Singer Bob Geldof: "In America, artists keep their mouths shut. And that's honestly embarrassing, but it's safer."

Bob Geldof comes from a bygone era. From one in which a different idea of ​​what music could achieve prevailed. The Irish singer is touring Europe again with his band Boomtown Rats, celebrating their 50th anniversary. But he's not appearing as a missionary; he's coming without his moral megaphone. "The only job of an artist on stage is to make good art," he says during a phone call. Opinion, activism? Clearly separate from that.

An astonishing statement from someone who, like hardly any other musician, has elevated politics into pop culture and whose initiative led to the gigantic Live Aid concert.

Bob Geldof grew up on the outskirts of Dublin. His loneliness and resentment at the prescribed grind manifested in an all-consuming desire for escape. It's not nostalgia, not a political mission, not a desire to communicate, but something more primal, deeper that drives Geldof back to the stage today. "It's an immature rage. If you're Irish, you're practically born with it, you know?" he says.

The conditions in which he grew up offered no future for children: poor economy, war, political and religious corruption, "of course we were angry!"

He became part of a new movement. "Rock wasn't what it used to be. It had become boring." He and his band members shared the belief that something had to change, that music had to change. That their lives had nothing to do with "fucking disco, heavy metal—fuck off—or prog rock." They needed a new form of expression. So: punk!

The song "Rat Trap" (1978), which Bob Geldof wrote while working in a slaughterhouse, was a surprise hit, and "I Don't Like Mondays" (1979), about a school shooting, was a calculated breach of taboo. The Rats made songs about resignation, frustration, and the feeling of being stuck – in Ireland, in desolate suburbia, in everyday life. Musically, they moved between pub-rock riffs and artificial synth accessories. Not elegant, but precise enough to steer clear of stadium pathos and pogo stereotypes alike.

Geldof's career up to that point had been typical of a rock star: rebellion, transgression, rise, drugs, escapades, fading fame. But one late October evening in 1984, he turned on the news and saw a brief report about a famine in Africa. That changed his life. In 1985, he organized the Live Aid concert. "It was the first global television event, connecting the world via satellite," says Geldof. He appeared not as a musician—but as an accuser. By the standards of the time, a lot of money was raised for charity: around $250,000 from ticket sales and ultimately around $12 million from sales of the record and film.

Live Aid was followed in 2005 by Live 8 – an even larger remake with simultaneous open-air concerts in London and Philadelphia. Stars on both sides of the Atlantic performed, including U2, The Who, Paul McCartney, Elton John, and Madonna.

Both events were a morale-boosting feat. And they were followed by disillusionment. Questions grew ever louder about the use of the money raised and the activities of the multi-million pound relief fund. Band Aid brought fame and recognition to its musicians and tears to the eyes of millions of fans. Aid experts, however, accused Africans of being done more harm than good. Such hyper-events distract from the long-term problems that must be solved to combat poverty, hunger, and disease. Criticisms grew with each event. Geldof now considers a repeat of the events unrealistic. Yet the world as it is still infuriates him.

"We're burning. Literally. It's 40 degrees in France. A teacher fried an egg in the schoolyard because it was as hot as a stove," says Geldof. Global warming. And then: Putin. He must be stopped, the UN must act. Trump. He's a villain. On to democracy: "It's the most radical, most revolutionary of all ideas. But it's stumbling. It must be defended anew every day. Especially now." Geldof jumps from one topic to the next. And yet a picture emerges. A world in disarray, "a world torn apart – feverish."

Did the big idea Geldof had in 1985 consume everything else, including his musical career? Of course, he worried that his music might disappear in the shadow of his commitment. Bob Geldof, after all, is an artist who has never stopped worrying.

It takes less than five minutes of conversation with the 73-year-old before the first "fuck" is mentioned. The further the conversation progresses, the more frequently he uses the word—sometimes multiple times in one sentence ("fucking" and "fuck them"). The anger remains, but his belief in the effectiveness of public speaking seems to have shrunk.

The stage is for art, not for slogans. At the Academy Awards, for example, he despises political statements: "I hate the Oscars when they all give their damn speeches about this and that. I don't think it's the right platform for that." The only interesting thing about this year's ceremony was that everyone was silent. "They're keeping quiet. And that's honestly embarrassing, but it's safer for them." Artists are afraid of Trump, of the MAGA movement. But he doesn't care what Sean Penn or Leonardo DiCaprio have to say anyway. He's interested in what they do.

Geldof talks about social networks as if they were a hostile system: "They are not unifying platforms. That they are is an illusion. They are echo chambers of our own prejudices, and they depict our selves in the most extreme and worst versions." He doesn't use them; he relies on real encounters.

He doesn't want to comment on the Middle East conflict and how his colleagues on stage express themselves by promoting "Free Palestine," except: "I talk about my boomtown on stage, not other topics. I have a different personality there."

He's amazed that he's still doing this job 50 years later. "Suddenly, I'm playing songs with my school friends again." Perhaps it takes half a century of anger to know when to let it speak—and when not. Geldof's concert stage now belongs to the song again.

The concert by Bob Geldof and the Boomtown Rats at the Zurich Congress Center, scheduled for July 11, had to be cancelled due to illness.