1 day ago
6
“I think Bob Geldof is a saint,” said Bryan Adams in Philadelphia during Live Aid (BBC 1 and 2). Will you now quietly divide into the two billion who think Bob Geldof is a saint and those who would rather get a black eye. “If anyone wants to write anything snidey about Bob, they’d best not,” said Jools Holland, poking a minatory finger at the camera.
So of course I won’t. Though I myself see him more as one of those uncomfortable Old Testament prophets, the kind who knocked down Jericho with the aid of a small brass section and enthusiastic audience participation. “When the people heard the sound of the trumpets, they shouted with a great shout.” Geldof appeared intermittently during the 16-hour show, while looking understandably wild and white and demanding money with menaces: “We want to get a million pounds before 10 o’clock tonight. You’ve got plenty of money or, if you’ve got none, get on the phone” (presumably to pledge it on a credit card). Bang up the people next door and say, ‘have you given money?’” According to the girlfriend, Geldof in the heat of organising Live Aid, sometimes pretended he was not at home and, if I lived next door to him, that is precisely what I would do.
Casually acknowledging a million from Dubai (“so thank you to Dubai”) he returned to continue the hip-and-thigh treatment: “there are people dying now so give me the money. Take the money out of your pockets. Don’t go to the pub tonight.” “We have to give the address first,” said the presenter reasonably. “Fuck the address. Give the telephone numbers. That’s the way to get the money,” cried the prophet. Billy Connolly sitting beside him grinned and, within minutes, was crying at a video of a child trying valiantly to stand on insect thin legs.
By four in the morning in Philadelphia two dangerous looking insects were shedding their wings and bright skins while yelling, “It’s only rock’n’roll but I like it” into each other’s mouths. Mick Jagger shed three shirts, tore bits of leather off Tina Turner and, still gasping it was only rock’n’roll, moulted his trousers to show psychedelic green long johns. Only Elton John can be mentioned in the same breath. In purple, gold, diamond earrings and a toque he looked like Queen Mary gone magnificently off her head, though he kept insisting he was a rocket man.
Meanwhile the hovering camera showed Wembley Stadium looking very like a spaceship, glittering with flashes. When the dark filled Wembley, it was still daylight in Philadelphia, then night rolled over the ocean and the JFK Stadium showed like a scattering of stars in the dark. It gave the whole thing a sense of timelessness and disorientation. Did Phil Collins grow that stubble on Concorde travelling from London to Philadelphia? A video check revealed he is one of those people who seem to have a slight stubble all the time. The crucial question, as with all astronauts, is how do they, er, go? In the JFK Stadium Chevy Chase’s inquiry. “Anybody want to go to the bathroom?” received tumultuous acclaim. “We suggest,” he said, “you put a towel down and move to the right.”
Listening to an incomprehensible crackle from the stubbly Collins in Concorde, Billy Connolly said “I’m stunned. I’m absolutely flabbergasted. Apart from the fact I can’t understand a word.” My own feeling precisely about Live Aid.
I was deafened and drenched. Great waves of noise beat out from the stage. Astonishing showers of sweat rained down. In Wembley 150,000 arms waved in rhythm like a pool of anemones. “My dear,” as Ernest Thesiger said of the first world war, “the noise and the people!” But heaven knows what they were saying. I think only the young can hear the words of rock songs.
Television is mostly a middle-aged medium. I have not seen it so remorselessly hijacked by the young, cuffed round the ears, hauled by the scruff out of the living room, mugged for money. I bet when the walls fell down Jericho was flabbergasted, too.
