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Commentary
Finding ‘the real thing’ with U2 at Sphere
“What is this strange orb where science is in service to artists?”
I watched, from nearly the top row, as a leather-donning Bono posited this question to a dome of some 18,000 people in Las Vegas. He should have felt miles away. But thanks to Sphere’s 160,000 sq. ft. LED canvas — four football fields’ worth of display — I could see Bono’s eyes through his signature shades. It felt like he was speaking directly to me.
I’m no stranger to a memorable live music moment. I’ve crowd surfed, snagged setlists and even once reworked an international trip just to catch a show. But the U2:UV Achtung Baby Live At Sphere concert promised to be different, and not only because, as The Edge proclaimed, the venue is “a quantum leap forward for the sensory impacts of a rock’n’ roll concert.” Eager as I was to experience Sphere, this time I wasn’t the superfan — my husband was.
He's far from alone. In March, U2 will finish their 40-show residency, after inaugurating Las Vegas’ brand new mega-spectacle. Vegas is no subtle city, but Sphere still manages to be an otherworldly amplification. At 366 feet high by 516 feet wide, the Statue of Liberty could fit inside of it. And at a price tag of $2.3 billion, Sphere’s grandeur is perhaps best paralleled by U2’s own, who, in their almost 50 years together as a band, have sold over 175 million records worldwide and won 22 Grammy Awards — more than any other rock band.
Preparing for the show, I felt embarrassed about my tepid fandom of this globally celebrated band. For me, U2 had always fallen into the category of respectful ambivalence. Like a vintage wine, I imagined there was something special at play, even if I couldn’t identify what. When my husband introduced me to their “Achtung Baby” album, I liked the songs enough, but knew my appreciation was far from his level of love.
My husband and I often talk about our musical heritage. My parents’ formative listening years were the ‘60s and ‘70s, my childhood set to a soundtrack of The Who and Led Zeppelin, and car singalongs to The Beatles. But his parents, a decade younger, came of musical age in the ‘80s, and U2 is a hallmark of his connection with his dad. During our U2 study session, my husband said, “On a road trip when I was 11, my dad put on 'Bad' from the 'Wide Awake in America' EP , and said it was the greatest rock song ever created.” When he started exploring on his own, “Where The Streets Have No Name" quickly became his favorite song. “It’s the most legendary guitar intro of all time,” he told me. Recognizing the passion in my husband’s voice, I silently hoped that I could match it when we were at the show.
The opening of U2’s set flexed Sphere’s visual muscles — from an interior that looked like the Pantheon’s bricks crumbling apart, into footage from 1992's Zoo TV Tour, to an AI-generated Elvis shrine descending during “Even Better Than The Real Thing.” Our friend group exchanged wide-eyed smiles, craning our necks in disbelief. But amid the mind-bending scene, I felt conflicted — I didn’t want to neglect the band itself. I couldn’t help but turn the lyrical phrase over in my mind. What was the real thing in here? AI Elvis or the band at its center?
As if U2 anticipated my dilemma, the next section stripped the opulent visuals, focusing instead on massive, high-resolution closeups of the band. I studied the musicians’ facial expressions, their gestures and effortless chemistry. Sphere’s advanced acoustics are such that Bono could speak at a conversational volume and be heard clearly throughout the venue. He created a campfire-intimacy, telling stories about the songs, memories from their decades together. Song over song I relished their artistic quality. I sang the words I knew. And as the concert neared its end, I felt satisfied to have grown closer to their music.
But I had no way of knowing that in just a few moments, The Edge would strum the arpeggios of “Where The Streets Have No Name” — and I would experience something entirely new.
At the opening chords, our section stood up in unified reverence for the ultimate U2 live song. My husband squeezed my hand before releasing it to cup his mouth and cheer. Chills coursed my body as millions of pixels formed a Nevada desert dawn, revealing a white, surrealistic surrender flag waving at its center. As the digital sun rose and the shadows shifted into dusk, I stole glances of my dancing-singing-ecstatic husband. The lyrics speak of tearing down walls to arrive somewhere new together, and, when our tear-swelled eyes finally met, all divisions dissolved from my mind — artificial and real — as I surrendered to feel, completely. The enormity of this moment outrivaled the 875,000 square-foot venue, as I discovered that seeing your favorite band live can only be eclipsed by watching the person you love most see theirs.
On the last day of our trip, my husband and I biked through Red Rock Canyon, a landscape not unlike U2’s desert sunrise. The craggy, red mountains were a welcome contrast to the shiny structures of the Strip. I thought back to Bono’s closing appreciation to the crowd, “What a life you’ve given us,” he said. And beside my husband, surrounded by the untouched wilderness, it struck me that love — for its singular power to expand, across time, throughout space — may be the realest thing of all.
