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Just put us in the world’s closest thing to a time machine and play the goddamn hits. Even in decline, the miracles of modern plastic surgery and computer-programmed backing tracks make any physical or musical deterioration on stage almost imperceptible. There’s an entire second career in getting old! Fans age, get richer, and funnel money into the pockets of artists to tour on one condition: To hell with the new stuff, play me the soundtrack of my youth. They turn into pitchmen for products, a beacon for middle-aged straight guys who need reassurance that it’s OK to use them without questioning their sexuality (“Guys, Tom wears these sensitive jammies too”).īut for artists? It’s like finally descending the stairs and doing the Triple Lindy into Scrooge McDuck’s vault of gold coins. They ghost through the halls of memorabilia conventions. They resurface 30 pounds heavier or lighter, trying to out-yuck other legends on a 10-man halftime crew. It’s less abrupt and embarrassing than great athletes fading away, but similar in design both latch onto the imagery of a final iconic moment, buying themselves a few extra years of adulation from fans unable to accept the past tense.įor star athletes, the end of a career means a rapid fall to earth ( Allen Iverson’s impending Ice Cube 3-on-3 renaissance notwithstanding). For U2, one of the most lucrative touring bands of any generation, the shift would be easier than most. Every band or artist eventually transitions from a creative force into a touring karaoke machine with legs.
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You might remember U2’s most recent album, Songs of Innocence, crashing harder than Bono off his bike in Central Park.