The Night I Was Severely Shamed By Bono

(Yes, "severely." Yes, THAT Bono.)

There are certain moments that take place in our youth, that because of hormones, social pressure, and crippling insecurity, seemed to take on an outsized level of importance and humiliation.

But now, a full 35 years later, seen through the hard-earned prism of perspective and life experience, we can see that perhaps the incidents of our past, that once made us recoil and sweat just recalling them in therapy, were actually not that bad.

Unfortunately, this is not one of those incidents.

No amount of time passage or Wellbutrin prescription will make this retroactively more palatable.

Nope, I can still decree with absolute, moral certainty that this was the most humiliating, cringiest moment of my life.

And if it wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of my life, I could clearly see it from there.

And I have Bono to thank for it. Well, actually, I have me to thank for it. And Captain Morgan bears a little responsibility as well.

It was the fall of 1988. Just about 35 years ago. I remember that because it was the night of the first George H.W. Bush/ Michael Dukakis debate. And I was thoroughly wasted. And not out of sadness or depression over the debate.

Instead, I was hopped up by the complete certainty of a Michael Dukakis presidency. (It’s possible my frontal lobe hadn’t fully formed yet?)

To celebrate having a Greek, uni-browed technocrat in the White House, I was meeting my friend Amy at McCabe’s Guitar Shop to see one of my favorite artists of the era, Maria McKee of Lone Justice, deliver a rare, intimate solo acoustic show.

(I should note that this wasn’t a date. But on the other hand, I probably shouldn’t have subjected Amy to world class humiliation. Seems like a fair set of parameters, don’t you think?)

In addition to be a favored hipster guitar shop, McCabe’s was also a concert venue, legendary for putting on tiny shows by famous artists. I’d say that it’s maximum occupancy was 30 seats. There are likely more people in the Toluca Lake Starbucks where I’m writing this than there were at the whole show.

The show was as intimate as advertised. Maria’s delivery quiet and tender— a set and style especially tailored to the room where she was performing.

Let’s see, what else do you need to know? I was 22 at the time. I didn’t drink often, but when I did, I was pretty convinced it made me the funniest man in the world. And most of those comic gifts, I seemed to impute to a combo platter of heightened volume and diminished appropriateness.

What happened next I certainly regret. I'm not a monster. But it certainly seemed inevitable to who I was then.

Ms. McKee had just finished a song. I don’t know which one. But it was unquestionably the quietest, most tender entry in her entire catalogue.

She finished the emotionally-devastating ballad. The room went silent. But instead of politely, delicately applauding like the other 29 guests in this tiny room, I chose at the moment to punctuate the silence by screaming “Free Bird” at the top of my lungs.

I think I would’ve received a kinder response had I belched the alphabet in synagogue on Kol Nidre.

Now, it’s crucial for me to point out that this was 1988. The shouting of ‘Free Bird’ wasn’t yet the universally-loathed concert cliche that it’s since become.

On the other hand, I did not appear to have made it up, either.

I know that because Maria McKee stopped the concert. And singled me out. And declared, “there was one guy like this in every crowd.”

So, no, I wasn’t the first. And no, I had nowhere to hide. There were only five rows of seats. More people take my seminar classes and the rooms are bigger.

Sure, I wanted to die. It’s amazing how quickly you can sober up from thorough, abject embarrassment. But what about poor Amy? It wasn’t a date, but she was still stuck there, the plus-one to the “Free Bird” after a tender ballad guy.

The silence lasted for centuries. But at least that was it. Things couldn’t get worse.

Wrong.

Just then, the man seated directly in front of me, turned around and gave me the most withering head shake of disappointment known to mankind.

And that purveyor of stern Christian judgment? Bono from U2.

In fact, the four seats in front of us— the only row in front of us— was occupied by all four members of U2. It was 1988. They were the biggest band in the world. They were just coming off of Rattle and Hum. But they were still hanging out together like a Monkees’ episode. If the Monkees were into seeing intimate, acoustic balladeers in the back of a guitar shop.

And it wasn’t just U2. They were even dressed like U2. Lots of vest-wear and necklaces. And the Edge wearing precisely the hat that you’re currently imaging the Edge would wear to look like the Edge in 1988.

But let’s sadly return to that moment. I’ve stalled long enough.

Let’s stipulate, that even if the event happened to present day me and present day Maria McKee, I think we can all agree that present dayBono, expressing disappointment in you would be the end of the world.

But this was Bono then! He was the most famous man on Earth. He was the world’s symbol of righteous indignation. He built an entire brand and following based on sanctimonious judgement.

1988 Bono. This was Bono performing in cowboy hats and vests without shirts. This was Bono decreeing “This was the song Charles Manson stole from the Beatles. I’m stealing it back.” This was the Bono who expressed more self-righteous rage at the shantytowns of Johannesburg than Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu combined.

THAT Bono. Literally, the last person in the world you wanted to shake his head dismissively at you. Especially, when you totally, completely, unequivocally deserved it.

And had nowhere to hide.

I don’t remember much more about the evening. Except that Maria McKee must have played about a thousand more songs. And the room was so tiny, there was no way I could sneak out without drawing more attention to from the stage. Or from the Dublin’s angriest rock combo.

Instead, I was left with my own thoughts— always a dangerous proposition. I spent a lot of the show debating in my head whether I’d have gotten a more favorable response if I had shouted “Whipping Post.” As if the issue was which 70’s Southern Rock anthem I screamed and not the mere fact that I yelled any song title from the classic rock canon in a silent room.

As for me, in the days and years that followed, I don’t think I drank rum in public again, certainly not within ten feet of U2.

I stopped shouting things for laughs, preferring to mock people behind their backs.

And I don’t think I made Amy go to another concert with me for another 30 years. And we did venture back out, it was to the Replacements reunion tour, where, at the very least, we knew that lead singer Paul Westerberg, was bound to be more obnoxiously drunk than I would be.

I believe he was sober that night. So was I. And every time a drunk frat guy screamed “Free Bird,” and they did, I was delighted that it wasn’t me doing it.

And that Bono was nowhere to be found.