Wembley Stadium, July 1985. Live Aid. A gigantic moment in the life of U2. In the life of so many musicians. A transformation in how to think about pop music being of practical help in the world. For the record, I don’t think pop music has any obligation to be any more help than a three-minute rush of pure joy, an unexpected kiss of melody, a sung and swallowed capsule of truth-telling. Sweetor sour-coated.
All that being said, there is also a history of music in service of the greater good, a magnificent testament to the ideals and steeliness of musicians like George Harrison organising a concert for Bangladesh. But never before had there been a gathering quite like Live Aid, raising money to support Ethiopians in another famine. A global audience, a stage on two continents, and an unprecedented superstar lineup that would ensure 16 hours of high ratings.
What are the odds of two anti-poverty campaigners being born a few miles from each other and both in rock’n’roll bands? The truth of it is that Bob Geldof opened the door and I walked through. He showed me, as an Irish person, that ideas get more authority the better they are described. We knew him first not as an activist but as lead singer in the Boomtown Rats, Southside posh boys pretending to
