Marvel Stadium
On a giant screen that stretches the width of Marvel Stadium, Pedro Pietri’s poem Puerto Rican Obituary scrolls slowly upward. Later, it will show poetry by Judith Wright and Les Murray. Odes to injustice, the tyranny of oppression and the might of the human spirit, subjects that have fuelled Bono’s anthemic righteousness, and given voice to songs so ambitious that it’s hard to believe they weren’t born into arenas. As signs that line the upper tier of this arena remind us, “Marvel Stadium: Epic Lives Here”.
No less ambitious, but with fewer megawatts to their arsenal, Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds open their set with the rousing Holy Mountain. Growing from a seven to an eight piece before acquiring a horn trio, the band offer a tight, punchy take on muscular rock and roll with Gallagher’s newer songs boasting the driving dance rhythms of early-90s Manchester. Despite the propulsive energy and a stellar turn from vocalist YSEÉ, the crowd seem barely moved. “Any Oasis fans here?” says Gallagher in a rare moment of not using his favourite expletive. “Well, you’ll like this,” he continues before launching into another very un-Oasis track, Soldier Boys And Jesus Freaks.
There are few acts that could follow a set that closes with Wonderwall, Don’t Look Back in Anger and a stadium singalong of All You Need is Love. Luckily, one of them are about to play their most acclaimed album track by track. To the strains of The Waterboys’ The Whole of the Moon, a spotlight follows each member of U2 as they walk from the stage along a gangway to a prominentary around which a crowd surges, signs, hands and phones aloft. Soon the martial beat of Sunday Bloody Sunday shows that energy is high and the purpose is clear. Early songs I Will Follow and New Years Day are sold with a conviction that few bands a third of their age could muster. Among the crowd in plain spotlights, this is proof that, despite decades of stardom, U2 are still a rock band that would do OK given a weeknight at the Tote.
“Our plan for this evening is for an epic night of rock and roll,” announces Bono. “This is where we let go of some things, and hold on tight to others. I’m here to help. I’m here to surrender to you, to music, to life, to our families. When we surrender, anything could happen.” With this declaration, Bono dedicates the next song, Bad, to Australia’s firefighters, which instantly sees the stadium bathed in the light of around 20,000 mobile phones. As the closing chords of Pride (In the Name of Love) ring out, and the words of Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech fade to red on the 200ft-long, 8k screen, the opening chords of Where The Streets Have No Name swell. The Joshua Tree has begun.
Imagery from the American midwest dwarfs the band. Behind them, monochrome highways stretch out, trees sprawl and each of the album’s widescreen epics is given IMAX-style vignettes. We are collectively on a million-dollar budget multimedia nostalgia trip and the band - and their army of technicians - play their part perfectly. The Edge’s guitar is piercing and crystalline, the rhythm section faultless and Bono’s voice is still unlike any other. The experience feels curiously nourishing and the band too don’t seem to be coasting on the quality of the songs and production. Rain falls during I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For, and roadies scramble to protect the equipment. By the time the migrants at the heart of Bullet in the Blue Sky have “run into the arms of America”, the roof has closed and we are locked into the trip. “Here’s where you flip the vinyl over,” jokes Bono as the cheers following Red Hill Mining Town die out, and before In God’s Country begins.
From here, recollections of the album, and the band’s energy begin to flag. Bono lets the audience take choruses, even when our collective voice grows less confident. The bracing rush of Trip Through Your Wires gives way to the dark clamour of Exit and a forceful version of the closing Mothers of the Disappeared. It is captivating stuff. “That was The Joshua Tree,” announces Bono. “This is what happened next.” From here, we get a tour through the many guises of U2, from the continued fascination with African-American music (Angel of Harlem), Bono’s media-obsessed alter-ego Mr MacPhisto (Elevation) and the spiralling disco of Even Better Than The Real Thing.
Though Bono’s spirit is indefatigable, the band’s energy drops again. By the time Beautiful Day arrives, over two hours into the set, the song drags against Larry Mullen’s precise beats. Ultraviolet (Light My Way) gets a feminist makeover via huge images of inspirational women projected behind the band (including Hannah Gadsby, Cathy Freeman, Nova Peris, Magda Szubanski and Greta Thunberg), as Bono explains how poverty is gendered, and like much of the poetry that opened the show, we must consider how our actions impact the less fortunate. We must, he implores us hoarsely, come together as one.
Killing the lights so that we can sing along in the dark, One is almost entirely sung by the audience. In the dying minutes of the show, as Bono implores us again to set aside our differences and unite, the screen ignites to show an animated assembly of an Australian flag. The crowd cheer as the band finish the song, put down their instruments and huddle together grinning, relieved. Bathed in the light of a symbol of cultural hegemony and in a perfect example of not considering how one person’s actions affect the less fortunate, it is a naive twist to a meticulously constructed and dazzling night.
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