John Waters has made an impassioned plea for U2 to break up in The Guardian. I'm behind him, although it appears that Waters had a rather lofty dream of what U2 could have been. Hark at these insane warblings:
U2 promised more. They said the world could go far if it listened to what they said. They gathered up a ragged medium and sought to reintroduce it to its roots. They demanded of pop no less than that it grow up. Having started as pop illiterates, they acquired an awesome competence, implying an exalted purpose. They hinted at some sacred mission, which the attuned understand to transcend the Christian simplicities of the early years. There was something here about redemption, about taking the devil's music back, about demonstrating some connection between inspiration and faith, love and rigour. more...
Funny, eh? In a "what the fu?" kinda way. The rest of us realised they were quite shit after Boy, didn't we? Bono talks an absolute stream of shite and is so obsessed with geo/eco politics that he's neglected to address the ills of his homeland. When they were arsing around on Rattle and Hum, BB King once said, very loudly and accurately, that the Edge, that lauded guitar maestro who loves his reverb, didn't have a clue. Did Waters never hear that obnoxious Mancunian bloke sing, "please don't put your life in the hands of a rock 'n' roll band...?" It's only rock 'n' roll, Johnny, it always lets you down. Actually, U2, stick together. I'm enjoying watching you go right down the toilet. Ooh, what if they grow into a giant U2, burst out of a manhole cover and take over the world? Or, even worse, take to the streets and sing Vertigo off the back of a lorry. Oh dear...
It's panto season again. Although I don't appear to be as busy as in previous years (thus far a mere four pantos and two Christmas shows to do) it still presents me with a serious logistical nightmare. My birthday, which is on Thursday, is set to be tainted as I have two gigs to review - there's simply no other night that I can do them on. The first, Alan Ayckbourn's new family-friendly Xmas jaunt, will be ok but it's in the morning. The evening gig is a more traditional panto affair. Hopefully, between the Ayckbourn and Tim Vincent as Dandini, there'll be the chance to knock back a few celebratory beers and have some general birthday jiggery pokery. The following night we're off to see our mate Barrass in York, which is the bee's knees of this old-fashioned form. Actually, it's just lots of grown men giggling but, having seen it, I think, for the last nine years, it's never let me down. In my mostly ignored column, which languishes between lots of classified adverts, I penned a piece knocking pantos, just to get it off my chest. A few hours after the great and the good had received their copies, we noticed that my words were above an advert for a panto, which must have pleased those devil-worshipping twats that work in the advertising department no end.
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