Côte d’Azur, Riviera, south of France, sun, blue sky, warm skin, red wine, calm sea, pleasure.

These words, in any order, call to mind that last word: pleasure.

We had been invited by the U2 manager to travel with the band on their tour plane from Nice to Turin for a one-night concert.

We stayed with him in an apartment up over the sea. Sitting in the morning sun drinking coffee with our croissants, his phone gently purring from time to time. A small tinny voice in his ear. The U2 machine flexing its muscles and limbering up for another deep dive into rock and roll history.

Speaking low: ‘no, no, no’, ‘yes, yes’, ‘that can wait’, ‘tell him to bugger off’, ‘cheeky bastard’, ‘I will sign that on the plane’, ‘we are talking about that’, ‘hold on it’.

Slow, careful, methodical work. Behind the bright lights where the public never see. Another world, a closed world.

A cunning old promoter told me that in the Dark Ages, they paid a penny for a quick peep at the two-headed goat behind the curtain in the dark of a covered wagon at a crossroads fair. That’s show business; now we have lights. But never let them see how it’s done, he said, it’s a dark trade, a trade of the night.

Convoys of heavy trucks, crossing frontiers in the night, leapfrogging gig to gig, country to country. The foot soldiers of rock, the smoke and mirrors men.

Hundreds of scaffolders, humpers, riggers, fitters, techies, old hands. Many years working in tight teams. Battle-hardened frontline troops. Controlled, quiet, stick to the plan. Tried and tested under fire. Men at work, do not disturb, a pleasure to watch.

Harry Crosbie

Mid-morning a plane, black car doors held open, no fuss, low key. German driver.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he says.

Good English. Mr M reading reports, do not disturb.

At the airport the strangeness begins. Into a cargo gate, miles from main buildings. Car pulls into big warehouse, polished concrete floor, echoing empty. A row of private jets, money, money, money. Stage crew assembled, many familiar faces.

‘Hello, hello, hello,’ they say, ‘welcome to our world.’ We know the business from the inside, we know our role today. Stay quiet and keep out of the way. We are old hands, not our first rodeo.

Mr M sitting on a flight case surrounded by senior crew. Clipboard, phone, check, check, check.

Next surprise, no bus. We walk out to a big white anonymous plane. Parked between fighter jets, bright yellow forest fire planes that land on the sea, the ones you see on the telly, flying waterfalls. Up the steps, U2 logo small on side of door. Understatement as art form.

On plane. Bigger seats, fewer seats, more room, no music, no palaver, no guff, we take off. Just like that.

‘Morning campers,’ the pilot says, ‘good boys and girls, I hope?’

‘Coffee, sir? Welcome to the tour, sir,’ the hostess says. ‘We don’t get many visitors. I hear you live next door to the studio. Nice to see some new faces, my name is Loretta.’

No alcohol, no food. Quiet, people working, people reading, many earphones. To the starboard side the Alps, Colgate white, model train set small, toy-town size. Beyond, the rich fertile planes of Lombardy stretch into the heat haze. A snapshot of European history laid out below. The birth of Western civilisation casually strewn. All those armies, all that marching, all that killing, all for Hecuba.

I think of Hannibal and his elephants in the deep snow heading to the motherlode of the known world’s wealth. As were we. He would have done well in the touring business.

U2, 2001: Kim Haughton

We land, doors open, hammer blow of heat. Breathe-hard, burn-your-nose heat. There may be trouble ahead.

Again, into a freight area surrounded by the military. Another row of black vans and limos. Blank windows. No chat, work time. Slamming doors; each team know their place. Show time minus 6. We move off in a tight line out a back gate and into gridlock traffic. Intense heat, fraying tempers heat, police bike outriders, neenah, neenah in vain. Welcome to downtown Turin, Italian traffic in a heatwave.

Then the magic dust is sprinkled. Lead car led to hard shoulder across the motorway; we all follow. Drive fast the wrong way against the jammed traffic. People stare. It’s good to be the king.

Then a highlight in a day of highlights, a lady cop skids her motorcycle in Hollywood gravel-crunching power slide, jumps off, stands legs apart pointing the way with a long, lit wand. Mission: Impossible. I knew she wanted it to be a machine gun, rat-a-tat-tat. Pesky punters holding up her idols, the Finglas Four. Her mirror aviator shades, her tight black leather trousers, her high boots, all lined with rock star road dust. I knew she would say ‘Just doing my duty, sir,’ as she slowly took off her helmet and her long golden hair cascaded down. ‘Glad to serve, sir.’ Far too many cop movies. I liked her, a rock chick.

One of those days; everything was late. Things broke, people snapped. Those sticky days when we longed for the cool of evening.

We drove at speed up a long ramp into the stadium. Milling crowds, knock-off tee-shirts, hawkers, smell of dope, lines of food vendors. No biz today, sorry, this was a cold beer day. Crowds standing in the heat for hours. Truly, these were fans.

We got out of the car and scarpered. I had a work pass. I went out into the crowd, an old, tight, 1940s arena. 75,000 people, suffocating heat. No-air heat. Low ceilings. The show already an hour late. It felt murderous out in the crowd. Pushing and shoving in queues going nowhere. I was glad I could slip backstage and stand in front of a giant cool-air blower beside the stage. Night fell, a police chopper clattered and beat the air overhead. Searchlight strobing the sullen crowd. A glimpse into the future.

After 1,000 gigs, I sensed slow hand-clapping any moment. It was now or never.

Without warning, all lights gone to black, inky black. I was still on the side of the stage; I could hear the crowd draw breath in the crackling heat.

A long, long moment: too long. A tiny voice, lost shout, from tiered balconies, out of the deep unsettling dark, a universal message, ‘Get on with it’ in Italian.

Then, a cone of cream light snapped onto the long runway that led out from the stage into the heart of the crowd. Sudden shocked silence, the crowd watching with their ears. A hand slid into the light, then a foot, then the lead vocalist, Mr B, the man.

Not a word, not one word. He walked the John Wayne walk down the runway, fell to his knees, arms held wide. He spoke low in Italian like a priest. He beat his chest gently with closed fists,

‘Mea culpa, mea culpa: I am sorry we were late; we will make it up to you.’

Show time.

The music crashed in and the night was driven into madness. He came off his knees singing the show opener. All stadium white lights came up with a ‘whoomp!’ sound. The crowd went wild, screaming, drowned out a ten-truck PA system. They rose and did not sit down again.

There it was now, right there for all to see. A great band, laying it down, at the top of their game. Strutting, striding, loud, loud, loud. Talent, life force, lust for glory. If he had said storm the city walls they would have done it. 75,000 people, an army, a heartbeat from ecstasy, the deep mysterious strange power of rock and roll enters stage left. Below music, below intellect, below talent. Another thing, a dangerous thing.

I looked out at the faces in the dark: what do you see on those faces? Anger, smouldering futile anger: that’s why it’s dangerous.

Some performers can reach into the heart of the crowd, can be as one with them, calm them, soothe them. Christy Moore can do it, Tommy Tiernan can do it. I watched Sinatra do it from the side of the stage. A grumpy old man we could not please. He walked on, flicked a switch and there it was, shining out of him. The crowd knew, they always know. The crowd is wise; it cannot be faked, they cannot be fooled. The stage shows all, nowhere to hide.

Elvis, poor dead Elvis, the King. They did not call him the King for nothing. The most dangerous of them all. Those in power knew he and his music were a threat.

The audience hunger for it, seek it out; when they get it, a shimmer, a ripple of peace runs through the crowd. Aaaaaah. They know: they just know.

Two old-fashioned words, they were enraptured, they were enthralled.

The witchdoctor raises his arms, shakes his rattle into the night in front of the fire. We will be safe from harm; all will be well. That’s what it is. At its best, that’s what it is. Black magic, hold the demons back.

The best of them double in size on stage, walk tall. Born to live in the razzle-dazzle glare. Legs and arms wide, moves moonwalk slow, feet-in-treacle slow. Slow speaking, gaps in the sound. Seems to speak out far beyond the crowd. Speaking to the sky. To each person, intimate. He is speaking to me, intimate. Big stadium brought down to your front room, just talent.

The years of struggle, the hungry years, the thousands of hours, the bleeding fingers, the slogging work, the failures, all fall away. Honing, refining, sculpting. There it is now, for all to see: beauty is born, pain washed away. Fill your boots, love passes to and fro. The power of it can be frightening.

The drummer beats the pounding music from stomping to gently swaying up and down. They played the audience, easy-peasy; they kissed them with sound.

I remember them as boys in the Dandelion Market. What we humans can achieve when we want it bad enough.

It’s over, just like that. We run to waiting cars and hit that ramp at speed. No traffic now. Blue lights on police bikes chop out the night. High speed, tight driving stops right beside the plane. Upstairs, door closes, take off, blink, just like that, four minutes.

Delicious air, relax time, drinks, tinkling ice.

‘Gin and tonic, sir?’ Tonic gulping from yellow bottle in the dim light. Plenty of chat now. Groups in the aisle. We fly over the stadium, the crowd still linger, drawn to the source of magic.

‘Not bad,’ says Mr M, high praise; the band walk up and down the aisle.

‘Thank you,’ they say, ‘good work,’ they say. A squeezed shoulder, a nod, a tired smile, ‘yes’.

‘Not bad’ the verdict. We touch down at Nice, 1am. The heat is gone and cool air champagne on our skin.

‘Fancy a pint, let’s go for a late Indian, maybe a disco?’

The crew making plans for downtime. No show tomorrow, hair down time. We all know what all work and no play does; we don’t want that.

We go with Mr M back to the flat over a moody wine-dark sea. Street empty, all good French civilians tucked up their beds. But not us, oh now the night is ours.

The terrace again, cool breeze in from Africa, away down to the south over the sea.

Crisp white wine, freshly made ham and cheese sandwiches. Pleasure.

As it says in all good school essays, we went to bed tired but happy.

Then this for teacher: Tomorrow to fresh fields and pastures new.

• El Furtivo is published by Vicar Street Books (€14). Order your copy at vicarstreetbooks.com
Delivery charges may apply. All profits donated to the homeless community.