I’m not sure how many readers consider themselves U2 fanatics but you can count me as one. The problem is, when one surrenders absolute loyalty to a band, impartiality tends to get thrown out the door. U2 can cull together scraps of songs, leftover melodies, and live tracks, roll it together, and call it an album, and I would still lap it up. Come to think of it, they once did that–it was called Rattle and Hum and I still love it (mainly because it encapsulates their American phase). But now comes the Irish quartet’s newest album, How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb. Herewith a brief review, doing my best to remain evenhanded:

In some ways, the album is a continuation of All That You Can’t Leave Behind–the band’s descent from outer space (think Zooropa and Pop) to more traditional and melodic ballads. But How to Dismantle… offers a richer sound than its predecessor, copious amounts of keyboard, and the return of the Edge’s trademark chiming riff. You’ll even hear echoes of the Boy album and older post-punk elements throughout.

Lyrically, the tracks are laced with Bono’s love of his father, who died during the last tour (when the lead singer would finish each concert and fly back to Ireland to tend to his deathbed). It can be felt in songs like “One Step Closer to Knowing” and “Sometimes You Can’t Make It on Your Own” (which the son sang at his father’s funeral). It is also interesting to note the bands flirtation, once again, with Christian rock. The last song on the album, simply titled “Yahweh,” is the most religious U2 has gotten since the October album. Yes, there is a peace-and-love song (called “Love and Peace or Else”) but you’re not getting hit over the head with it.

Despite their tune “Beautiful Day” serving as the anthem for the Kerry campaign, the band, and Bono in particular, did not go endorsing a candidate. Nor did they play with Bruce Springsteen and “rock against Bush.” In fact, just a few months ago, Bono was seen at the trendy DC restaurant Galileo dining intimately with future Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice. He’s even listened to Gospel hymns with John Ashcroft–all of which makes for interesting tours (such as the time Jesse Helms watched from offstage–with his hearing aid off).

In all, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb is solidly constructed and ranks about midfield, probably alongside The Unforgettable Fire but still below the band’s three greatest achievements, The Joshua Tree, Achtung Baby, and All That You Can’t Leave Behind. On a scale of 1-10, this earns a 7.

In case you thought his “excitable” dig of a few weeks ago was just a friendly elbow, Mickey Kaus has now decided to take it to the next level with Andrew Sullivan with his recurring feature Andrew Having It Both Ways. Let’s get nuts!

How do you figure out who to root for?

Soxblog has an interesting post on Atul Gawande’s New Yorker article on standards of care in the cystic fibrosis community. Worth reading.

Regarding my quasi-review of Closer last Friday, a number of people have written in. One reader directs us to an early pedophilia chic movie:

In 1978, Louis Malle (the guy who liked to make movies about incest, too) directed Pretty Baby starring a then 13-year-old Brooke Shields–who played the pre -pubescent daughter of a prostitute, and who is ‘bought’ by an adult man.. (played by Keith Carradine, I believe). Thus was the imprimateur of the artistic elite stamped on the pedophile. Like a break in the dike, the pre pubescent girl became all the rage on the streets and even in strip bars. Nice.

And how I did I manage to ignore Larry Clark’s oeuvre? He deals almost exclusively in young-teen sex.

My admiration for the reporters who make up the White House pool is nearly boundless. The following report about the White House Christmas tree lighting ceremony was, sadly, filed anonymously. Still, the writer deserves our admiration:

Three weeks before Christmas

At the White House

Your pool was all gathered

Down in lower press

We boarded the vans

Out on the South Lawn

Where even ol’ Barney

Was suppressing a yawn

To reach the Ellipse

It would be easier to walk

But the security precautions

Would make the agents balk

So the motorcade departed

The motorcade arrived

And all of this happened

At four minutes of five

Potus and Flotus took seats

Behind ballistic glass walls

The Marine Band played

And in came Santa Claus

St. Nick was fat and jolly

And in costume looked hot

I knew in an instant

It must be Willard Scott

Scott took the stage

And played a little trick

He plugged his employer

General Electric:

“Ho ho ho

He he he

All those lights

Are from G.E.”

The singers sang blues, rock

And songs about Jesus

Your poolers wondered if the

Temperature would freeze us

Potus gave his speech

Then lit up the tree

Transcripts will follow

The return was event-free

In my Newsletter column today I slag off on the vanity of sportswriters, but I want to (again) point you towards Bill Lyon, one of the best there is. His column on the Army-Navy game is simply perfect.

Lane Core was at the first anniversary in Shanksville and has a ton of pictures from the event. He also has a great collection of other Shanksville pictures. His stuff adds a lot to what I was trying to explain with yesterday’s post.

The Wall Street Journal has a Taste page commentary about the way liberal college professors harass conservative students.

The Journal worries, sensibly, about whether or not this produces a chilling effect on discussion. I’m sure it probably does.

But on the other hand, I wonder if it isn’t also minting conservatives out of students who would otherwise be politicaly ambivalent. I hated–and hate is not a strong enough word–all save five of the professors I ran across during my undergraduate years. So did most of my classmates. (It wasn’t political disagreement that soured me. I was a science major and politics never once came up in any class I took. They were just, as a class, repulsive human beings.)

Had one of these hated professors spouted liberal agitprop during a lecture my classmates and I would have taken to conservatism simply out of spite.

Maybe my experience was atypical, but I have trouble imagining that college students look up to their professors any more than Cinderella did to her wicked stepmother. Won’t these abuses wind up hurting the spread of liberalism in the long run?