They say all roads lead to Rome. For me, apparently, they led to a field in East Yorkshire — wearing Bono shades, leather jacket and boot-cuts, and carrying my late dad's rosary beads.
This was my Rome.
The succession of recent gigs had felt like the perfect build-up. Charlie's Loft in Glasgow had been a really special night, followed by The Ultimate Tribute Festival in Dumfries, where everything seemed to move up another level. Then came the one that had been circled in the diary for months: Tribfest Main Stage.
Rather incredibly, this was also my first proper festival experience since T in the Park sometime around 1998. There are probably several reasons for that. I've never entirely understood the attraction of voluntarily spending three days trudging through six inches of mud while horizontal Scottish rain attacks your face. Apparently this is called “the festival experience.” But this time was different. I wasn't going to watch. I was going to play.
And because I wanted to experience Tribfest properly, I decided in a late call, I was camping. Marty Mullen had hired a perfectly lovely house about ten miles away. I, meanwhile — fake international rock icon that I am — chose a tiny two-man pop-up tent in a field. Bono has the Clarence Hotel. T-Bono has a £39.99 tent and a bottle of ALDI red. Rock 'n' roll, baby.
Tribfest itself felt like a miniature Glastonbury, although “miniature” doesn't really do it justice. The site was vast, with thousands of people, tents everywhere, music coming from different stages and that wonderful festival feeling that everyone has temporarily agreed to leave normal life somewhere outside the gates. There was a genuinely lovely family atmosphere too. Saturday had an “Out of This World” theme, which resulted in hundreds of people wandering around dressed as aliens, astronauts and various creatures I couldn't begin to identify. Green faces, inflatable spacesuits, UFOs and some truly magnificent examples of human lunacy. I had come dressed as Bono, so arguably I was one of the more normal-looking people there.
Then the Oasis tribute took to the Main Stage and they were excellent. Even standing well back, the sound was enormous and absolutely spot-on. And that's when it suddenly hit me: We're two bands away. That little flutter appeared in my stomach. Okay. Time for the rosary beads.
Literally.
Bono's faith has always been part of his story. He famously has rosary beads given to him by Pope John Paul II and, in return, the Pope apparently received Bono's sunglasses — which, when you think about it, may be the most U2 transaction in history. I grew up in a very devout Catholic family and was an altar boy myself. Over recent years I've rediscovered a strong faith, and strangely that has become intertwined with this whole ridiculous adventure of pretending to be Bono.
Putting the character together has involved an alarming amount of research and multiple purchases (mostly failed) from ‘Vinted’. The right jacket. The faux-leather bootcuts. The boots. And sunglasses. So many sunglasses. I think I'm now beyond twenty pairs. I've basically become the Imelda Marcos of tinted eyewear. Somewhere along the way I decided I needed rosary beads too. But while looking for a set, I found something much more important.
My dad Tommy's.
Dad passed away many years ago, but I've never really felt that he completely left. There was something about him that actually reminded me of John Paul II — that same warm smile on his face and that little sparkle in his eyes. The sort of face that immediately told you, “This is a good man.” And he was. I've often imagined him watching this strange journey I'm on. Probably shaking his head. Probably laughing. Almost certainly wondering why his 53-year-old son owns twenty pairs of sunglasses. But watching nonetheless.
I've always felt his presence around me, through good times and bad, and now I take and wear his rosary beads at the gigs. Somehow, when they're there, Dad is there too. So on Saturday afternoon, before the biggest performance we'd ever played, I held them. A little prayer. A little thought for him. And then... back to the rock 'n' roll.
Twenty minutes before stage time — DISASTER. The zip had completely come off the breast pocket of my leather jacket. Was this an omen? Was the entire U2.V2 dream beginning to unravel because of a 4mm piece of metal? Fortunately, one of rock 'n' roll's greatest technological innovations came to the rescue: gaffer tape. A highly sophisticated repair of looping gaffer tape hidden inside the jacket. It held. Just. As the Queen boys would later remind everyone that evening, The Show Must Go On.
We walked onto the Tribfest Main Stage for soundcheck, and that's when the scale of it really hit me. You see stages like that on television and somehow, from the audience, they look manageable. Standing in the middle of one is very different. It was enormous. The field was littered with a few hundred people for sound check, but very soon this would change... and I could feel the nerves beginning to change into excitement. A few technical problems with my in-ear monitors delayed us slightly, which meant the clock was already working against us and another song might have to disappear from the set. But eventually everything was ready. The boys took their positions. Then came the opening of Vertigo.
And suddenly... this was it.
The sun was splitting the sky. Thousands of people were looking towards us. Smoke rolled across the stage. For some reason I thought about Queen at Milton Keynes Bowl — Brian May running onto that enormous stage as Flash exploded around him — and one thought entered my head: T-Bono... channel a bit of Freddie. So off I went.
Our first ever U2.V2 gig was played in front of about twelve people. The stage was so small that my available performance area was roughly the dimensions of a postage stamp. If I moved backwards, I hit the drummer's ride cymbal. Move sideways and I was practically sitting on The Edge. Tribfest was different. This stage was a tennis court. I could run, jump, high-kick, lunge, swagger and explore. Basically everything a 53-year-old man with a questionable lower back should absolutely not be doing. Thank God for painkillers. But I felt completely free up there.
Then came Sunday Bloody Sunday, and this one mattered. I'd spent a lot of time creating new visuals for the song. Images of the horrific destruction in Gaza appeared behind us, followed by the words NO MORE. NO WAR. The music, the screens, the band and the message all came together exactly as I'd imagined. For a few minutes it felt bigger than simply being a tribute band playing somebody else's songs. It felt genuinely powerful.
Then I looked out. A sea of people. Hands going into the air when I raised mine. People singing back at us. “I still haven't found what I'm looking for...” And later, “With or without you...” Thousands of voices coming towards the stage. And somewhere amongst all the noise, smoke, sunshine and adrenaline came a remarkably quiet thought.
I belong up here.
Not in an arrogant way. Quite the opposite. It felt more like recognition — like discovering a little room inside yourself that had always been there but you'd somehow never opened. I'd imagined moments like this countless times. Listening to U2. Listening to Queen. Watching my heroes... Freddie Mercury, Michael Hutchence and Bono command enormous crowds and wondering what that must feel like. For years it existed entirely inside my head. Now I was standing inside it.
The daydream had become a memory.
Eventually came the unmistakable opening of Pride (In the Name of Love). Martin Luther King appeared across the screens behind us. The crowd was still with us. The band was flying. I wanted another hour, but our time was up. The final chords rang out across the field and that was it. We had played the Tribfest Main Stage. And the Tribfest crowd had most definitely made it a Beautiful Day.
Coming off stage was strange. The adrenaline was still absolutely roaring through me and I found myself wondering what it must have felt like for my heroes after those enormous shows. Mercury. Hutchence. Bono. How do you come down from something like that? How do legendary rock stars decompress after walking off stage in front of thousands?
I don't know. But I can tell you how T-Bono does it. I walked to the car, opened the boot and retrieved a fine bottle of ALDI red wine. I unscrewed the cap. No sommelier. No crystal glass. No backstage entourage. Just a sweaty middle-aged bloke dressed as Bono drinking supermarket Cabernet in a field. I took a glorious swig.
This, dear boy, was rock 'n' roll.
The evening rolled beautifully onwards. Jimmy Somerville, The Killers, then into the Big Top to watch a fantastic Queen tribute absolutely tear the place apart. What an atmosphere there was in that tent. Eventually, though, the adrenaline began to disappear and the international rock star and his fine steed of an assistant — my amazing son Finn — returned to his accommodation — the palatial two-man pop-up tent.
I crawled inside and lay there thinking about the day. About the band. About my kids. My family. My friends. About my dad. And those rosary beads. And I quietly thanked God. For the gift of being able to sing. For somehow finding these other guys who were daft enough to come on this adventure with me. And for giving me the chance, at this stage of my life, to discover something that makes me feel completely and utterly alive.
I've come to believe we're being guided on this strange journey. Where it leads, I've absolutely no idea. As Larry Mullen Jnr might say, “It's a musical journey...” But perhaps knowing where it ends isn't the important bit. Perhaps sometimes you're simply supposed to recognise those rare moments when you're standing exactly where you're meant to be.
And on Saturday afternoon, beneath that enormous stage roof, with the sun above us, thousands of people in front of us and my father's rosary beads close by...
I knew.
For one extraordinary hour, a dream I'd carried around for years wasn't a dream anymore. It was happening. Right there, in a field in East Yorkshire.
The Field of Dreams.
And Dad...
I hope you enjoyed the show.