their plans over tea and crackers. It was, as Ivan recalls, quickly agreed by everyone present that they were ready and willing to form a group. The names of groups such as Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple and Fleetwood Mac—all of whom Ivan had only the faintest conception of—were bandied about as worthy influences. Ivan felt nervous and out of his depth, being by some way the youngest person present, but his trump card was that he had the most handsome guitar, clean and modern with a bright white and red body, which everyone admired. Dave Evans, meanwhile, had a small white acoustic which his mother had bought secondhand for the princely sum of £1 (without strings). But, using Ivan's electric, Dave demonstrated that he could play the solo from Irish rock hero Rory Gallagher's “Blister on the Moon,” which put him in pole position for the role of lead guitarist.

His brother, Dick, was the eldest, at seventeen. He had left school the previous year and, as if to signify his adult status, sported an outcrop of facial hair which he unconvincingly attempted to pass off as a beard. He had brought along a strange-looking object with a body shape that was apparently supposed to resemble a swan in flight, hand-painted bright yellow. Dick had constructed this instrument himself in the shed at the bottom of his garden, following instructions in an issue of
Everyday Electronics
magazine. The resulting instrument sounded about as convincing as it looked but at least Dick could play chords and hold down a rhythm. This was more than could be said for Paul, who had a big, battered acoustic which he tackled with energy and gusto rather than anything approaching skill or finesse. But Paul made up for his lack of musical skills with his sense of passion and conviction, already talking as if they were a band and not just an ill-sorted gathering of schoolboys.

With four guitarists squeezing in between the fridge and the bread-bin, the designated rhythm section comprised Adam (who owned a cheap Ibanez-copy bass, which he couldn't actually play but could certainly talk about) and Larry, who had opened the kitchen doors to create space in which to set up his drum kit, half in the kitchen and half in a small conservatory precariously attached to the back of the house. In these odd circumstances the meeting concluded with a chaotic jam session involving wobbly renditions of the Rolling Stones classics “Brown Sugar” and “Satisfaction.” There were too many guitarists, not enough amplification and no consensus as to the correct chord sequences of the songs being played, but none of that seemed to matter. A new star had appeared in the rock 'n' roll firmament. For these plucky individuals—well, some of them, anyway—nothing would be the same again.

Ivan returned home on the 31 bus to announce that he had joined a new band. They were going to be called Feedback (allegedly a reference to the whining noise that emerged when Adam plugged his bass into a guitar amp). I noted this news with only a modicum of concern. If the name was anything to go by, this lot were going to be even less impressive (if perhaps more audibly so) than Electronic Wizard.

My thespian career was advancing, albeit at a much slower pace than I would have liked. I attended drama classes on Saturday afternoons and experienced a moment of encouragement when I won an acting competition known as the Father Matthew
Feis
(pronounced “fesh,” Gaelic for “entertainment.” I have no idea who Father Matthew was but presumably he liked to have a good time). It was a hideous affair, characterized by rampant overacting, with starry-eyed juveniles racing energetically about every inch of the stage as if convinced the theatrical arts were a branch of the Olympics. When my turn came I stood stock-still in the central spotlight. I would like to say that this was a carefully contrived dramatic device, but actually my legs were trembling so much I was afraid that if I moved I would fall over. It was my first time in front of a large audience and when the applause began my ego took a direct hit from a bolt of lightning. I staggered off dazed with happiness, physically buzzing from the adrenaline rush. This was everything I had ever dreamed about, especially when the results were announced and I was beckoned back on stage to receive a medal for first prize. The principal judge, an obscure drama critic whose authority was undisputed simply on the grounds that she had come all the way from England, whispered to me that my performance was the only interesting thing she had seen all day. Could it get any better than this? Well, yes, actually. On the citation I received she had written: “A performance of powerful understatement and great control. This boy has immense talent—please look after him.”

But nobody did look after me. Nobody would ever look after me. Not that I guessed that then, otherwise I might have had the good sense to jack it all in and concentrate on my technical drawing or some other useful subject. I remained convinced that stardom was my destiny, although I was a little disillusioned to discover that a commendation from Father Matthew counted for very little in Hollywood.

Ivan continued to attend rehearsals for Feedback in the school music room after hours. He was tolerated by the older boys primarily because of his guitar, which Dave would liberate him of for the duration of the sessions, leaving Ivan to strum inaudibly on Dave's cheap acoustic. Dick had been told he could stay in the fold on the proviso that he got himself a decent instrument, preferably one not constructed in his garden shed. Adam had his bass and therefore his position was assured—all he had to do was learn how to play it. But Adam, at least, had attitude, confidence and all the right buzzwords. With a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, he would talk about sorting out some “gigs” by making the right “connections.” They needed “good management” and to “go on the road,” apparently, if they were ever going to “land a deal.” It all sounded good to the others, even if they had only the vaguest idea what he was banging on about.

Paul was another matter. He was really a frustrated musician. He simply could not get his guitar to do anything he wanted it to do, so would usually abandon it and instead expend his considerable energy attempting to almost magically summon, coax and cajole music from the others. During an endless jam of Deep Purple's “Smoke on the Water” (a song Ivan was hearing for the first time), Ivan was astonished to see Paul get down on his hands and knees in front of Dave as he played the famous riff, holding his fingers in front of Dave's fingers, as if he was trying to play the guitar himself without actually touching it. Paul assumed the role of organizer, telling everyone what they were going to play and how they would tackle it yet actually contributing little himself. He would sing along as best he could, struggling to find the right notes, but without a microphone his vocal limitations were not immediately apparent to anyone other than himself. As the biggest character in the group he began to assume the role of frontman.

Excited about the band, Ivan decided to invest in a new amplifier and blew his entire savings of £12 on a secondhand Falcon Combo. That very evening, as he sat at home fiddling with his new purchase, sending feedback howling through the house, he was summoned to the telephone by our mother. Apparently there was a very well-spoken young man on the line who urgently needed to talk to him. It was Adam. He wanted to know if Ivan had bought the amp because of the group.

“Yes,” said Ivan.

“I wish you'd spoken to me first,” said Adam, improvising wildly. “You see, the band has got a gig…”

“That's great,” said Ivan, enthusiastically. On the road at last.

“The thing is, it's in a pub,” said Adam. “And, you know, you're too young to get into pubs.”

“Oh,” said Ivan.

“In fact, all the gigs we'll be getting will be in pubs,” said Adam. “And you won't be able to play any of them.”

“I see,” said Ivan.

“I knew you'd understand,” said Adam. “Look, no hard feelings, eh?”

Even at thirteen, Ivan knew when he was being given the elbow, however diplomatically. He put the phone down in a state of utter dejection and went back to his guitar and amp, turning the volume up to the max and losing himself in a wall of noise.

There was, of course, no pub and certainly no gig. The group could barely string a whole song together, so attempting to deliver an entire set would have been premature to say the least. But, as rehearsals began to illuminate everyone's strengths and weaknesses, so the band began to settle into a core lineup of Larry on drums, Adam on bass, Paul on vocals, Dave on lead guitar and Dick on rhythm guitar. In fact Dick, too, was not really wanted by his bandmates, but he simply ignored any intimations that he might be surplus to requirements and continued to attend rehearsals until he had established himself as a member.

His pride wounded, Ivan neglected to inform the family of this new development. The truth did not emerge for weeks, until Stella asked Paul how he was getting along with her little brother and Paul, rather embarrassed, admitted they had kicked him out.

“Why didn't you tell us?” asked my astonished father.

“It doesn't matter anyway,” said Ivan, defensively. “They're crap. I'm going to start my own group.”

My acting career was not progressing any better. My parents like to proudly tell people that their son was once in a play in the prestigious Gate Theater with the venerable Irish thespian Cyril Cusack. What they neglect to add was that after two performances I was sacked for missing my cue. I thought the part was beneath me, anyway. I had no lines and was really a glorified stagehand whose sole purpose was to move furniture for the other actors. As far as I was concerned, anybody could have done it (well, anybody apart from me, it would seem). I craved the physical rush of performing in front of an audience, the ego buzz of recognition by other human beings allied to the strange sense of power that coursed through your body as you held strangers in your spell by sheer force of will. I wanted to utter speeches that resonated in my soul and made sense of my complex internal world. “To be or not to be?” That was the question I wanted to ask, almost the only question that mattered. I wanted to be Hamlet. But I couldn't even land a part in a burger commercial, when it was deemed that my mixed Scottish and Irish accent might be confusing to viewers. The director was not impressed when I suggested that the phrase “Mmm, deeeee-licious!” would have sounded equally lame in any accent.

I resolved to solve my casting problems by writing plays myself. As the 1976 autumn term drew to a close it was announced that a talent contest would be staged in the school gymnasium. This, I decided, would be the ideal opportunity to demonstrate my writing and acting skills. And so, with a couple of friends, I concocted a short comic play, which involved our teachers being put on trial for crimes against humanity. The parts were filled by various classmates, with the juicy role of judge being kept for myself. Banging my gavel to sentence unpopular teachers to a variety of extravagant punishments was sure to prove a crowd-pleaser. We had a run-through the week before for our avuncular form tutor, Mr. Moxham, who was sufficiently impressed to schedule our production as the grand finale on the condition that we went gently on his character and removed certain of our more cruel and tasteless gags.