Original subtitles

It is preposterous to think that

others might be as interested in your own story as you are.

Writing a memoir is a whole other level of navel-gazing.

But here we are.

Tonight, I'd like to try out some scenes from Surrender,

me book what I wrote meself.

The first one's a dramatic opening. Could have been a dramatic closing.

See...

I was born with an eccentric heart.

In one of the chambers of my heart,

where most people have three doors, I have two.

Two swinging doors, which at Christmas 2016 were coming off their hinges.

The aorta is your main artery, your lifeline.

My aorta, after years of stress, has developed a blister.

A blister that's about to burst,

which will put me in the next life faster than I can say goodbye to this one.

So here I am,

Mount Sinai Hospital, New York City.

Looking down on myself on the stainless steel.

Hot blood is swirling, spilling, and making a mess,

which is what blood does when it's not keeping you alive.

Blood and air. Blood and guts.

Blood and brains are required right now.

The brains and the hands of the surgeon who is standing over me.

The man is climbing up to my chest,

wielding his blade with the combined forces of science and butchery.

"Your man has a lot of firepower

in that war chest of his."

"We needed extra-strong wire to sew him up.

He's probably at 130% of normal lung capacity for his age."

Air is stamina.

Air is the confidence to take on big challenges.

Air is not the will to conquer Everest

but the ability to endure the climb.

And here I am now without it for the first time.

Without breath.

The names we give God. All breath.

Jehovah. Allah. Yeshua.

I'm without air, and I'm terrified.

Because for the first time,

I reach for Yeshua,

and Yeshua is not there.

It's an extraordinary thing to ask the silence to save you.

To reveal itself to you.

To discover if there's a face to that silence.

But in this moment,

God seems to have gone missing.

Where am I?

Without air.

Without a prayer.

Without an aria.

How did I get here?

New York, New York!

74th and Broadway, let the Beacon light our way.

Lights go down, it's dark

The jungle is your head Can't rule your heart

A feeling's so much stronger Than a thought

Your eyes are wide

And though your soul It can't be bought

Your mind can wander

Hello, hello

Hola!

I'm a place called Vertigo

It's everything I wish I didn't know

But you give me something

I can feel

The night is full of holes

As bullets rip the sky Of ink with gold

They sparkle as the boys Play rock and roll

They know that they can't dance At least they know

I can't stand the beats I'm asking for the cheque

Girl with crimson nails Got Jesus 'round her neck

Swinging to the music Swinging to the music

Hello, hello

Hola!

I'm at a place called Vertigo

It's everything I wish I didn't know

But you give me something

I can feel

Feel

All of this, all of this can be yours

All of this, all of this can be yours

All of this, all of this can be yours

Just give me what I want And no one gets

Hurt

Yeah, thank you. I am still pretending that this is a book tour.

Oh, yes.

- Hola. - Hola!

Welcome to my quarterman show.

And might I say, this feels somewhat transgresivo

to meet you here without my bandmates.

A lot of you know when U2 go on tour,

it can involve some outsize props.

A giant claw, space stations, mirrorball lemons.

Tonight, I have a table and chairs.

And the Jacknife Lee ensemble

featuring Kate Ellis on the cello and extraordinariness

and Gemma Doherty on the harp and other heavenly voices.

Now, turns out the most extraordinary thing about my life

is the people I'm in relationships with.

I met most of them the same week

I began life with my wife, Ali.

The same week I joined U2.

That's right. Excuse me, darling.

One week during high school, and my whole life sorted.

Sort of.

Alison Patricia Stewart had faith. Even more absurdly, faith in me.

This 15-year-old girl not just suffered my demonic dreams,

she encouraged her boyfriend, as he told anyone who would listen

that his band were gonna be big when he felt so, so small.

These are the tall tales of a short rock star.

Yeah

The more you see the less you know

The less you find out as you grow

I knew much more then than I do now

Neon heart, DayGlo eyes

A city lit by fireflies

They were advertising in the skies

For people like us

And I miss you when you're not around

I'm getting ready to leave the... building.

Back then, I was dreaming about this future.

It's so beautiful.

Lately, I've been dreaming about the past.

A past that might keep me from the present.

Oh, you look so

Beautiful tonight

- Oh - You look so

Beautiful tonight

I see my mother scolding me.

"You're making a show out of yourself. You're making a show out of yourself."

But that's what I wanna do with my life.

And the da, rolling his eyes on that one.

My da was a Catholic.

A Catholic who loved Protestant things like my mother.

When they got married, his own family didn't turn up at the wedding.

Ireland was an unforgiving place in those days,

but Bob wasn't very concerned with the outside world.

My father was a tenor. A really, really good one.

He could move people with his singing.

And to move people with music, you first have to be moved by it.

I see my father standing in the living room of 10 Cedarwood Road

in front of the stereo with two of my mother's knitting needles,

conducting Beethoven, Mozart, Verdi.

Right now, he's listening to La Traviata.

On stage at Teatro di San Carlo, Sorrento.

He's not precisely aware of the story,

but he feels it,

a father and son at odds, lovers cast away and returned.

He senses the injustice of the human heart.

His heart is broken by the music.

I'll spend most of my life

trying to figure out the opera playing inside my father's head.

He doesn't really notice much else,

least of all me, age ten, just staring up at him.

Now, if you want your child to grow up to be a grandstanding stadium singer,

there are a couple of ways to go about it.

You can tell them they're gifted, they-- that the world needs to hear their voice.

This is the Italian method.

Or you can completely ignore them.

This can be the Irish method, much more effective in my case.

I craved my father's attention.

I wanted him to think that I had music in me too.

He didn't hear me,

so I sang louder and louder.

In fact, you could say I sang my way to right in front of you tonight.

Thanks, Da.

My father had some very good reasons for staying lost in his own world.

I think we're gonna need some harp music for this next bit.

It's the tragic part.

My mother, Iris, died when I was 14.

Last time I saw her alive was at her own father's funeral.

This sounds almost too Irish, I know,

but this is my story. I'm stuck with it.

As my grandfather's casket was being lowered into the ground,

my mother collapsed.

I stood watching as my father and my older brother carried her to the car,

drove her to the hospital, where she died of an aneurysm.

It happens.

I felt useless, so I prayed.

My father's response to this tragedy was to never speak of her again.

With Iris gone, our home at number 10 is becoming its own opera.

I'm locked in a house

where three men are living in rage and melancholy.

A house where the name of our grief is never spoken.

Iris.

My mother's name is Iris.

The house became a river of silence in which I might have drowned

had my big brother, Norman, not thrown me a lifeline.

He gave me a guitar, his guitar.

A shield. A weapon. A confidant.

Another voice to pray with. Music.

I am jumping around the living room

to the sound of the Ramones' Leave Home album.

Songs so simple, and yet they capture how my life feels to me.

Songs so simple that even I might be able to write one.

It's May 10, 1978. Today is my 18th birthday.

We don't do cakes.

Instead, the da wants to talk to me about getting a job.

A job.

I know that if I could do something I love,

I would never have to work a day in my life.

But to do that, you have to be great at something,

and I'm not great at something. I'm not great at anything.

I'm smart enough to know I'm not smart enough.

The Ramones are smart enough to play dumb.

Maybe I need to listen to even more Ramones.

This is the day I'm gonna write my very first proper rock-and-roll song.

It will become U2's first single. It will save my life.

It is called "Out of Control."

Monday morning, 18 years of dawning

I say how long

Say how long

It was one dull morning

Woke the world with bawling

I was so sad

They were so glad

Yeah, I had spirit and we had soul

Even then I was out of control

Hey, I can do this.

Stories for

"Drummer seeks musicians to form band."

Stories for boys

Let me introduce you to Larry Mullen Jr.

Now, most people who enter the room with Larry Mullen find him striking

in the sense that he is a stylish, good-looking member of the species,

but also in the sense that he can be strikingly suspicious

of you being in his gaze,

of you being in the room,

and perhaps, on a bad day, your reason for being anywhere at all.

But when Larry loves people, he loves them completely,

and I'm grateful to have become one of the beneficiaries of that love.

Now, David Evans.

Sometimes the name you're given at birth just isn't your real name, is it?

David Evans was always the Edge. Always the Edge.

1976, he was 15, a year younger than me.

He was leaning up against the wall at Mount Temple Comprehensive,

plucking a complicated guitar line.

He was in class with Alison Stewart, my future wife,

and it was said that they were the smartest in their year,

that he had a crush on her, that they might have gone for walks.

Decided right then, I was keeping an eye on this guitar genius.

Now, let me introduce you to Adam Clayton,

a true believer in rock and roll.

Only one commandment, four strings are better than six.

He had the style, the attitude, the ambition,

only problem was he couldn't play,

which wasn't a problem, as I couldn't sing.

Stories for boys

There's a place I go That isn't part of me

Like a radio with no controls

In my imagination

There's only static and flow

No yes or no

The stories for boys

Stories for boys

Stories for boys

U2's rehearsal room was a small cottage,

backing onto a graveyard in north County Dublin.

Same graveyard that my mother was buried in. We called it the Yellow House.

Today, not for the first time, I've been screaming at my bandmates.

Forget Ireland bursting into paramilitary flames. No, no.

On this day, in the winter of 1978,

the most pressing issue facing all of humanity

is that this band are not being good enough musicians,

as if I was.

Trying to explain to them how excited I am

about the new Public Image Ltd song.

A great song, I explain, like I know,

can be written on two strings over two chords.

I'm trying to get Edge to make the sound of an electric drill into your brain,

like a chainsaw through the carcass of the past.

Edge is not following the invective.

In fact, Edge is losing patience, and I'm becoming even more invected,

so invected that I grab his Gibson Explorer from him

and wrap it around my own neck

to start making a dangerous squeal of a sound.

"Go on. Go on," says Edge. "Keep it coming. You're nearly there."

You like it?

"I'm not sure I like it, but it does sound like a dentist drilling your brain.

Here, let me take it. Let me see if I can take it somewhere."

In this ego-filled and egoless moment,

a song is forming.

A song that will be called "I Will Follow."

If you walk away, walk away. Walk away, walk away.

It's like a rhythm hook. You know, like a wah-wah pedal.

Walk away, walk away, walk away. I will follow.

Edge is turning my graffiti

into some Raphael Mother and fucking Child,

and Larry and Adam are burning down the gallery.

That's right.

Come on, let's find the thing that we can do that no one else can do.

Adam, you can do that.

We can do this thing.

Edge, we can do this thing.

Adam, Larry, if you walk away, walk away.

If you walk away, walk away. If you walk away, walk away.

On the drums, Larry Mullen.

On the bass, Adam Clayton, Edge.

"I Will Follow."

Oh, man. Sorry about that, Edge, Larry, Adam.

What a complete fucking eejit I was.

I'm working on it though.

Truth is you're...

you're really great.

But what no one in that rehearsal room, including me, had thought about

was Iris Hewson resting...

not a hundred yards from where we were playing.

In all the time we rehearsed in the Yellow House,

I never thought about her.

Never once visited her grave.

It wasn't like she was dead.

It was worse.

We disappeared her, but Iris would not be denied.

No, not in the music.

Iris standing in the hall.

She tells me I can do it all.

Don't fear the world

it isn't there.

Iris playing on the strand.

She buries the boy

beneath the sand.

Iris says that I will be

the death of her.

But it wasn't fucking me.

Let me tell you something about the geometry

and the geography of the Irish mind.

The Irish mind is best understood as being like an Irish pub.

You go to forget, but in the end, you're drowning in memories,

and salt-and-vinegar crisps...

and black stuff.

Finnegan's pub is not just my local,

it is its own country with its own laws and customs.

It is the domain of Dan Finnegan and his sons.

It's a constitutional monarchy, with Dan head of state

and his sons running the government.

There is a code, a strictness, a reverence for tradition.

Indeed, a respect for opera

and for the kind of man who might know how to wear tweed,

like my father, Bob.

Now, within the nation of Finnegan's-- Like my father, Bob.

Now, within the nation of Finnegan's there is a small Italian consulate,

the Sorrento Lounge

which is where, on a Sunday, I would meet my father for a drink.

I would order a pint.

He, the Catholic, would order Black Bush, a Protestant whiskey.

Already a subtle signal that Brendan Robert Hewson was his own man

and one with a great opening line every single time.

"Anything strange or startling?"

Now, by strange or startling,

he was not interested in the riotous life of a rock-and-roll singer.

Mostly we sat in silence.

I try to impress him.

How about Luciano Pavarotti calling the house?

You consider that strange or startling?

"Startling, that's obvious.

Strange? Yeah. Why would a great tenor be calling you? No offense."

None taken. Actually, he's looking for a song.

"Did he dial the wrong number?"

No. He wants me,

with a little help from Edge, to write him a song. Yeah.

Not Gilbert and Sullivan or Rodgers and Hammerstein.

Me, B-O-N-O, Paul.

"You? A baritone who thinks he's a tenor?"

Me.

Pavarotti wants me to write him a song. Now who's the fucking eejit?

"He is."

Gloria

In te domine

Gloria

Exultate

Mount Temple Comprehensive School was a nondenominational,

coeducational experiment.

In a country that was close to civil war along sectarian lines,

we had Catholics and Protestants in the same class.

You were encouraged to be yourself,

to be creative, to wear your own clothes,

and there were girls.

Also, wearing their own clothes.

Ironically, amid this freedom from religion,

we found ourselves getting religion.

We got close to a group of Christian radicals called "Shalom."

They figured all the established churches had not just gotten away from Jesus,

but they had got in the way of Jesus.

As U2 started to get popular,

our first-century Christian brethren began suggesting that our music was frivolous

and self-flattering.

In other words, fun.

We asked the question, "Can we not change the world and have fun?"

"No. You must choose between this world and the next."

Eventually, it became too much for us, particularly Edge.

He couldn't live with the tension between being a disciple of Jesus

and an apostle of Joey Ramone.

He eventually decided to leave the band.

I felt conflicted too.

I had no interest in carrying on in U2 without Edge.

Larry sympathized with us both.

Adam did not.

One album and done, like the Sex Pistols.

Now we just had to tell our manager.

Have I told you about Paul McGuinness?

Paul McGuinness, the Winston Churchill of Rock.

I mean, he went to war for U2.

He had just taken us once around the world,

so we really, really weren't looking forward

to telling him that we were breaking up his baby band just as they hit puberty.

But he heard us out.

There was a pause,

some fidgeting, a slap on the face. His.

And then came,

"Am I to gather from this that you've been talking to God?

Well, maybe the next time you ring God,

you might ask him, or her,

if it's okay for your representative on Earth-- i.e., me--

to renege on a legal contract.

Do you think God would have you break a legal contract, is my question.

A contract that I have signed on your behalf to go on tour.

What sort of a God is that?"

Hell of a negotiator, Paul McGuinness.

It wouldn't be the first time we'd put words in God's mouth.

The tour would indeed go ahead.

And I was so heightened,

I convinced my 21-year-old girlfriend to get married.

Unbelievably, she said yes.

Now, Edge, he had some fun too,

but Edge was still not sure he wanted

to be in a business of inflamed egos

and pumped-up personalities.

I asked him, would he make an exception for me?

Arpeggiating his way out of a corner,

Edge began working on the sketch of a song.

Well, not just a song, a map. A way forward for U2 in the world.

"Sunday, Bloody Sunday" was religious art meets The Clash.

But its ambition was to contrast the original Easter Sunday

with the massacre of 14 unarmed protesters in the city of Derry.

While Edge was in his flat in Dublin,

I was with my bride in Jamaica, writing lyrics for these new songs,

explaining to Ali why our honeymoon album was gonna be called War.

I can't believe the news today

I can't close my eyes, make it go away

How long

How long must we sing this song?

How long, how long?

Tonight

We can be as one

Tonight, tonight

Broken bottles under children's feet

Bodies strewn across The dead-end street

I won't heed the battle call

Puts my back up

My back up against the wall

Sunday, bloody Sunday

Sunday, bloody Sunday

Sunday, bloody Sunday

- Sunday - Bloody Sunday

Here she comes

Here she comes

Here she comes, yeah

Here she

Comes

I'm here at the murder scene

The beginning of a fiction

Facts will not complete

Why so many mothers cry

Is religion now the enemy

Of the Holy Spirit guide?

The real battle yet begun

Where is the victory Jesus

Won?

Something to know about performers:

in pursuit of truth, we are capable of more untruth than most.

Cheers.

Show business.

Back in the Sorrento Lounge,

the usual opening line from the da.

"Anything strange or startling?"

Everything is strange and startling.

"Oh, you're right there. I took a taxi out here today.

The driver saw where I was going

and asked if I knew Bono."

"I said, 'I do not. Do you?'"

"Sure, we all know Bono out here. Sure. Isn't he hounded by the Pavarotti?"

"Hounded. Hounded by the Pavarotti.

I never heard that one. Paparazzi, is it?"

Funny you should say that.

The great "Paparazzi" himself has been calling the house again.

This time, he wants us to perform with him in his hometown of Modena

to raise money for refugees from the war in Bosnia.

I mean, how do you say no to that?

"For once, would you just do what you're told?"

I want to do what I'm told.

But I'm also being told by the band to stop getting distracted

so we can finish a U2 album,

rather than ones for Pavarotti.

Let me explain something about being in this band

that even my da doesn't understand.

The popular perception is that I am the leader of U2. I wish.

I voted that U2 should be an actual democracy.

So, now I'm in a band with three other people,

each of whom thinks he is the leader of U2.

So, my wanting to do something

does not necessarily mean they are wanting to do something.

Anyway, I'm telling this to the da.

And, Da, the whole band was in the studio in Hanover Quay

when the phone rings, you know.

"Bono, Bono, Bono. How are you?

Are you weary from the mountaintop?

Have you come down the mountaintop with the tablets of rock and roll?"

The new album. Yeah, we're late as always.

"You told me this,

and dearest Bono, that is why I am here to help."

I'm sorry? You're in Dublin?

"I am this very minute in the Irish customs and exercise.

I have told them I have nothing to declare

but my love of Bono, Edge, James and Larry."

"It is my sole purpose in this moment

to be of service to these great men."

Oh, maestro, they are great men

and this is a great honor, but it's not a great moment.

"They don't like me?"

It's worse. They don't care.

I mean, these are the children of punk rock.

They will likely suspect that you are just here

to twist their arm into going to Modena.

"This pains me.

I came only in genuflection and cordiality,

and now you question my motivation."

No. No, maestro. It's not like that.

"Perfetto. I am on my way."

Fuck. Fuck.

I go to Edge, Adam and Larry,

I say, "Look, he's the greatest singer in the history of the world.

It's a huge honor he's coming to see us in the next half an hour."

"The next half an hour? He might be coming to see you," says Larry.

"He's not coming to see us."

"This is some kind of stunt," says Adam.

"He'd likely show up with a photographer, you know? We will not be coerced."

What are you going to do? Hide?

"No, we're not gonna hide," says Edge.

"Actually," say Adam and Larry in perfect unison,

"that is exactly what we're gonna do. We are going to hide."

Sorry?

And with that, two grown men hide from Luciano Pavarotti.

The buzzer rings...

and there he stands. Oh, my God.

The greatest singer in the history of the wor--

With a film crew.

Seven or eight excited Italians. One of them's crying.

"Bono, Bono, Bono. Edge, Edge. Bono, Edge.

Where are James and Larry?"

"These are my friends from Rai Uno. They have a satellite dish

in case we decide to announce the show in Modena.

I mean, while we're all together."

"In what corner of the universe

is the great Pavarotti knocking on your door

and you are not letting him in? Has the world gone bloody mad?"

Da, in my corner of the universe, we very much let him in.

In Edge's corner too.

In fact, we're off to be part of Pavarotti & Friends

to support War Child in Modena.

Yes.

Adam and Larry are missing in action on this one,

but would you like to go?

"Really?

Okay,

I suppose you better have at least one real tenor on your side."

And then...

The greatest voice in the history of the world.

But the miracle in Modena

was the transformation of Brendan Robert Hewson,

my Irish Catholic father,

not by Luciano Pavarotti,

but by the woman on his arm, Diana, Princess of Wales.

For those of you who don't know, Edge's family were Welsh,

so they were thrilled to meet the Princess of Wales.

Edge dared me to ask the da, so I did.

Da, you fancy meeting Lady Di?

The Evans are wondering.

"What? Why would I want to meet a member of the royal family?

I mean, that's like asking me, do I want to meet the winner of the lotto?"

Got it. I know. Just asking.

The next bit you just couldn't make up.

The da is in our trailer,

not eating from Pavarotti's deli tray of exotic Italian meats

with names that none of us can pronounce.

And when he turns around...

she's right there.

Approaching 6 feet tall in her heels,

a vision in ivory.

Diana approached the da as if in slow motion.

"How do you do?"

The da melted.

The shock of a close encounter with the British royal family

quickly became a teenage crush.

"Very well. Thank you for asking.

Very pleased to meet you."

800 years of oppression, disappearing in eight seconds.

If you've ever wondered about the usefulness of the royals--

which a lot of Irish people have--

I would point to this incident.

Eight centuries of oppression, one princess and we're even. Yes.

When we get home,

the da is still talking about Princess Diana,

but he's modulating.

"I must say, she does great things for charity,

but it's not charity that you're on about, is it?

It's justice, isn't it?

I mean, you wouldn't need charity if the world was just."

Is the son starting to make sense to the father?

"I wouldn't go that far,

but I heard your song 'Pride' on the radio,

and I might have felt some."

Well, you know, it was that song that got us an invitation to Live Aid.

Bob Geldof said that when he heard it, he could forgive me the mullet.

When U2 walked on stage at Live Aid,

we found ourselves looking out at a sea of white flags of surrender,

swelling in the wind, even then,

and a generous spirit moving through the crowd.

Felt like our punk prayers were coming of age,

you know?

Prayers of peace.

Because to be hungry is to be at war with yourself.

To be at war with the very ground that you walk on.

That's right.

One man comes in the name of love

One man to come and go

One man comes he to justify

One man to overthrow

In the name of love

What more in the name of love

In the name of love

What more in the name of love

One man caught on a barbed-wire fence

One man he resist

One boy washed up on an empty beach

One boy who never will be kissed

In the name of love

What more in the name of love

In the name of love

What more in the name of love

Oh, yeah!

Wembley Stadium, London.

A thought is being broadcast all over the world.

What if we were the world?

What if we could feed the world?

What else?

What else could be done in the name of love? What else?

I still ask myself that question,

and I still wanna know the answer.

In the name of love

What more in the name of love

In the name of love

What more in the name of love

In the name of love

What more in the name of love

In the name of love

What more in the name of love

Live Aid and all its spin-offs raised $250 million.

But African countries were paying that sum

to you and me every week

for old loans we shoved down their throats during the Cold War.

"Every fucking week," as Bob Geldof would say.

I learned a big lesson from that.

Injustice is often disguised as bad luck.

As front man with U2,

I realized that if U2

was gonna be writing big songs about big subjects,

I needed a bigger brain.

A software update.

Rather than go back to school-- You don't have to laugh actually.

It's all good.

I went to Africa with the missus.

Ali and I were working in this orphanage

in Ajebar, South Wollo, Ethiopia.

It's the autumn of 1985.

These rural people are struggling to survive without food and water.

Their world has turned in on them.

The very land they live off has refused them entry.

Tsegaye: "I am the source, I am the Nile,

I am the African, I am the beginning!

I am the song, I am the singing

I am the Ethiopia that 'stretches her hand in supplication to God'

O Nile, you are the eloquence that rings the Ethiopian bell

across the deaf world!"

Because buried in this ground are great riches.

But a great famine has turned this great nation upside down.

Same country is about to turn our tiny lives right side up.

We will never be the same again and we won't want to be.

In this parched place,

we learn lessons from a landscape and a people that we can never forget.

"Poverty is not natural.

It is man-made and can be overcome by the actions of women and men."

Most likely women, who better understand

that where you live should not decide whether you live.

Are we right?

I wanna run

I want to hide

I want to tear down the walls

That hold me inside

Show me a place

High on the desert plain

Where the streets have no name

I wanted to feel

Sunlight on my face

But I need some shade and shelter

In this waterless place

Each desert rose

Is a prayer for rain

Where the streets have no name

Where the streets have no name

Where the streets have no name

We're still building And burning down love

We're burning down love

We can get through the fire

If I go with you

There's no other way through

It was hard for Ali and me to come back from Ethiopia.

A large part of us is still there, actually.

After The Joshua Tree,

U2 were getting a bit famous.

A bit mainstream.

We were either gonna be embarrassed about that or not.

Fame is currency,

and we wanted to use what you gave us to do more

than get a seat at a fancy restaurant.

Which, by the way, is not to be sniffed at.

I joined some new bands.

Drop the Debt, RED, the ONE Campaign, fighting extreme poverty.

Really, the ONE Campaign just had one idea.

You don't have to agree with someone on everything

if the one thing you do agree on is important enough.

This led to meetings with people who held the purse strings for the world's poor.

There are such people.

They're called the government. They're called the IMF, the World Bank.

This might be a moment to break the fourth wall...

Really?

...and ask some hard questions about my motivations.

Okay, there's been a mistake in the teleprompter. EHP.

Am I trying to cover up my guilt for having such a lavish lifestyle?

Yes, my lifestyle is lavish.

I am an overpaid, overregarded, overrewarded, overfed rock-and-roll star.

Am I a hypocrite? Yes.

But not on this front.

On a lot of other fronts.

But I will say, hypocrites get a bad rap.

I mean, hypocrites do the right thing at least some of the time.

But in the end...

what does it matter?

I mean, really, who cares? Motives don't matter.

Outcomes matter. Lives matter.

Human potential matters. Justice matters.

You wouldn't need charity if the world was just, as the da says.

But it's not, so get the check. Get the check.

Lover, I'm off the streets

Gonna go where the bright lights Big city meet

With a red guitar, on fire

Desire

She's the candle burning in my room

I'm like the needle, needle and spoon

Over the counter, with a shotgun

Pretty soon, everybody got one

In a fever when I'm beside her

Desire

Desire

Burning

Burning, baby

Burning with love

She's the dollars, she's my protection

She is the promise In the year of election

Oh, sister, can't let you go

I'm like a preacher stealing hearts At a traveling show

For love or money, money Love or money, money

Love or money, money, money, Money, money, money, money, money

And the fever, I can't deny her

Desire

Desire

And mark and yen to the pound To the pound, to the pound

And all that makes the world go round The world go round

Makes the world go round

Money makes the world go round

Really?

All right, they're gonna change the cameras,

and I'm gonna have a very strong drink...

And we'll be right back.

We got four lenses,

- and we're looking for the hero lens. - Okay.

Right. The most beautiful. We would like you to stand there.

- I would love to. - And we'll micro direct you.

Focus on the near eye.

Beautiful. We're never gonna go tighter than that, are we?

I don't think so.

I think that'd be a bit,

difficult to perform with those limitations.

Okay, so turn around, buddy.

Yeah. No, that's pretty good. He sort of naturally knows what to do, right?

It's the third act.

All right, that's good.

The confessional.

All this saving the world,

is it really service, duty, righteous anger,

or is it just a childlike desire to be at the center of the action?

The center of attention.

Which begs the question,

can you have a child and remain a child?

Time to grow up.

Can't fuck this up.

Desire and virtue

is a whole dance,

and no one does it better than my missus.

"Desire" went to number one in the charts.

I don't know if there's a connection, but we were so excited

we had our first baby.

I didn't know how to feel.

I didn't know if I'd know how to be a father.

Didn't know if I could be a father

because I didn't think I had been much of a son.

I said in the beginning that Alison Stewart had faith.

I mean, this woman part wrote the story that you're listening to.

When Ali and I married,

we moved out of our family homes.

That's how young we were.

We moved into an old stone tower on the Irish coast,

the lighthouse.

Ali will let her soul be searched,

but only if you arrive at her fort defenseless,

have you half a chance at challenging

her own almost unbroachable defenses,

it's the only way over that drawbridge.

Wasn't two years into our marriage,

and I could see my wife in prolonged moments

returning to the vast silence that she holds inside herself.

She was suggesting that even when I was home, I wasn't home.

Our weekly walks along the promenade tinged with melancholy,

as the waves try to make up their mind whether they're leaving or staying.

Leaving or staying.

See the stone set in your eyes

Am I such a thorn in your side?

Should I wait for you?

There's a selfishness implicit in the desire to be great at something.

Sleight of hand and a twist of fate

On a bed of nails you make me wait

You're trying to prove yourself, but to who?

Without you

With or without you

Alison Stewart saw to me...

With or without you

...by seeing through me.

Through the storm we reached the shore

Before I had anything...

You give it all but I want more

...before I had my name...

And I'm greedy

...she knew what I had...

For you

...and hadn't.

With or without you

Concentration.

With or without you

You can't be great at anything...

I can't live

...without an incredible concentration.

With or without you

But a lot of it's just dysfunction.

You give yourself away

A sort of blindness...

And you give yourself away

...where you might not see the person right next to you.

You might want an audience...

And you give yourself away

more than you want a family.

My hands are tied

You might not want to give up...

My body bruised, you got me with

...the emptiness...

Nothing to win

...that gave you everything.

And nothing left to lose

With or without you

With or without you

I can't live

With or without you

I called my book Surrender

because I knew this is a word I needed to understand better,

that it was the antidote

to whatever condition I was suffering from.

And it didn't come natural to me.

One Sunday in 1999,

I'm back in the Sorrento Lounge with the da,

and for the first time ever,

decide I'll ambush him with his own question.

Just throw it at him.

Anything strange or startling, Da?

"I have cancer.

I'm in the departure lounge as it were.

You won't be putting up

with my unfunny jokes much longer."

Huge boulders fall on your head,

just like that, from some imaginary mountain.

I thought I was getting to know him that there'd be more time.

How Bob Hewson of you.

Just when I thought I was finally getting to know you,

that you might give up some answers, you give me the slip.

Beaumont Hospital...

Dublin, the summer of 2001.

I see my father in a hospital bed.

This time it's him who's running out of air.

And I see myself lying next to him

on a mattress on the floor.

He's breathing,

but his breathing's getting shallower,

like the grave in his chest.

He shouts my name,

confusing me with my brother and the other way around.

"Paul, Norman. Paul, Norman. Paul."

I jump up, call the nurse.

"Are you okay, Bob?"

she whispers in his ear.

His tenor has now become short, tinny breaths.

An S after every exhalation. "Yes. Get me out of here.

Get me out of here. I wanna go home. Yes.

Yes, I wanna go home. Yes."

I said, "It's okay. It's okay. It's okay.

Are you okay?"

Listen.

Silence.

I put my ear close to his mouth.

Silence.

Silence followed by,

"Fuck off."

There's something perfectly imperfect about my da's exit from my life.

I don't believe he was telling me

or the very vigilant night nurse to fuck off,

though I'm not ruling that out.

I'd like to think

he was addressing the burdens that had been on his back for most of his life.

I have a feeling...

they're my inheritance,

but I believe I have a choice in the matter.

And there was kindness too.

I think he believed that to dream

was to be disappointed,

and he didn't want that for me.

This is a-- This is--

This is when you realize your father is your friend.

And you know, the journey of--

you know, from father to friend is the only one to be on really,

if you're a father, and I am.

And I sort of made friends with my father

after he passed, which is a bit of a mistake.

To imagine the story from his perspective is humbling, you know.

He loses his wife.

He's left with his two kids,

and one of them is charging in his direction,

you know, coming for him guns blazing.

And one of them is gonna take him out

by achieving all the ambitions he was afraid to have.

He told me in those final days, when accepting his cancers,

that he'd lost his faith.

And he also told me that I should never lose mine.

That it was the most interesting thing about me.

But it did happen, where I reached out...

Yeshua.

...and that thing that I have

- held so tightly... - Yeshua.

...wasn't there. It was the most terrifying moment of my life.

Yeshua.

Hold me close

Hold me close and don't let

Hold me close and don't let me go

Hold me close

Like I'm someone that you might know

The heart is a bloom

Shoots up through the stony ground

There's no room

No space to rent in this town

You're out of luck

The reason that you had to care

Traffic is stuck

You're not moving anywhere

You thought you'd found a friend

To take you out of this place

Someone you could lend a hand

In return for grace

It's a beautiful day

The sky falls You feel like it's a beautiful day

Don't let it get away

You're on the road

But you got no destination

You're in the mud

In the maze of her imagination

You love this town

Even if that doesn't ring true

You've been all over

And it's been all over you

It's a beautiful day

Don't let it get away

Beautiful day

Yeah, yeah

Touch me now

Take me to that other place

Teach me, love

I know I'm not a hopeless case

The dead are always with us Won't leave us alone

Blowing through our memories Rattling their bones

The dead are always with us There's more of them than us

The valley of dry bones, dust to dust

Parched and abandoned Filled with doubt

But after the flood All the colors came out

All the colors came out

It was a beautiful day

Don't let it get away

Beautiful day

Yeah, yeah

Touch me now

Take me to that other place

Reach me

I know I'm not a hopeless case

What you don't have You don't need it now

What you don't know You can feel it somehow

What you don't have You don't need it now

Don't need it now

I have a very unscientific theory

that when you lose someone you love, they bequeath you something.

A gift.

When I lost my mother...

well...

I got you to fill that hole.

When I lost my father, I found my voice started to change,

and I couldn't help thinking

that the baritone who thought he was a tenor

actually became one.

I don't know how.

All kinds of reasons.

Might have something to do with this word forgiveness.

I don't know if I forgave my father, or my father forgave me.

'Cause I was born with my fists up.

Surrender does not come easy to me.

To bow down to my bandmates, to my wife, to my Maker,

is a struggle.

I have faith enough to hope and hope enough to love.

And this music is how I practice that.

And my father on Earth, he gave me that.

And he left me with one of his favorite melodies to haunt me.

Only realized recently,

the title has the same name as our local watering hole,

the Sorrento Lounge.

"Come Back to Sorrento."

And it was this melody.

And I will.

One, two, three, four.

Baby's crying 'cause it's born to sing

Singers cry about everything

Still in the playground Falling off the swing

But you know that I know

I just can't remember the next bit.

What's the next bit of the melody?

Keep going. That's great.

One, two, three.

It is what it is It's not what it seems

This screwed-up stuff Is the stuff of dreams

I got just enough low self-esteem

To get me where I want to go

Another verse.

The showman gives you Front row to his heart

The showman prays His heartache will chart

Making a spectacle of falling apart

Is just the start of the show

Oh, you don't care

But you know I'm there

You think you look so good

A little more better

Look so good

A little more, little more

You think you look so good

That's what's gonna get you

Look so good

A to G.

I'll be chasing the sunlight

That's why I'm staying up all night

I lie for a living, I love to let on

But you make it true When you sing along

You think you look so good

A little more better

Look so good

A little more, little more

You think you look so good

That's what's gonna get you

Look so good

Keeps-- Keep chorus going.

Look so good

A little more better

You think you look so good

A little more, little more

You think you look so good

That's what's gonna get you

Look so good

A little more, little more

You think you look so good

A little more, little more

Look so good

A little more, little more

- Happy? - Back to work.

Okay.

- That was great. - I loved it.