Rock ‘n’ roll rarely gets as close to religiosity as it did during U2’s sell-out concert at the Orpheum on Saturday night. No, U2 singer Bono is not a gospel singer and U2’s concerns are not oriented toward traditional religious themes. But the fervency, passion and hope conveyed made U2’s danceable, progressive rock gospel music of another color.
“Her life was saved by rock ‘n’ roll,” sang Lou Reed in “Rock and Roll” and Ireland’s U2 clutches that conviction, opening up the doors and inviting everyone to the dance. During “11 O’Clock Tick Tock” Bono selected a woman from the front to dance with on stage. He carried it off with natural grace, but after the show he was concerned the act, a standard rock move, might be misinterpreted. “It might look patronizing,” he said, “but I love to touch. I love to dance with a girl.”
No worry. When Bono touches he means it. He and U2 can be put in a pantheon with Al Green, Van Morrison, Peter Gabriel and Peter Hamill—artists who touch, who start with something in the heart and bring cathartic release to the body and soul. And at that point rock ‘n’ roll does become a religion—a system of shared beliefs that yields its own form of salvation.
The key is that U2’s music, though uplifting, is not blind escape, as is the dance-and-forget program offered by many New Romantic bands. Bono poses questions that don’t so much demand answers as involvement. “Why must I hide from myself when you’re in the crowd?” he asks in “The Electric Co.” The crescendo comes as The Edge’s guitar chords crash and Bono cries “Help me!” The Edge soars and, in those few moments, confusion is transformed into exultation.
Though U2 comes close to that spirit on record, in concert it breaks it all open. The Edge’s expressive guitar work covers a wide range of moods and styles, and like New Order’s Bernard Albrecht, he can dextrously move from cutting rave-ups to shimmering, tranquil passages—places to rock, spaces to breathe. During previous shows, The Edge created a thicker, fuzzier, more dominant wall of sound; Saturday his lines were sharper, more supportive than shattering.
Lyrically and instrumentally, many of U2’s songs are journeys. Bono sings about taking mental or physical trips: “I don’t know where I’m going/ No one is going there with me” (“I Threw a Brick Through a Window”), “There’s a place I go that’s far away” (“Stories For Boys”). Drummer Larry and bassist Adam Clayton maintain a strong anchoring pulse as The Edge weaves entrancing, dreamlike passages.
The musicians, who range in age from 19 to 21, are caught between boyhood and manhood, and it’s been one of their major themes (“I Will Follow” and others). During “Into the Heart” Bono retreats—“Into the heart of a child/I can go back/I can stay a while”—and as a performer, straddles that border. He confidently pranced about like a smarter Rod Stewart during songs, and between them apologized that he didn’t know quite what to say and that he really wanted to thank Boston but didn’t want it to sound insincere.
Some might accuse U2 of naiveté. “Rejoice” (“I can’t change the world/But I can change the world in me if I rejoice”), might read that way on paper, but U2 builds from one gorgeous peak to another and seizes optimism as reality. “The battle starts at home, within yourself,” Bono said after the show. “You can change yourself.” Aware of the cynicism in much post-punk rock he says, “I refuse to give in.”
© The Boston Globe, 1981.