My Battle Scar

The hours at the castle went a lot faster once the opening acts began.

There was Kelis, whose “Milkshake” brought all the boys in the yard; Relish, who was just okay; and JJ72, who just made noise.

As Coldplay was taking the stage, my prayers were answered and I was granted a coveted wristband. The gentleman who gave it to me told me to protect my wrist with my other hand so no one could rip it off as I made my way to the Heart. This was no easy feat.

With sweat dripping, I ran to a spot on The Edge’s side, threw my jacket down and sat on the ground, facing the crowd.

Why not face Coldplay?

1) I needed to see what I was up against once darkness fell.
2) Chris Martin isn’t exactly attractive, anyway.

It was then that it really hit me—I was up against the railing in a crowd of 80,000 people. One rush of the stage and I would likely lose my life.

At age 25, when this show occurred, I was still very petite. And though I took random dance classes (Hip-Hop and Riverdance, for example), and walked two miles to my bus stop every day, I still wasn’t very strong.

I tried to put that out of my mind as the Red Hot Chili Peppers took the stage. I’d liked them for years, but never seen them live, so this was a great initiation.

By then the sun was absolutely blazing down on us and my black tank top was absorbing heat at a record rate. The crowd was also closing in, knowing that the Peppers were the last act before U2 would take the stage. I felt like I could faint from the heat, the lack of food and water, and the excitement.

Those of us keeping an eye on the sides of the stage were treated to Iggy Pop and Woody Harrelson peeking out to wave hello, and various familiar U2 crew faces could also be seen.

My legs were numb by the time U2 actually did come on, but the opener of “Elevation” (where all of us in the audience ‘pogo’ in time with Bono) had me jumping along with everyone.

I had one hand on my disposable camera and another on the pouch around my neck that contained my ID. I would only change up this position when I needed to grab the railing and brace myself to stop from getting crushed.

The rest of the night was surreal. It was almost like the heavens turned off the lights on cue after Bono sang the last notes of “Beautiful Day.” Once it got dark, the music got more magical and the crowd got more dangerous.

The security team would periodically hose us down. I was grateful for those moments because they kept the rowdies back, and I got a drink. Standing for 13 hours after having a light breakfast, being rained on, then blistering in the sun doesn’t make for the best physical condition. But hey, I was young—and this was my first European rock concert.

I had many spine-tingling sparks of happiness throughout the set, but little can compare to hearing “Sunday Bloody Sunday” performed on hallowed Irish ground.

The crowd understandably went nuts and the good couldn’t be separated from the bad. When the drunks began shoving, things got out of control and I got smashed up against the railing. The people next to me said they heard the crack of my rib; I remember having the wind knocked out of me, blacking out and being revived by the security guards who were trying to lift me out. I quickly responded that I had more film left on my camera and I didn’t want to be carried out.

“Bloody Americans,” they said.

I had trouble breathing from there on out, but somehow I managed to last the rest of the show. The crowd got better too, and I was given more space after folks realized I was injured.

Once the show ended (with a beautiful fireworks display set to “The Unforgettable Fire”, in honor of the album they recorded inside that same castle), I got taped up by the first aid folks and missed my shuttle back to Dublin.

I had to walk the Irish countryside for at least an hour until I found another group that would take pity on me and give me a ride back to the city. After all, I’d spent my money on a T-shirt and had no other way back.

When I finally arrived at my hotel, I was so exhausted I’m not sure I even took all my clothes off to shower. I just knew that I felt too gross to sleep without getting some soap involved.

I collapsed into bed with a completely wet head and slept the most sound sleep I think I’ve ever slept. My body had shut down.

Sweet euphoria.

Part One

The morning of the show was hectic.

I’d been up most of the night watching U2 documentaries on local television stations, so I was low on energy and had a light breakfast of only toast and coffee. I was simply too excited to eat. Plus, I knew I’d be standing in a field for hours with only Honey Buckets for bathrooms and didn’t really want to use them unless I had to.

We boarded the shuttle at what seemed like the crack of dawn and arrived in County Meath to rain showers. The castle didn’t look quite so majestic with a muddy field and dark skies, but I was still in awe of its history.

We lined up outside the fence and got sufficiently rained on until they opened the gates and we all began sprinting down the field. It was horribly dangerous, especially because it was so wet, so the security team quickly slowed us down. Trouble was, my group wasn’t anywhere near the heart (that was the shape of the U2 stage on that tour, and the most coveted spot to watch the show from) and the wristbands were going fast.

Becky (the girl I’d met on the first day) and I tried to hold hands so we wouldn’t be separated, but the crowd got the best of us and we were pulled apart. That was the last I saw of her, and anyone else from my group, for the duration of our time in Slane.

Because the food I’d packed (a granola bar, a banana, bottled water) had been confiscated at the gate, I didn’t have a whole lot to carry (a blessing in disguise), but I also didn’t have a whole lot to do. I took one “break” from standing in the clump awaiting wristbands and went and bought a commemorative Slane T-shirt. After that purchase, I had about 2 pounds (they hadn’t yet switched to the Euro back then) on me. But what would I need money for, right?

The good news was that the sun was beginning to shine, so I was able to put my windbreaker around my waist and dry off in my sparkly black tank top that simply read “Sagittarius” in big, blue Bedazzled letters.

If nothing else, I’d get a good tan waiting for the music to start.

My First Graffiti

Windmill Lane Studios began in 1978 as a place for traditional Irish musicians to work, but a few years later that all changed when producer Steve Lillywhite brought U2 in to record their first album, Boy.

The band liked the space and recorded their next two albums, October and War, there too. Throughout the years more big names, such as INXS and Elvis Costello, also created masterpieces at Windmill Lane, but U2 fans sort of claimed the outside of the building as their own and created a graffiti tribute to the band.

There’s nothing like walking up to a landmark and being handed a can of spray paint by a cheerful Irishman, then being told to “go nuts,” which is exactly what happened to me on that blustery August day in 2001.

In the photo above, I’m shown with my contribution, “I (heart) LM” in honor of drummer Larry Mullen, Jr.—I’m not remotely artistic, so I thought it better to write my sentiment, but some of my friends on the U2 tour drew pictures that were quite impressive.

Sadly, the studio has since moved, and the buildings here are simply boarded up. There was talk of turning the space into office complexes a few years ago, but that was met with much resistance from the locals.

Hopefully it will remain a musical relic so more fans can spray their appreciation on the wall as well.

Museum Tour

My first full day in Dublin on this trip began at the Hot Press Irish Music Hall of Fame.

Laced with more U2 goodies than I’d ever seen in my life, the building housed everything from handwritten lyrics to a wax version of Bono. I was in gawker heaven.

Furthermore, unlike many other museums, we could take pictures of whatever we wanted, so I happily snapped away on my disposable Fuji camera until I realized we had two more stops that day.

It was a great place to visit during a concert week because the U2 energy was incredibly high across the board. Each one of us on the tour purchased a Hot Press magazine on the way out and none of us could wait to read it, so the bus was very quiet en route to our next destination.

First Night

What I should have done was sleep off my travel exhaustion, but instead I laid down on my hotel bed for about 20 minutes, got up, brushed my hair and met up with my group for a literary pub crawl.

We apparently crawled to some places that U2 had visited, but after my third or fourth Jameson and Coke, I couldn’t have told you where I’d been if my life depended on it.

I do remember David, a fun guy in my group, having an incredible amount of energy that night that I truly envied, but other than that, the details of the crawl are fuzzy.

We all retreated back to our hotel in Ballsbridge for a late dinner and I remember getting funny looks for ordering a huge bowl of french fries—and nothing else. I was craving Irish potatoes and that was honestly all I wanted.

After the uncomfortable glances wore off, we all bonded talking about how awful we all felt Bono’s film Million Dollar Hotel turned out.

Then it was off to bed for more pre-concert adventures the next day.

Out and About in Dublin

I’d been enjoying a visit with my sister in Massachusetts in the days prior—she was a new mom and I was loving my first months as an auntie.

It was a joyous time in our family, but it soon turned dark when our beloved Grandmother Juanita passed away. Since I was en route to see U2 in Ireland, I wasn’t able to make it to Oregon for her service, and that was hard for me. But I was very close to her all of my life and had said a proper goodbye a few weeks prior. She knew I was going on the trip and I felt like she wouldn’t have wanted me to miss it.

I had traveled extensively throughout my college years, but I’d never been out of the country entirely alone, so this was new.

I left on a Boston flight coated with U2 fans and once we were in the air, our Aer Lingus staff told us that Bono’s father had just passed away.

A panic spread throughout the plane—the news was awful (and we selfishly worried that the band may cancel the historic concert at Slane Castle, which is what we were all flying there to see).

The Guinness flowed freely, we passed around The Irish Times and shared fan stories until we landed. Once we were inside the airport, the rumor was that “the show would go on.”

I met another girl, Becky, who was in my same organized U2 tour group (normally, I detest organized tours, but since I was 25, female and alone, I figured that I should join one), and we looked for our shuttle together.

Riding to Bewley’s in Ballsbridge I began to remember a city I’d visited only three years prior. I was anxious to get out and explore things that I hadn’t had the chance to do in ‘98, but when we arrived at the hotel, they said our rooms weren’t ready. They would release keys one by one as other guests checked out and the maids had a chance to clean.

I collapsed into a chair in the lobby and snacked on delicious honeycomb ice cream, which was for sale in the dining area.

A few hours later, we were checked in, but instead of listening to my body and sleeping as I should have, I set out with Becky to see the National Gallery and wander around St. Stephen’s Green.

The first photo I had her take of me was the one you see above—U2 posters gracing the front of a store.

Little did I know on every street in every part of the city I’d see the same.

But the trip had only just begun.

An Essay

Many have asked me about my obsession with U2. I thought that it might be helpful for me to explain how it all began, so I’m providing this link to an essay I wrote for @U2.com in May of 2007. That’s the Cliff’s Notes, at least.