I love music. Musicians even more. True rock stars, none of the emo-phony-boy-bands, but real life legends. Poets. Players. The men you’d find a picture of in the dictionary under “rock star”.
To me, Paul Hewson, ne: Bono is everything a rock star should be.
He wears sunglasses, indoors and out. And not just sunglasses, Armani shades.
He dresses in black, just like Johnny Cash.
His bandmates, unchanged for decades, continue to record relevant music and take it out on the road; no rock revival and greatest hits. U2 have never done a “Farewell” tour and come back for several more. You have a feeling when they end it, like The Beatles, it’ll be ended.
He’s never done a lame ass solo album.
He hasn’t lost his hair or gained a gut.
He takes risks and embraces musical change, politico to techno, ballads to blues, rock to industrial. Even some dance and synth. Bono was quoted in an interview I read years ago (paraphrasing) that he can’t be the guy out in front waving the white flag forever. And he’s not.
He rocked a serious mullet in the day.
He looks as if he smells of ciggies, leather and old drink.
He’s a humanitarian with an ego to fill Madison Square Garden, a showman and a preacher all wrapped in one.
He makes me cry when he hits the high notes.
Footnote: In fairness to the fairer, Chrissie Hynde, too, is capital rock, capital star.