Blog Even U2 can’t make you 17 again

I left the U2 concert early on Saturday.

Not because the show sucked—it didn’t. I left because my husband had somewhere to be, and he wanted to beat the drunk rush out of Invesco Field at Mile High.

I can’t believe I just typed that sentence. The teenage me, looking into the future, would be disgusted and horrified that I would ever do such a thing. I confess: My name’s Kathleen, and I am a longtime U2 fan. But now, it’s bittersweet—I’m 31, and I think I’m moving on.

I first saw U2 live in May of 1997 on its PopMart tour. The band played at the old Mile High Stadium, and it was one of the very first dates in support of Pop. Months before, my younger brother and I had waited in an endless line on an icy sidewalk to get tickets, and through a series of lucky breaks, ended up with seats in the 4th row. I was 17, a crazy-happy U2 fan, and I don’t know if I’ve felt such joy since.

I remember few specifics about the show now. I jumped up and down on my seat, which ended up being at extreme stage left in front of the ridiculous shiny lemon. I smoked a lot of Kamel cigarettes that a legal-age friend of mine bought for me. The Edge did a goofy karaoke rendition of The Monkees’ “Daydream Believer.” I was elated. I still have a bunch of terrible photos I took with an especially shitty disposable camera.

On Saturday afternoon, I found myself standing on a grassy hill on the south side of Invesco, waiting with a bunch of diehards for U2 to enter the stadium. I had no illusions about what was to come, and felt a little bad for the super-desperate fans crammed up against the security fence. I would have been one of them in 1997, wanting so badly to connect with my heroes for one second. I used to fantasize U2 would somehow recognize my coolness and invite me backstage, and then hire me to join the tour as an assistant—anything to take me away from the tedium of my high-school life. I was ready for globe-trotting glamour.

A couple of black SUVs crept out of the trailer area. The small crowd screamed, and previously sedate onlookers darted down the hill. I stayed put.

To my surprise, Bono signed autographs and took photos for a solid 10 minutes. I smiled fondly at the excitement of the lucky picture-takers—one middle-aged lady just could not stop squealing and showing off her photo. It seemed like a pretty good way to start your U2 Concert Experience. I felt like a douche, imagining the cold, typed entry on the production timeline: “18.00-18.10: BONO AUTOGRAPHS.”

I became less jaded inside the stadium, even a little awestruck. The stage was massive. A round LED screen descended from a creepy-looking, four-legged structure to give everyone a view of the action. A towering spire jutted out the top of “The Claw,” glittering and twinkling with the music. At times, it almost seemed like it was broadcasting, a sparkling dot on a satellite map of the hemisphere.

U2 took the stage with a smashing one-two punch: “Even Better Than The Real Thing,” followed immediately by “I Will Follow.” At first, the sound was overloud and a tad muddy, and the band seemed to be tripping over themselves a bit. The problems were quickly remedied, however—and it’s honestly kind of endearing to see a band of 50something professional superstars get a little out of time in their excitement.

The setlist was satisfying—U2 knows their audience and keeps the newer stuff trimmed down. Recent tunes tend to be upbeat, like No Line On The Horizon’s “Get On Your Boots,” or the “wooo!”-filled “Elevation” from All That You Can’t Leave Behind. It keeps people from running to the bathroom or the beer cart, I guess.

The big hits were predictably perfect: “Where The Streets Have No Name” always brings the house down, and “One” always brings out the lighters and teary hugs. A couple dusty, old gems sneaked into the set for the megafans, too: “Zooropa” was a highlight, as was “Miss Sarajevo,” from Original Soundtracks 1, the band’s “Passengers” side project with Brian Eno.

Despite the great moments, years of indie-rock snobbery and showgoing made the concert feel a little rote to me. The men onstage, my old imaginary friends, seemed distant and small. Huge video displays only show the audience what they’re meant to see.

Still, I had a moment during the propulsive “City Of Blinding Lights”: I looked up at the sky, past the stage’s glowing spire, and remembered listening to U2 late at night in my parents’ backyard, a stolen Bud Light at my side. That romantic, dorky 17-year-old is still in here somewhere. I hope she never leaves.