"Live Aid wasn't a fantastic concert. But it didn't need to be"by Neil McCormick
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blogs.telegraph.co.uk]
Today is the 25th anniversary of Live Aid.
I went to the gig at Wembley as a 24-year-old music fan on 13 July 1985 with a ticket I paid for myself (its not often I do that, these days). I can remember my feeling of amazement at the bands and stars sharing one astonishing bill, musical heroes that I hardly believed I would ever see perform live, let alone the same stage: The Who, David Bowie, Paul McCartney, Queen. And there were my own local heroes U2, diving into the audience and stealing the show. I was utterly dazzled by the whole event.
I’m not sure a contemporary 24-year-old would feel quite so impressed. Such big, portmanteau events have become commonplace. Between charity shows and festivals, reunion tours and televised concerts, it almost feels like anyone can see every band that ever existed (and press the red button for alternative angles).
So what did Live Aid bequeath us? There is a twitter campaign to make #liveaid a trending topic (although it is not having much success as I write, with Hannah Montana and Mel Gibson keeping it at bay). And there is a fan campaign to make Band Aid’s song ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas’ an unseasonal download hit again (but I don’t think JLS have much to worry about).
Live Aid is remembered as one of the all time great musical events. But, if we remove those rose-tinted glasses and recall it honestly, it wasn’t actually such an fantastic concert. Even as a wide-eyed music fan, I could tell The Who were criminally under-rehearsed, messing up their set piece anthems (the only good thing that came out of their performance was their conviction that they were so bad, they would eventually have to get back together and do it properly). Over on the other side of the Atlantic, Led Zeppelin were even worse, sabotaging their own aura by playing with Phil Collins on drums. Badly. Indeed, it is worth recalling that Phil Collins was one of the big stars of the event, jetting across the Atlantic to play both countries and sit in on drums with anyone who would have him. Live Aid was a lot less cool than it seemed at the time. It was all shoulder pads and hair spray (though not on Phil Collins, obviously). The bill was overloaded with minor league 80s pop stars who have disappeared from history: The Style Council, Nik Kershaw, Howard Jones, Paul Young, The Hooters, Billy Ocean, The Thompson Twins. Arguably the biggest stars of the era – Michael Jackson, Prince and Bruce Springsteen – all declined to appear. Duran Duran played Wild Boys, with Simon Le Bon comically failing to hit the high note in front of a televised audience of billions. U2 were depressed after their slot because they only got through half of it when Bono went walkabout forcing the band to vamp on a couple of chords, a moment that (as it turned out) worked better on television than it did in the stadium and launched them towards superstardom. Paul McCartney’s sound cut out, and no one could hear him in Wembley. Over in Philadelphia, Bob Dylan, Keith Richards and Ronnie Woods played an acoustic set at the US climax, apparently somewhat the worse for wear after a long day at the backstage bar, with Dylan wittering on about giving some of the money being raised for starving Ethiopians to pay the mortgages of US farmers.
The 20-year-anniversary line up at the Live 8 shows certainly boasted a better line up, and was a much better organised concert to boot. But it is not remembered with anything like the same warmth. Because Live Aid was a magical and essentially unrepeatable moment. It was a curiously innocent occasion. Nothing like it had ever been attempted before and people got carried away with the spirit of generosity. Live Aid established the unlikely notion that (to use Bob Geldof’s phrase) pop music was “the lingua franca of the planet”, the one thing people all over the world had in common. Geldof (then, it should be remember, just the fading star of a once popular punk pop band) and his superstar phone book mobilised possibly the greatest act of mass compassion witnessed by man. It demonstrated that, given the opportunity, people were more than willing to show how much they cared about the fate of fellow human beings. Rock has a reputation for cynicism, but Live Aid made giving hip. Against the allegedly selfish spirit of the eighties it put charity centre stage.
Of course, that has been a double edged sword. Live Aid helped create a whole new genre of multi-star charity singles. Every time there was a natural disaster, there would be a bunch of pop stars augmented by soap opera actors wailing away to some tarted up europop version of a classic hit. They’re still at it (witness Simon Cowell’s Haitian farrago ‘Everybody Hurts’). Does a good cause justify a bad record? Probably. At least the people who benefit from the money raised generally don’t have to hear the damn things.
And then there were the concerts for every cause going. Hurricanes in the Carribean, bankrupt farmers in America, the unemployed in Ireland: all worthwhile, I’m sure, but somehow diluting the effectiveness of the original idea. Live Aid inspired musicians with the notion that they could make a difference. But too often, from the outside at least (and probably unfairly) these shows were presented like a magical panacea, a chance for pampered pop stars to demonstrate that they care without marshalling the kind of political will to produce real change. Live Aid gave pop stars instant validation. Now they weren’t just musicians, they were philanthropists. And it can’t have hurt that a well received appearance for charity generally boosts their own sales at the same time.
Live 8 in 2005 at least had a philosophical drive and purpose and it went some way towards achieving apparently impossible goals, despite the predictable backsliding that quietly followed. Yet it is perhaps unfairly tainted with a perception of failure because it’s so hard to accurately measure its achievements, and that creates a disempowering factor, where participants (and by that I mean audiences as much as artists) begin to question the value of their contribution. I remember after the middle of the road Concert For Diana and utterly limp Live Earth shows in 2007, thinking it might be time to call a moratorium on global satellite-linked rock charity events. I don’t think the real universality of Live Aid can be achieved again. Not until a new generation come along and do it their own way.
Live Aid worked because it was an urgent, emotive, simple, single-issue event aimed at achieving immediate, tangible results. It had an uncomplicated spirit of universal charity that corresponds with the ethos of popular music, and it was run with a haphazard, devil-may-care approach that tapped into rock’s favoured anti-establishment pose. Live Aid evoked a sense of manning the barricades, not preaching from a podium. Maybe (when you take away the sentimentality of nostalgic recollection) Live Aid really wasn’t such a great concert. But it didn’t need to be. It worked because it risked failure for a genuinely humanitarian cause, and people responded to that sense of risk.
I am proud to say I was there but in a sense everyone was there. It really was a pioneering moment, a revelation of the global village, presaging the connected world to come. Two billion people took part in Live Aid. It worked because we wanted it to.