SOS
Active topics
Stories of Surrender Tour
 Legs (3): Promo appearances, 2022, 2023
Shows: 42

  1. That chair photo reminds me of "Chairy" from Pee Wee.


  2. "Aquelarre (from the Basque 'akelarre') 1. m.: A nightly coven, meeting or gathering of witches and warlocks, with the supposed intervention of the devil, usually in the form of a goat, for their magical or superstitious practices."

    It's Monday 28th November and today we are witches and warlocks in our own particular coven, gathering around our bonfire, with Paul David Hewson as a fiery shaman officiating the ceremony from the stage of the Coliseum Theatre.

    Truth be told, our akelarre is technically the final presentation event of Bono's memoirs, but for me it is above all a great, great gathering of friends. By 23.30 I've honestly lost count of the people I've hugged, and even more so of those I've unfortunately yet to greet. Friends of all ages and origins: Amsterdam, Dublin, Barcelona, Bilbao, Munich, Valencia, Paris, Santiago de Compostela, Malaga, London, Asturias, Murcia, Cuenca, Villarrobledo.... People with whom I have grown up, with whom I have jumped, with whom I have cried and sung to the point of losing my voice in dozens of concerts. And also many to whom I finally put a face for the first time after years of sharing an online relationship. Our akelarre is nothing more than a meeting of friends, and although we can't immortalise anything that happened inside the theatre because they made us keep our mobile phones in sealed magnetic bags (or precisely because of that), Monday night will be one of those that will remain engraved forever in the retina and in the heart.

    Little can be said about Bono that hasn't already been said a thousand times. Rivers of ink have been poured about him and his band, he has transcended the boundaries of his own persona and is now in the public domain. Everyone has an opinion about him, good or bad (usually bad). But what almost no one knows is that this chubby little red-headed Irishman is capable of moving mountains with a simple gesture, capable of getting standing ovations just by stepping on stage, capable of making you cry just by uttering a word. He is our little shaman, our 1,67 m billy goat, and around him we feel at home. Because we are. U2 and everything around them is home. As ABBA says in a song, "Mother says I was a dancer before I could walk, she says I began to sing long before I could talk". And so it is, my friends. The first conscious memory I have of my life is sitting - at the age of 3 or 4 - on the parquet floor of the living room of our house in Peñagrande, in front of the record player, and asking my mother to play "the lemon record" (Zooropa) again.

    The music, voice and lyrics of Paul David Hewson have been with me since before I can even remember, and to have him slitting open his chest literally in front of me to show us his weaknesses, his strengths, his worries, his triumphs and his defeats has been an absolutely unrepeatable experience. Halfway between micro-theatre and stadium concert, between the intimacy of telling in whispers how his father died on a hospital bed in front of his eyes and the grandeur of describing a Wembley stadium packed to the rafters? Life itself. For what is life if not that, a succession of contrasts and contradictions?

    Monday 28th was a luxury, a rara avis, one of those times when everything aligns and life smiles straight out for a few hours. Thanks are superfluous because all of us who were there shared the privilege of having enjoyed our shaman looking us in the eye and convincing us that the streets have no name, that he is still out of control and that, in spite of everything, if you leave, if you leave.... We will follow.

    And if, as fate would have it, Monday 28th ends up being our last event in the presence and under the baton of Paul David Hewson, I will be happy and grateful that it is so. If that brutal a cappella "Torna A Surriento" ends up being the last thing we hear Bono sing, we'll just have to say amen and thank you. Thank you for giving us a great life.

    Spoiler (click to toggle)








  3. What a great review. Thank you for sharing. He certainly conjured up the joy that evening.
  4. Here speaks a true poet, and you speak right from the heart. Thank you for this wonderfully written review.
  5. Originally posted by LikeASong:[image]

    "Aquelarre (from the Basque 'akelarre') 1. m.: A nightly coven, meeting or gathering of witches and warlocks, with the supposed intervention of the devil, usually in the form of a goat, for their magical or superstitious practices."

    It's Monday 28th November and today we are witches and warlocks in our own particular coven, gathering around our bonfire, with Paul David Hewson as a fiery shaman officiating the ceremony from the stage of the Coliseum Theatre.

    Truth be told, our akelarre is technically the final presentation event of Bono's memoirs, but for me it is above all a great, great gathering of friends. By 23.30 I've honestly lost count of the people I've hugged, and even more so of those I've unfortunately yet to greet. Friends of all ages and origins: Amsterdam, Dublin, Barcelona, Bilbao, Munich, Valencia, Paris, Santiago de Compostela, Malaga, London, Asturias, Murcia, Cuenca, Villarrobledo.... People with whom I have grown up, with whom I have jumped, with whom I have cried and sung to the point of losing my voice in dozens of concerts. And also many to whom I finally put a face for the first time after years of sharing an online relationship. Our akelarre is nothing more than a meeting of friends, and although we can't immortalise anything that happened inside the theatre because they made us keep our mobile phones in sealed magnetic bags (or precisely because of that), Monday night will be one of those that will remain engraved forever in the retina and in the heart.

    Little can be said about Bono that hasn't already been said a thousand times. Rivers of ink have been poured about him and his band, he has transcended the boundaries of his own persona and is now in the public domain. Everyone has an opinion about him, good or bad (usually bad). But what almost no one knows is that this chubby little red-headed Irishman is capable of moving mountains with a simple gesture, capable of getting standing ovations just by stepping on stage, capable of making you cry just by uttering a word. He is our little shaman, our 1,67 m billy goat, and around him we feel at home. Because we are. U2 and everything around them is home. As ABBA says in a song, "Mother says I was a dancer before I could walk, she says I began to sing long before I could talk". And so it is, my friends. The first conscious memory I have of my life is sitting - at the age of 3 or 4 - on the parquet floor of the living room of our house in Peñagrande, in front of the record player, and asking my mother to play "the lemon record" (Zooropa) again.

    The music, voice and lyrics of Paul David Hewson have been with me since before I can even remember, and to have him slitting open his chest literally in front of me to show us his weaknesses, his strengths, his worries, his triumphs and his defeats has been an absolutely unrepeatable experience. Halfway between micro-theatre and stadium concert, between the intimacy of telling in whispers how his father died on a hospital bed in front of his eyes and the grandeur of describing a Wembley stadium packed to the rafters? Life itself. For what is life if not that, a succession of contrasts and contradictions?

    Monday 28th was a luxury, a rara avis, one of those times when everything aligns and life smiles straight out for a few hours. Thanks are superfluous because all of us who were there shared the privilege of having enjoyed our shaman looking us in the eye and convincing us that the streets have no name, that he is still out of control and that, in spite of everything, if you leave, if you leave.... We will follow.

    And if, as fate would have it, Monday 28th ends up being our last event in the presence and under the baton of Paul David Hewson, I will be happy and grateful that it is so. If that brutal a cappella "Torna A Surriento" ends up being the last thing we hear Bono sing, we'll just have to say amen and thank you. Thank you for giving us a great life.

    Spoiler (click to toggle)
    I was waiting for this. Lovely stuff.
  6. Thank you, amigos! Glad you enjoyed it. I surely enjoyed writing it and relive a truly unforgettable night. I'm sure I'll come back to this text and these photos many many times in the future.

  7. Wonderfully written Sergio! thank you!
  8. Incredibly well written, Sergio!
    So heartfelt and true. Amen.
  9. You have a gift in writing such a rich and evocative review 👏🏻
  10. Were any of the nights filmed?
  12. And new York