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papier-mâché, to seal it like in a cocoon of tissue and eggs. And when I woke up, they were firing eggs at me. Only problem was my father woke up, and he slept with a weapon under his pillow.
    You mean a gun?
    No. It was like an iron bar. So the two of us, myself and my father, were running down the road after my mates, both of us armed to the teeth. I mean, it was comical! And he was [impersonating his father running out of breath] , “I’m having a heart attack . . . I’m having a heart attack . . . Those fucking bastards! I’ll get them . . .”
    Why did you keep living with him, then?
    He gave me a year at home, bed and board, free of charge. He said: “You got one year. If at the end of this year, things aren’t happening for your band, you gotta go and get a job.” Pretty generous when you think about it. He started to mellow. There was one extraordinary moment I remember when he really helped me out. This big shot came over to see the band, and offered us a publishing deal. It was a big moment for us, because we were really flat broke. And with the money that he was offering, we booked a tour of the U.K. We still hadn’t got a record deal. We said: “On that tour, we’ll get a record deal.” But, on the eve of that tour, the publisher rang up and halved the money, knowing that we had to take it, because we’d already hired the van, the lights, the whole thing. The stories you hear—right?—about the music business as full of bottom-feeders are of course true. But we told this man to shove it up his own arse. We went to our families, and asked them for five hundred pounds each. My father gave it, Edge’s father gave it, and I think Larry’s father gave it. So the mood of the relationship, as you’re asking me about, starts to improve.
    Did your father eventually tell you he was proud of your success?
    Uh . . . Yeah, I think he was proud, in some ways. I took him to the United States for the first time in the mid-eighties. He’d never been there, and he came in to see a U2 show in Texas. And I thought thiswould be amazing for him to see this. I got Willie Williams, our lighting designer, to have a Super Trooper focused on the sound platform, and at the right moment, I told the audience: “You know, there’s somebody here tonight that’s never been to Texas”—they scream and hoot—“that’s never been to the U.S.”—more screaming—“that’s never been to a U2 show in the U.S.”—they’re going bananas—“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE LONE STAR STATE, I WANT TO INTRODUCE YOU TO MY FATHER, BOB HEWSON. THAT’S HIM THERE!” The light comes on, and my dad stands up. What does he do? He starts waving his fist at me. It was a great moment, really. Then, after the show, after coming offstage, he came back. I’m usually a bit dizzy and walking into walls for ten minutes. Normally no one would talk to me—I just need some moments to climb down a few gears. I heard footsteps. I turned round. It was my father, and he looked . . . almost emotional. [laughs] I said to myself, “God, he’s actually going to say something. This is the moment I’ve waited all my life for . . .” I think there’s tears in his eyes. He’s putting his hand out to me, I put my hand out to him, and he looked at me with those red eyes. He said: “Son . . . [big pause] you’re very professional . . .” [laughs]
    Professional?! That’s not quite the impression you made on me then.
    That’s fantastic, isn’t it? I mean, especially if you came from punk rock, the last thing that’s on your mind is being professional. But no, he was proud. I think he always probably found me very pretentious, which is probably right. I think he still found me a little preposterous, which I think