The biblical phrase “three score and ten” (Psalm 90:00) was used, as late as the 1960s, to describe the typical lifespan of a human. That’s not the case anymore, but it can still give pause to those of us in the “senior citizen” category, when the death of anyone, friends or people of notoriety, that starts with a “seven,” is considered premature. I recently read that a Huntington High School classmate of mine passed away at 70 and it was disconcerting since he was an avid social media participant, posting pictures of his active and affluent life until mid-2025. I didn’t know the fellow well (we weren’t in the same social circles) but was vaguely glad over the years that he had a successful career and family life. He was a committed “Deadhead” and had the means to obtain backstage passes and take “selfies” of him and Bob Weir.
A couple of decades ago there was a firm divide between those who religiously followed the Dead—I always wondered how fans could travel from city to city for shows; didn’t they have to work?—and others who gagged when the song “Truckin’” was played at a party, on “classic rock” radio or later in the supermarket. I was neutral: bought Workingman’s Dead, American Beauty and Skull and Roses (their cover of “Me and My Uncle” is still a favorite), but tuned out around 1974.
Back then, you’d pick and choose: I never cared for Led Zeppelin (sacrilegious to many), Chicago, the second iteration of Blood, Sweat & Tears, Carole King (post-Brill Building), The Eagles, Black Sabbath, Pink Floyd or Aerosmith. Bread, ELO and Billy Joel brought up the rear.
But one band still bugs me: U2, one of the most successful (critically and financially) acts in the past 40 years. It’s the oversized personality of Bono, who flits from cause to cause—he was instrumental in the abominable Live Aid dual concerts in 1985 and the execrable song “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” and might’ve reaped benefits (like MIA Bob Geldof) from the monkey business behind the scenes—indiscriminately, and, like Ralph Kramden, has a Big Mouth.
There are three U2 songs I like a lot: “I Will Follow,” “Sunday Bloody Sunday” and “New Years Day.” And a half-point for “Pride,” only because of The Edge’s guitar riff: Bono singing about Martin Luther King was embarrassing (“Free at last, they took your life/They could not take your pride”). Had Bono first heard MLK’s August 28th, 1963 March on Washington speech in 1984 and then immediately wrote the lyrics?
Early on, U2 had a religious/spiritual angle that was hard to swallow, although I feel bad about berating a friend’s younger brother for embracing those songs. I should’ve known better: the guy was an amiable college student and serious Catholic. I was 28 at the time (1983), and had no excuse for the boorish behavior: I apologized the next day and he was gracious, saying, “I think we all had a few too many beers.”
I fear no criticism for writing this short Boomer-centric essay. Two days ago, it was noted in this space [https://www.splicetoday.com/politics-and-media/the-illusionists-part-xxxv]—not for the first time—that I hold whatever digital privacy remains close at hand. Therefore, I had a rush of bad-to-the-bone adrenaline upon leaving the Harbor East Cinema in decrepit downtown Baltimore and realizing that my iPhone wasn’t in the pocket of my striped cardigan. We were in the lobby, waiting for a Lyft, and my son Nicky was a good sport and helped locate it. Losing Your Phone. Three awful words in this often-unrecognizable world, at least to Boomers (and probably everybody else).
As it happened, we were there for a mid-afternoon viewing of Marty Supreme, Josh Safdie’s rambunctious film about a young ping-pong champ from the Lower East Side in 1952. Timothée Chalamet’s the star and though I rarely like his performances, this is his film, perfectly cast as an oily and weaselly con artist/blabbermouth who travels around the world in a harum-scarum fashion, incurring debts, making time with a faded movie actress (Gwyneth Paltrow) and ending up in the lurch. I think: the ending was ambiguous. That Safdie borrowed heavily from Martin Scorsese’s After Hours and The King of Comedy was a little chintzy, but in a crummy cinema year, I’m not complaining.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023