The fallout from Janet Jackson’s infamous “wardrobe malfunction” back in 2004 ensured subsequent acts were chosen for their family-friendly appeal. That meant older, less threatening rockers like U2, Bruce Springsteen and Tom Petty got the call, while Lady Gaga was left to watch the game at home on her big screen TV.

That, inexplicably enough, leads us to Madonna. The Material Girl will be performing at the Super Bowl halftime show Feb. 5 along with Cirque du Soleil.

Madonna has come a long way, baby.

The 50-something songstress started her career as a flashy – but mostly clean – singer belting out hits like “Borderline” and “Lucky Star.” She quickly ramped up her sex appeal, published a naughty coffee table book and incorporated all manner of lewd behavior into her stage act.

In short, she reveled in shocking us early and often, and the media couldn’t get enough of her. Then, motherhood came calling, and suddenly Madonna seemed more interested in writing children’s books than offending the masses.

The Super Bowl gig means Madonna has come full circle. It’s a sign of maturation, both professional and personal, and an understanding that shock value has a limited shelf life.

They were talking about breaking up over “artistic differences.”

—–

The new Showtime documentary ‘From the Sky Down,’ debuting at 8 p.m. EST Oct. 29, recalls how the band’s 1991 album ‘Achtung Baby’ restored their faith in each other while cementing their rock god status.

The film may not convert those immune to the band’s arena rock anthems or those who find their socially conscious pose hypocritical given their affinity for tax shelters.

Frankly, director Davis Guggenheim (‘An Inconvenient Truth,’ ‘Waiting for ‘Superman”) isn’t interested in expanding the band’s fan base nor exploring universal themes. It’s a portrait of a band in crisis, one which focuses like a laser on how the U2 sound came to be.

‘From the Sky Down,’ which opened the Toronto International Film Festival, begins with U2 rehearsing for a Glastonbury concert to feature songs from ‘Achtung Baby.’ It’s the Spring of 2011, and the rockers are in a reflective mood.

“There is a moment when it’s dysfunctional not to look back at the past,” says Bono, a veritable fountain of tasty sound bites.

So Guggenheim flips the calendar back to the band’s earliest days, when a simple pub band from Dublin first hit American shores. We see more than an act conquering a nation. We watch as the quartet embraces America, both its people and musical spirit. The latter, culminating in the disappointing concert film ‘U2: Rattle & Hum,’ shook the band’s confidence.

“You start to believe what people are saying about you,” Bono recalls of the film’s mediocre notices. “Maybe this is the end.’

The band eventually regrouped and, inspired by the collapse of the Berlin Wall, shook up their formula the best way they knew how.

“Making ‘Achtung Baby’ was the reason we’re still here now, the pivot point. Either we’re going forward, or this is the moment when we’re going to implode,” Bono says.

‘From the Sky Down’ may be one of the best X-rays of a band’s musical process. We watch group members noodling over the smallest song details, hear Bono scat singing in rehearsal and watch as musical keys float on the screen.

That minutiae, initially fascinating, starts suffocating the film’s entertainment value. Even diehard fans might beg for another irresistible Bono quote to bring some humanity back into the narrative.

Far better are scenes debunking the band’s oh-so-serious image. We watch Bono and co. strike rock star poses for ‘The Joshua Tree’ album cover against their better judgment, mumbling about how silly the whole process feels. And the film’s detour to Berlin to witness history proves both practical and a singular inspiration.

‘From the Sky Down,’ part of a massive U2 repackaging of ‘Achtung Baby’ coming Nov. 1, is a purist’s delight. With a little tweaking, it might have gone down as one of the more instructive rock documentaries of the modern era.

I understand where it comes from. Musicians usually become Rockstars by appealing to the common man. When they become rich and famous, they have to find ways to appeal to the demographic they abandoned. So they take up causes. Sheryl Crow feigns concern about the environment, for example, even though the energy required for just one tour could satisfy the energy needs of a small American city.

When Bruce Springsteen started singing about blue-collar teenage angst, he was an angry blue-collar guy, barely out of his teens. His jeans would fade from hauling amps, just like any other working stiff. A billion dollars later, he has to work hard to remember the old days; and like most Grammy winning musicians, has a Guatemalan sweatshop put holes in his jeans.

Unlike the other European Rockstars of the eighties (who are forgotten, but for their haircuts), U2 frontman Bono has been able to keep himself relevant for a generation with his Saint Bono routine. He is not just a champion of the working class, he is the superhero for the impoverished and oppressed peoples of the world. He has met with presidents and dictators, leaders of every political and religious stripe, and set up programs where you can still be a commercialist with a conscience by buying a Red™ iPod. He successfully petitioned 23 nations to forgive Third World debt; debt that will eventually have to be picked up by the taxpayers of those 23 nations.

But the truth is, he is, deep down still a Rockstar. Like any human, he wants to keep as much of what he earned to himself. So when we learn that Bono is moving his publishing facilities to a friendlier tax haven, the only question should be: why didn’t he leave years ago? (Actually that one is pretty easy to answer: Artists were granted full tax exemptions on royalties in Ireland; until the financial crisis made them reform their tax policies, and they capped the exemption at €250,000 in 2006.)

But for thousands of true believers, who think we can tax our way to social paradise, Saint Bono’s defection has been a rude awakening. Protesters plan to stage demonstrations during an upcoming U2 show Jun 24. Which shouldn’t be a surprise. The only question should be: why didn’t fans protest five years ago? This major Bono disappointment actually predates “Spiderman: Turn Off The Dark” by four years. (Actually that one is pretty easy to answer too: Pot.)

What these protestors do not understand is despite their ragged appearances, U2 is a billion dollar industry. He isn’t the first Rockstar to display such hypocrisy: John Lennon, who once asked the world to “Imagine no possessions,” moved to NYC in 1975 so he could keep a little more of his own; the nation of Lennon’s birth was more than happy to relieve him of excess possessions.  Mick and the boys took Rolling Stones Inc. to France about the same time, to avoid England’s 83% marginal rate. The Rolling Stones now keep their songboooks in the Netherlands, where royalties compound virtually tax free, and will be handed down to their long impatient heirs without a death tax.

Which is where Bono went. I really don’t begrudge them that. The Netherlands favorable royalties tax has been attracting musicians for years. (Oh yeah, they also have legal pot.) Burdensome tax policy does more to hurt a nation than to help it. Divided equally among the citizenry, U2s entire net worth would only buy a couple dozen pints per Irishman. Certainly having U2 stay in Ireland is better for the economy. They invest capital into the nation which create jobs rather than welfare programs, refurbishing the rundown Clarence Hotel, among other things.

It is disappointing that Bono did not move his publishing empire to America. We are a nation founded on the rights of property, so it would be a natural fit. Something is drastically wrong that our nation no longer serves as a tax haven for wealthy artistic refugees from Europe and Canada. There is something unfavorable about America, and I really don’t think you can blame George Bush for that.

—–

Actors’ Equity Association, the theatrical actors union, has finally stepped in and pulled its members from the production until significant changes are made to the show’s special effects.  The show’s press representative has announced that they plan to re-open Wednesday night, but insiders say it will be difficult to make that deadline.

Broadway professionals who are accustomed to dealing with Actors’ Equity Association on a regular basis have been wondering when the union would finally step in and perform the fundamental role they have always claimed to play: protector of the safety of their members.  In an era where producers are forced to hire full-time massage therapists for chorus dancers and must pay hazard premiums to actors who perform on a raked (slanted) stage, it is an outrage that Mr. Tierney was the fourth actor to sustain an injury in this ill-conceived stage extravaganza.

Of course, ultimately the responsibility for this debacle is a combination of a stubborn, visionary director and a weak, inexperienced producer willing to accommodate her every desire.  But, in the traditional roles of the collaborating entities that make up a Broadway Musical team, the director and producer have never pretended to have the actors’ safety and well-being as their primary focus.  That sanctimonious position has been held by the actors’ union which often holds productions hostage for hazard pay, extra staffing and special make-up to protect the pores of the actors in their charge.

I’m a supporter of the free market and the rights of employers to basically call the shots for their employees’ work conditions.  I also support the other side of the free market which dictates that if an employer can’t provide a safe work environment, they have to deal with the fact that it will be very hard to find someone to work for them, and they are sure to be met with a hefty lawsuit if their employee gets injured due to their negligence.  But, years ago the actors’ union threw a wrench in to the free market ebb and flow between employer and employee and took on the role of grand protector of the actors’ safety and rights.  So one has to ask, where were they?  How did this show continue to go on?

I’m sure the union had a strong presence at the theatre during rehearsals and the lengthy preview process, and I hear through insiders associated with the production that there were moments of near-mutiny with cast members refusing to accommodate Taymor’s vision of a special effects, rock-and-roll extravaganza for fear of their lives.

As I said before, ultimately this is the fault of the director and the accommodating producers.  With Ms. Taymor, I am really disappointed.  She made history with her imaginative staging of Disney’s “Lion King” with her ground-breaking costumes that represented African animals in a very theatrical and surrealistic way.  She seemed to understand that when adapting a film to the stage, it is a horrible trap to try to re-create the film frame-by-frame.  It can’t be done.  It is a different medium.  Instead, Taymor re-invented and re-imagined “Lion King” for the theatrical stage.

So, what went wrong here?  Why did Ms. Taymor try to re-create flying and climbing stunts on stage with real actors that were actually performed by CGI creatures on film?  My hunch is the producer gave her a blank check and told her to go for it.

Michael Cohl is a first-time solo producer.  He has three theatre credits to his name, as a partner with a producing entity called TGA Entertainment.  Mr. Cohl’s background is a concert promoter and he was brought in as producer by the show’s composer, Bono of U2.  Mr. Cohl had promoted many of U2’s concerts.  As Mr. Cohl is now learning, Broadway ain’t concert promotion.

As long as rookie producers are willing to sycophantically accommodate diva writers and directors’ unrealistic and ill-conceived visions, disasters like this (and Shrek, the musical) will continue.

First, there was the departure of director Sam Raimi and his crew from the lucrative Spider-Man movie franchise. Raimi had helmed three episodes of the block-buster series that has earned an estimated $1 billion worldwide. And despite what many fans felt was a lack-luster third movie, there was never any doubt that Raimi – a Spider-Man fan from way back – perfectly translated to film the heart of the Spider-Man universe, which was always the character of Peter Parker and his relationships with the women in his life, especially Aunt May and long-time love Mary Jane.

Despite his spectacular success, however, Sony studios didn’t trust Raimi to make his movies the way he wanted, and reportedly made life so miserable for him that he walked. Instantly, the studio announced that they would be rebooting the franchise with a new director and crew, sending Peter Parker back to high school and re-casting the story with trendy young actors and promising (sigh) that the new Spidey will be delivered in 3D.

Great.

This lamentable focus on youth and style over story and character is not limited to Spider-Man, of course. Raimi’s first two Spidey films may have been shot in 2D, but the characters were so well written and acted that the story felt 3D. But never mind. Like everything else, the new Spidey must be targeted to teens and tweens, who don’t know from story and couldn’t care less about plot (witness the Twilight abominations).

Then, of course there is the disastrous Spider-Man musical currently stinking up Broadway, which features music by U2’s Bono and The Edge. When I first heard about this musical, I though, “Hmmm…I love Spider-Man; I love U2. That sounds like the worst fucking idea I’ve ever heard.”

And sure enough Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark, which has been in the works for a decade and is on track to be the most expensive debacle in Broadway history, has been plagued with cost over-runs, script and cast problems, and a frightening number of safety issues which have seriously endangered the crew. The latest mishap involves stunt-man Christopher Tierney. According to MTV’s Splash Page,

“…something went wrong in Tierney’s preparation for a cable stunt that saw the actor plummet an approximate 20 feet to the ground from an onstage bridge. Tienery broke several ribs in the process and is still reportedly in serious condition at New York’s Bellevue Hospital.”

The show’s official opening has been put off countless times due to these and other problems, and is now scheduled to open in February (don’t hold your breath). Reports from those who have seen preview shows indicate that the stunts are magnificent when they work (they often don’t), but that the plot is an incoherent mess. The New York Post’s Michael Riedel reported on one advanced screening:

“Stunned audience members were left scratching their heads over the confusing plot — when they weren’t ducking for cover from falling equipment and dangling actors at the Foxwoods Theatre on West 42nd Street… At various points, overhead stage wires dropped on the audience, scenery appeared on stage missing pieces — and the show’s star was even left swaying helplessly over them midair during what was supposed to be the climatic end to the first act.”

To add insult to injury, the “original” songs composed by Bono and The Edge which I have heard sound like little more than retreads of any number of old U2 songs. I’m sure they got a nice fat check for raiding the U2 catalogue, though the enterprise further degraded the Irish quartet’s musical legacy, already sagging from overuse in political campaigns and movie trailers.

The whole thing makes me sick. So recently I cracked open a soft-bound collection of old Spider-Man comics written by Stan Lee himself and drawn by the great Steve Ditko. And damn, if those stories aren’t solid after all these years – lots of action, lots of heart, and surprisingly sophisticated story arcs. It reminded me of why I fell in love with Spidey in the first place.

One can only hope the executives at Sony and on Broadway will do the same.

They were still M.C.’s. 

The full album opens with a “Cheap Trick” vocal sample, “This next one…is the first song…on our newwwwwww albummmm”, and then goes right into a Jimi Hendrix sample. “Check Your Head” is a sonic masterpiece (in my opinion, anti-sampling crowd), mixing hardcore punk and hip hop, with some funky instrumentals thrown in. The album was a success; the Beasties were back, at least with the college crowd. It’s unfair to say that the lyrics had lost something, they were still very funny guys, referencing everything from Walt “Clyde” Frazier’s autobiography, to Vic the Cleaner from Luc Besson’s “La Femme Nikita.” In the wake of Licensed to Ill, gone out and bought their hardcore stuff, “Pollywog Stew,” and even found a copy of “Cookie Puss.” Even on these crappy recordings, you could sense the fun they were having. Having grown to love punk music as well, partially because of “Pollywog Stew,” I remain a fan of that side of “Check Your Head.”  

The album marks the appearance of something new from the Beasties: cynicism. Not that it’s a downer. It’s a non-stop party, but one laced with lyrics such as: “I’m not sure what it takes to be hip. A lot of people making music that to me ain’t shit.” Clearly, this was a response to the backlash against them, which culminated in lukewarm sales for “Paul’s Boutique.” On the aforementioned “Professor Booty,” Yauch gets personal. Though the source of his venom has never been officially “outed,” his verse in the song is pretty obviously aimed at 3rd Bass, and MC Serch specifically. This is what is known in the hip hop world as a diss track, and it was a first for the Beasties. 

The reviews were wildly mixed. Rolling Stone slipped off the bandwagon only a little bit, but Entertainment Weekly, acting as though “Paul’s Boutique” never happened, rather prematurely declared “Licensed to Ill will have to stand as the Beastie Boys’ shining hour.” The album gathered steam, and the Beasties released several singles. The “Check Your Head” b-sides represent some of their finest work. The “So What’cha Want?” b-side featured a remix with Cypress Hill – their street cred was slowly creeping back to them. It also featured a track on which they again have a brush with politics, “Skills to Pay the Bills.” Mike D. raps, “It’s 1992 and still no one to vote for.” Not very clever, but I remember loving that they didn’t endorse anyone. The videos that accompanied the singles were entertaining, though they had yet to team with a certain bratty director of skateboard videos to achieve total video greatness. 

They toured. Small at first, nothing like the over-excess of their Licensed to Ill Tour, they played little theatres around the country. I missed them on the first leg, at Center Stage Theatre in Atlanta. But they came back, this time to the Georgia State University gymnasium. I didn’t even know Georgia State had a basketball team, but I was down. I’m pretty sure my girlfriend bought the tickets, and as we drove down to Atlanta, I was more excited than I had ever been to see a concert. 

Since the tenth grade, I was down to see just about any band live. My concert-going experience had run the gamut from what could be considered cool (U2, R.E.M. Violent Femmes), to square (Don’t make me say it. Okay. Fine. Debbie Gibson. There. I said it.), to the hip to be square (Huey Lewis and the News). I had seen Pearl Jam in a field, and Nirvana at the 40 Watt, when I was too dorky to know who they were. Never had I been so excited to see a band perform than I was for B.E.A.S.T.I.E. (what up, Mike D.?). 

I’m not impartial on this. It’s like asking Michael Moore for an unfiltered unbiased critique of health care and doughnuts. They blew my mind. It was a small gym, no reserved seating, and it was amazing. A quibble, the Beastie Boys think waaaaay too much of their funky instrumentals. This is a weakness that would mar not only their live shows, but subsequent albums as well. Actually, I put up with it on “Check Your Head,” because of the novelty. But I quickly lost my taste for them when my girlfriend told me to. 

I don’t think at the time anyone would call “Check Your Head” a huge success, more of a slow build. LL Cool J would certainly advise against calling it a comeback, but it was an announcement of sorts. The Beasties would not fall off the radar again. Next week, I’ll devote some bandwidth to “Ill Communication,” the album which saw the Beastie Boys solidify their foothold in 1990’s pop culture. 

Check Your Head: 1992

Best Songs: Jimmy James, So What’cha Want?, Professor Booty, Time for Livin’, Finger Lickin’ Good, Skills to Pay the Bills (B-side, So What’cha Want)

Cool Samples: Cheap Trick, Bob Dylan, EPMD, Ted Nugent

Political references: One, that I remember, on a B-side (wait…does the inclusion of a Ted Nugent sample count?)

Cam’s Rating: In 1992, 5 stars. In 2010, 5 stars.

It Might Get Loud’s central conceit is simple and elegant in principle, but surprisingly messy and complex on screen: Take three eminent guitarists of differing styles and generations, interview them individually, get them to open up about their relationship with their instrument and then, for the film’s climax, throw them together on a sound-stage surrounded by guitars and see what happens.

Guggenheim’s choice of guitarists is a surprising one that somehow makes sense; Jack White of The White Stripes and The Raconteurs (in his 30’s), The Edge of U2 (in his 40’s), and Jimmy Page of The Yardbirds and Led Zeppelin (in his 60’s).

The three musicians’ contrasting philosophies make for a fascinating musical study, as well as some unintentionally amusing moments: Page in one scene is shown lovingly caressing his Les Paul, comparing it to a woman, deserving of reverence and respect; White, meanwhile, sees his guitar as essentially an antagonist, a thing to be fought and conquered, and is shown repeatedly doing just that, bloodying his hands in nightly battle with his red and white axes. In another scene, Edge is shown talking about the impetus for both the formation of U2 and his own notoriously minimalist playing style – in the 70’s, he says, rock got too big and self-indulgent, with the kind of endless guitar and drum solos parodied to such great effect in This Is Spinal Tap. Of course Edge knows, but is too polite to mention, that Led Zeppelin was both prime instigator and practitioner of the grandiosity he laments.

Another fascinating juxtaposition: Edge makes a fetish of technology, explaining in great detail the many and varied pedals, amps, dials, and diodes required to transform his limited number of plucked notes into the soaring U2 anthems we know and love. Meanwhile, White is sneeringly suspicious of digital technology, and carefully guards his soul and music from its polluting effects by choosing for his instruments old, cheap, barely tunable creatures of wood and plastic.

The personalities of the three men are likewise contrapuntal: White practically stoops under the weight of the chip on his shoulder; Edge is calm, almost serene, even as he discusses the frustration of the compositional process. And Page…Page seems unsettled, even haunted. But more on that in a moment.

The highlight of the film, of course, is the much heralded “summit,” when the three men come together on a Los Angeles sound stage. The meeting is initially awkward, but soon they are loosening up, showing one another their songs, talking about the music they made and which made them. At one point, Page stands and starts playing the riff to “Whole Lotta Love,” to White and Edge’s giddy delight. Edge tries, with limited success, to teach Page to play “I Will Follow” (“Are you sure about that chord?” Page asks). White plays “Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground” for his elders, whose faces betray admiration and affection for their younger colleague. And when the three of them jam on “In My Time of Dying”…well, magic as only music can make.

It Might Get Loud is filled with such lovely moments. Guggenheim’s triumph is finding ways to illuminate not only the minds of these men, but the music which animates them: White surrounded by misty mountains builds a guitar out of a board, nails, wire, and a coke bottle; Edge travels to the school where he first met his band-mates some 30 years ago, pointing out the billboard where the notice for musicians was first posted; Page explains his “light and shade” compositional philosophy at home by picking up his guitar and playing a lilting and lonely “Ramble On.”

For those who know “Ramble On,” propelled on record byJohn Paul Jones’ slippery bass line and John Bonham’s ticking percussion, Page’s ad hoc rendition here is shocking – indeed, at first it is barely recognizable. But there it is, stripped down to the bare chords, revealing itself to be that rarest of God’s creatures – more beautiful naked than ornamented.

And here the comparison between Page on the one hand and Jack White and The Edge on the other falls away – the two younger guitarists, as accomplished and skilled as they are, are not, in fact, Jimmy Page’s peers; their music when stripped down seems less, not more.

Edge and White have something else in common: They both have ongoing musical concerns. White has at least three bands he heads, The White Stripes, The Dead Weather, and The Raconteurs, as well as a flourishing producing career (check out his exquisite production on Loretta Lynn’s fantastic Van Lear Rose). Edge and U2, meanwhile, have just released their most creatively, if not commercially, successful album in a decade, and are currently selling out stadiums across North America and Europe.

Page has not been so lucky. Since Led Zeppelin collapsed in the aftermath of John Bonham’s death in 1980, what little music Page has made has been the palest shadow of Zeppelin’s greatness, sub-par albums made with sub-par collaborators like The Firm and David Coverdale. These efforts seem to confirm his fans’ (and perhaps his own) worst fears – that Page cannot function musically outside the Zeppelin framework, a framework which he created, led, and nurtured.

In December 2007, a one-off reunion show at London’s ’02 Arena led to hopes and plans of a full-scale Zeppelin reunion, a new album and tour with Jason Bonham taking his father’s place on the skins. Alas, it was not to be: Zep vocalist Robert Plant is enjoying some of the best commercial and critical success of his career with his collaboration with bluegrass crooner Alison Krauss, and apparently and understandably wants no part of Jimmy Page’s nostalgia trip.

Where does that leave Page? He has written two new songs for It Might Get Loud, titled “Embryo No. 1″ and “Embryo No. 2,” so called because they are sketches of ideas that may or may not evolve into full song-hood. One of the songs makes a brief appearance in the film, but so far there are no plans for either of them to appear in finished form, nor does there seem to be any other Jimmy Page solo work on the horizon: When asked what Page would be doing in the coming year, his manager Peter Mensch recently told MusicRadar: “Fuck if I know.”

As the film closes, Page speaks candidly about his fears of the day when the creative coals are at last still and cold. That day comes to all artists, he notes; all you can do is try and make sure that it remains as far away as possible.

The painful evidence suggests that, for the architect of “Stairway to Heaven” and “Kashmir,” that day has already come. But maybe it doesn’t have to be that way. Maybe Page’s creative straight jacket is self-sutured. Maybe he just needs someone to believe in him.

I do.

This was a relief, because the previous Saturday they had turned in a dismal, oddly disjointed performance on “Saturday Night Live.” But three days later the boys were back in fighting shape; it was, in fact, one of the hardest rocking shows I’ve ever seen them give — and I have seen my share of U2 shows (my lifetime total is now somewhere in the double digits).

The show opened with several numbers from the woefully under-appreciated new album No Line On The Horizon; the thrilling and unique “Breathe,” segued into “Magnificent,” a tune which doesn’t quite soar as as high as it wants to, but comes closer live than on record. The lackluster “Get On Your Boots” was followed by Zoo-era favorite “Mysterious Ways,” bringing the stadium down and prompting Bono to remark, “Well, it’s a warm night after all!” He then gave a preview of the rest of the set: “We have old songs; we have new songs; we have songs we can barely play!”

Next was, “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,” which they can definitely play, and with verve and passion, even after what must be hundreds of performances. The end of the song dissolves into “Stand By Me” by Ben E. King. As Bono sings the lyrics, “…and the moon is the only light we’ll see,” he motions upwards to the gorgeous, engorging gibbous moon suspended overhead; it was the kind of beautiful, unscripted moment that makes it still worth going to live shows.

Other highlights: “Vertigo” pummeled the audience with it’s rusty razor riff, sped up and compressed to the point of insanity. A retooled, club-trippy, “I’ll Go Crazy If I Don’t Go Crazy Tonight,” featuring drummer Larry Muller on bongos and a giddy The Edge jumping up and down in delight at the marvelous noise swirling around him. A stripped down, acoustic “Stuck In A Moment.” And rarely played gems like “The Unforgettable Fire” and “Your Blue Room.”

Things dragged towards the end of the main set during the (inevitable) political segment. “New Year’s Day” was head-scratchingly dedicated to Ted Kennedy; “Walk On” to Burmese dissident Aung San Suu Kyi. Still, the political set was — thankfully– far shorter than similar segments have been in previous U2 shows. And it was not one sided: Bono, to his great credit, actually uttered the words: “God bless George Bush,” in acknowledgment of the former president’s criminally under-reported efforts at AIDS relief in Africa, which, Bono graciously reminds the packed stadium, have saved countless lives.

Still, the political rally portion was the anti-climatic low-point of the show- – people actually sitting down during the closing songs is most assuredly not what you want.

Thankfully, redemption comes with the encore, starting with “Ultraviolet Light,” a deep album cut from their 90’s masterpiece, Achtung Baby!, featuring Bono singing into a glowing red microphone with red laser beams shooting out from his body (don’t ask me how). “With Or Without You” followed, always a joy to hear live, not least because they often change up the arrangement. For “With Or Without You,” Bono asks the house lights to be shut off and for everyone to hold up their cell phones. “Let’s turn this place into the Milky Way!” he intones, and sure enough, thousands of little points of light flicker into life throughout the black bowl of the stadium, now looking for all the world like a miniature galaxy. For all of the millions of dollars the band must have spent on their state-of-the-art light show, this low tech moment was by far the most affecting.

“Moment of Surrender” from the new album closed the show. It is possibly their best song, and fit perfectly with the rest of the encore. The packed house gave them rapturous, well deserved applause as the band took their bows.

It was a deeply gratifying, heartening night. For all of Bono’s politicking, for the long three decades they have been together, these four men from Dublin have neither lost the need, nor the talent, for the one thing that initially brought them together, and which brought thousands of us to FedEx Field that night:

Rock and Roll. Thank God.

What I am struck by is the amazing solidarity U2 has had over the years.  Make no mistake, they are an exquisite team.  Many people know of my relationship with Bono.  He is a man of faith who has used his celebrity to save countless lives in Africa.  He’s the front man with haunting vocals.  The Edge has that unique sound which keeps the band moving forward.  Larry Mullen’s drums keeps them in the now.  Finally, Adam Clayton’s bass allows the band to maintain that seemingly raw quality.  It’s no wonder they have been one of the world’s greatest rock bands all these years.

Karen and I had the chance to visit with Bono prior to show.  We talked a bit about politics, reminiscing about the days when he first came to Capitol Hill and how we could use the same bipartisan approach to fixing Ohio.  We caught up on family affairs and Karen had the opportunity to thank Bono for including us on a life changing trip to Rwanda last year, where we witnessed first hand the positive impact of debt relief and President Bush’s malaria initiative.

But back to the show.  The concert was a mix of new songs and old favorites.  As stated before, there was a tremendous energy even before the band stepped foot on stage.  U2 reciprocated by delivering an electric performance. “Sunday Bloody Sunday” was the crowd favorite on this night.  My wife and I always appreciate the thoughtful lyrics of “One”  and hope they add “Kite” to their set list.  The band used the entire stage well and the “stadium experience” was noticeable.

The only thing that kept it from being a perfect night was missing the opening act Snow Patrol.  Even the fact that we could not get a cab and were forced to walk back to our hotel could not dampen our spirits.

Back in the eighties – when popular music reached its pinnacle of achievement - I would be home from college, in my room, cranking cool tunes and my father would get home from work, peer in, scrunch up his face and ask how I could listen to that infernal racket.  The answer, of course, was that I had (and still have, dammit) really awesome taste in music.

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I actually pitied my Dad for being unable to appreciate the Midwestern-inflected post-punk glory of The Replacements, or the sonic frenzy of their Minneapolis brothers-in-noise Husker Du, or the soaring, roaring guitar heroics of The Clash.  I don’t know what music he actually liked.  There were some LPs lying around the house – kids, you can ask your parents what those are – but they were things like the Kingston Trio and the Sound of Music soundtrack.  This last one was a particular sore point for me since my mom got the idea to name me Kurt, which is the German equivalent of Melvin, from the little Von Trapp twerp who sang “Fa.”

And now I find myself in a similar position to where Dad found himself a quarter century ago – hating, well, pretty much everything in the world of popular music and having it hate me right back.  Like my Dad, popular culture wrote me off well before I hit 40.  There is, however, an important difference between Dad and me, as well as between the younger generation and me.  My Dad was, and young people are, completely and utterly wrong about music, and I am unequivocally right.

Let’s review some of the popular music of today.  A group called the Black-Eyed Peas is kind of popular.  The woman in the group is named Fergie and she looks like she could take me in a cage match.  Their music is a kind of dance-chant mish-mash of various musical styles – all bad – combined with a visual sense that makes me wonder “Do you people look like that on purpose?” I have no clue what the hell they are singing about. I’m just pretty sure it’s not particle physics.

There are a whole bunch of rappers out there.  I know some of their names:  Jay-Z, 50 Cent and Flo Rida, who is apparently unaffiliated with the State of Florida.  They’re all badass gang-bangers.  Just ask them.  Oh, and they also sing, which seems to be an afterthought. 

There is someone named Lady Ga Ga.  She looks and dresses like a she-male George Jetson, which I mean in the kindest possible way.  She sings a song called Poker Face that does not seem to be about Texas Hold ‘Em, or anything else that I can discern.  It’s a really bad song.  After I pointed out that even I wouldn’t inflict it on a Guantanamo inmate, one of her fans countered that her hit “is really catchy.”  Yeah – so’s herpes, and I don’t want anything to do with that either.

Let’s be clear – I do not hate popular culture.  I like it.  I grew up marinating in it, and I even paid for a car using my experience to write TV trivia questions and jokes for that old pre-Internet computerized quiz game they used to have in bars back in the 90’s.  And when we would assemble the right wing newspaper at UC San Diego, I would play The Ramones really loud to annoy both the sullen Trotskyites lurking about as well as the dorky conservatives who thought you couldn’t be down with Reagan unless you wore a suit and tie to class.  Hell, most mornings in college I was lucky to just find my pants.

And I do like some recent good popular songs – Mr. Brightside by The Killers thoroughly and completely rocks, and U2 rose above their morass of suck with Beautiful Day.  And… well, I guess that’s about it.  That’s all the music I like since 2000.

It’s not just music that wrote me off at 40.  I also hate the movies hip young people seem to adore.  Remember how everyone loved Superbad?  Not me.  I like my comedies funny.  And remember how everyone thought Lost In Translation was so profoundly moving?  Well, I like my dramas unfunny – though it gets props for including the Jesus and Mary Chain’s Just Like Honey on the soundtrack.

 Perhaps it’s just time to accept that at age 44, ones’ views and opinions have absolutely no value or resonance within popular culture, despite their manifest correctness.  But I’m not going to do that.  I’m going to keep pointing out to misguided young people that everything they hold dear is wrong.  Because I’ve earned that right.  Because I’m older.  Because I am my Dad.

And now I have to go turn the hose on some kids who are playing on my lawn.