By Tassoula E. Kokkoris

This work was commissioned for the site atu2, which was online from 1995 – 2020 and it still protected under a shared copyright.

“There’s been a lot of talk about this next song — maybe too much talk.”

-Bono, 1983

In 1983, I was a 7-year-old whose days primarily consisted of eating, sleeping and MTV. Back then, MTV wasn’t just a channel, it was a way of life. Alarms were set to wake up with Martha Quinn, meals were rearranged to accommodate especially good rock blocks, and on at least one occasion, school was missed to watch a World Premiere Video.

Music was shifting from being a completely audio experience to a necessary visual experience, and witnessing the transformation was nothing short of thrilling. Instead of bands just having to sound good, they had to look good — or at the very least, have a compelling image. And that’s where U2 won me over.

I already knew (and was fond of) “Gloria,” but when the home-video-like concert clip of “Sunday Bloody Sunday” was thrust into heavy rotation on MTV, it altered my musical life. The instant I’d see the profile of Bono grace the screen, with the ’80s flames superimposed over his face, I was immediately marching in time to the drumbeat, scrambling to find anything I could to create a makeshift white flag to wave along with him (pencils and Kleenex were usually my default).

To me, the burning torches defying the rain, Larry squinting through the fog, and Bono wearing one of his band’s own shirts defined the epitome of rock and roll. I imagined myself in the water-drenched crowd — miserable, exhausted and exhilarated. I just wanted to be a part of it. But of course, I was too young for shows on the War tour. And also too young to understand why the song was really so powerful.

In 1988, as a 12-year-old, I saw Rattle and Hum in the theater. The most passionate moment of the movie came during the band’s rendition of “Sunday Bloody Sunday.” On the day the clip was recorded, Enniskillen, Northern Ireland, suffered a brutal IRA attack at a Remembrance Day gathering. Eleven people were killed and 63 were left wounded. Bono was filled with rage and turned the performance of this song into an angry political rant. I felt uncomfortable watching it, yet had tears in my eyes by the time he knelt in peace at the end. As a junior-high student in Oregon, I still had no idea what the song was even about, but after seeing that, I needed to know.

Since the Internet was not yet part of daily life, I made a trip to the library and looked up things like “Irish troubles,” “IRA terrorists” and “Bloody Sunday.” What I found was devastating — the first incident in November of 1920, and then the second in January of 1972. Innocent people dying over philosophical disagreements; history repeating itself long after lessons should have been learned. This newfound knowledge only intensified my love for the song, which grew as I did.

The song stayed with me through college, when it turned into a ballad on the B-side of “If God Will Send His Angels.” That version was quiet and calm, internalizing its pain unlike its predecessor, which was more like an open wound.

By the time the Elevation tour arrived, my U2 obsession was back in full force. I had attended the Tacoma show and entered a local radio station contest for tickets to the first of the soon-to-be historical Slane Castle concerts. I didn’t win. But I couldn’t stand it — I needed to see my boys in their natural habitat once and for all. And since none of my friends at the time were as U2-rabid as me, I had to go alone.

I booked an ETS package a few days later and before I knew it, found myself on a plane to Dublin. I made friends on the tour bus and at the hotel where we stayed, but unfortunately got separated from them on the morning of the show. Alone on the castle grounds, I prayed my way to a wristband and ended up on Edge’s side of the heart. In the sea of faces, I recognized no one, though we all had something fundamental in common.

The energy of the show was everything I thought it would be and more, but “Sunday Bloody Sunday” was in a class by itself. As Larry’s drums brought the song in after an energetic “I Will Follow,” the entire mood of the crowd changed. A breeze blew by, voices were lowered, and I’ll swear it even got darker outside. I went from being a groupie at a rock concert to being a family member at a national wake. The spirit of the song, coupled with the ancient territory we were standing on, multiplied by the fact Bono had just buried his father a day earlier, made for a primal feeling I’ll probably never experience again. This song was their history, their past — their pain. And now we were all a part of it.

By the time the refrain arrived, the crowd was so riled up that drunken groups were shoving each other (and everyone in their way) into the railing. The security teams were doing everything in their power to keep us safe, but in a field of 80,000, it’s a little difficult to maintain control. As Bono cried, “Wipe your tears away,” a surge of people came crashing into the barricade and my then-petite frame couldn’t sustain it. I first heard a crack, then blacked out, then came to only to see a security guard reaching over to pluck me out of the crowd. I resisted and screamed “No! Don’t take me out!” He just shook his head and muttered to his colleague “Bloody Americans.”

I spent the remainder of the show trying to take a deep breath (impossible), feeling for my driver’s license (so I could be identified) and bracing myself against the railing for further attempts on my life. Never before did I actually think I might die at a rock concert.

After the show, the on-site medical personnel concluded that I had indeed cracked a rib. They taped me up with whatever materials they had in their tent and sent me on my way with sympathetic glances.

By the time I made it off the field, my tour bus had left and I had to walk the dark countryside for over an hour in search of a ride. Bono wailing “Tonight we can be as one/Tonight, tonight,” echoed in my head as I realized I was too tired to panic.

Thankfully, a tour group that got a late start took pity on me and offered me a seat on their bus, which was also headed back to Dublin.

The next morning I concealed my new battle scar with a full-coverage blouse, as I didn’t want any of my new friends to know about it. When we all hiked up to the gates of Bono’s house later that day, we discussed what our favorite parts of the show were. “Sunday Bloody Sunday,” despite my injury, still made my list.

The Vertigo tour was different for me. By then, I was blessed to travel and attend shows with a network of U2 friends and family. “Sunday Bloody Sunday” made its way into the setlist each night, this time usually sandwiched between “Love and Peace or Else” and “Bullet the Blue Sky,” and I liked it every time. But it wasn’t until the final show I attended, in my hometown of Portland, that the hairs on the back of my neck stood up because of it.

Bono had just finished drumming in his Coexist headband, and the boys were scattered around the stage. Larry’s drumbeat started, and as I scanned the room, trying to decide where to look, every face I saw was familiar. At the front were girls that sometimes got to dance with Bono on stage; to my right were fans I’d met the night before at our @U2 10th Birthday Bash; to my left were pals I’d made from working on the site, and I knew if I were to faint at that very moment, I’d fall into the arms of a friend. Tears involuntarily formed in my eyes as it all finally hit me. That night, the raw anthem became a love song — to and from all of the people I’d met as a result of first hearing it.

I’ll never be able to thank U2 enough.

© @U2/Kokkoris, 2007.