…in which yer 70-year-old dad and his equally decrepit mates from the bridge club assemble one last time in the garage to “recapture the magic” that brought them fame and fortune half-a-century ago and, who knows, maybe generate just enough capital from streaming platforms to pay for that loft extension on the Tuscan holiday home that they’ve been wanting to get around to since the kids moved out. All while sounding like the Goo Goo Dolls. And by the way, in case you’re still paying attention; yes, obviously, humanity is facing civilisational collapse, mere anarchy is erupting everywhere you look, mass graves speckle remote parts of the globe, the most powerful country in human history is backsliding into belligerent expansionism; but never fear, Bono is back to provide “spiritual guidance” and reassure you that everything will be copacetic, provided that you remember to “bless the Lord at all times” and, most importantly, hit like and subscribe…
In case you needed reminding, dear reader, it’s the second time in the space of a month that U2 have confronted what remains of their audience with a heady dose of Viagra-popping cringe-rock. First we were treated to Days of Ash, dim-witted pop-punk protest music for the Guardian’s twelve remaining readers to blast in their oak-paneled kitchens “as an expression of solidarity” with the victims of Stephen Miller’s mass deportation campaign. Easter Lily is the sober Yin to the first EP’s raging Yang, a smattering of “spiritual” guitar numbers that deal with the sacred where their forerunners focused on the profanely political. But although the present EP ostensibly deals with questions of the next life rather than this one, it is every bit as forgettable and self-satisfied as its wretched predecessor.
Musically, obviously, U2 do what they’ve done on every record since 2000’s All That You Can’t Leave Behind, when they abandoned any pretence to being interesting in favour of turgid box-ticking; they channel an anodyne iteration of the euphoric post-punk that first catapulted them to superstardom. We all know what Edge’s delayed eco-rhythm guitar effect sounds like, because he’s been doing it for half a century, and guess what, he’s still doing it, even though you’ve since grown up, graduated, got married, had children, survived cancer, and then died in a pointless avoidable car crash. But there’s no point making a big deal about it; Easter Lily is merely a further geriatric shuffle away from U2’s pioneering and scene-stealing 90s incarnation, when they had the rare courage to junk the blueprint, don oversize sunglasses, and reinvent themselves as an entirely different band.
But why are we even talking about this, actually? It’s 2026 and Bono is still going on about god, redemption, love as the source of transcendence, etc. etc. while Edge sits in his wheelchair, desperately endeavouring to conjure the aforementioned reverb while remembering to take his medication as prescribed. It’s so drearily and self-evidently rooted in cynical nostalgia that I can barely stand to comment on it, but I will anyway; “Song for Hal” is a tribute to some dead music producer; “In a Life” is “soaring” soft rock designed to accompany the credits of a daytime soap opera; “Scars” insists that “your scars are what give you beauty”, which tells you how far removed Bono is from the trauma of teenage acne; “Resurrection Song” and “Easter Parade” are, well, I don’t really remember, because it all sounds like the Calling or the Fray, actually, but with embarrassing trendy-reverend lyrics about how everything’s going to be fine in the end, guys, nothing to see here, god loves you. We won’t mention the spoken-word-poetry track that closes the album and seems to last for days, because its existence is too painful for someone who ranks both Achtung Baby and Joshua Tree among their 20 favourite records.
What’s left, then, after this second affront in the space of 30 calendar days? Absolutely fucking nothing, is what. I could stomach U2’s post-2000 dadrock iteration – it had its moments, like the formulaic but nonetheless anthemic “Beautiful Day”, or the rollicking “Vertigo”; and even the last decade yielded “Lights of Home” and “Get Out of Your Own Way.” But it needs to end forthwith; U2 are dying on stage, ripping off a ripped off version of themselves, all while inflicting a life-affirmingly Pentecostal message on their listeners that is so egregiously at odds with the prevailingly apocalyptic spirit of the times that I find it almost insulting to listen to. No need to thank them for the memories because it will just encourage them; but somebody, please, in the name of God, rest the microphone from Bono’s arthritic hands before he does any further damage to himself, others, or his tattered legacy, such as it is.
Rating: *
Standout track: “In a Life”