Ivanna Ortiz allegedly posted about the superstar singer before the residential shooting, “Listen, Rihanna. When you die, God is taking me to my future”

Rihanna and A$AP Rocky on January 18, 2026 in New York City.

The woman accused of firing 20 rounds from an AR-15-style rifle at Rihanna’s Los Angeles home, allegedly striking an exterior wall of a nursery and the windshield of an Airstream trailer occupied by the singer and her partner, A$AP Rocky, has been found competent to stand trial.

Ivanna Ortiz, 36, appeared in court Tuesday wearing a yellow jail uniform and handcuffs as Los Angeles County Superior Court Judge Maria Cavalluzzi informed the parties she had received a Sept. 23, 2026, report from Dr. Phani Tumu. Deputy District Attorney Alexander Bott and Deputy Public Defender Derek Dillman said they did not contest its findings.

“Based on the evidence, the court finds the defendant is presently competent to stand trial,” Judge Cavalluzzi said as Ortiz looked on and appeared to be smiling at times. “Criminal proceedings are reinstated.”

When the judge said she would transfer the case back to a downtown Los Angeles courtroom that handles felony probable-cause hearings, Bott asked instead that the parties be ordered to appear before the supervising judge of criminal operations.

“Why are we doing this?” Judge Cavalluzzi asked.

“I can’t say, due to the nature of the proceedings, but they will be informed tomorrow,” Bott replied.

The supervising judge’s department is sometimes used as an initial stop for cases involving grand jury indictments. Grand jury proceedings are secret, but if an indictment is returned, it’s generally unsealed when prosecutors bring the defendant into court for arraignment. It was not immediately clear whether Ortiz was expected to face such a proceeding Wednesday.

Before she was referred to mental health court for an evaluation, Ortiz pleaded not guilty to one count of attempted murder, 10 counts of assault with a semiautomatic firearm, and three counts of shooting at an inhabited dwelling. Prosecutors say she drove to Rihanna’s home on March 8 and fired the rounds while the property was occupied by the famous couple, their three young children, and Rihanna’s mother.

According to a police report obtained by Rolling Stone, Rihanna and A$AP Rocky, whose legal name is Rakim Mayers, were inside the Airstream trailer parked outside the home when Rihanna heard “approximately ten loud sounds like something banging on metal.” She opened the curtains and “observed bullet holes in the windshield directly in front of where she had been standing,” then “grabbed Rakim out of bed, told him they were being shot at, and pushed both of them to the ground,” the report said.

“They shooting at us,” Rihanna warned as she pulled Mayers to the floor, the report said. The couple then ran into the garage and moved quickly to secure their children and staff, police said.

At an earlier hearing, Bott called the incident “an extremely dangerous deliberate shooting in occupied homes.” He said the gunfire lasted several seconds and could have been deadly. “This was calculated conduct,” Bott previously told the court. “She brought a loaded rifle, ammunition, and even a disguise in the form of a wig, which demonstrates planning.”

Bott said Ortiz showed “a willingness to use a high-powered rifle in a residential neighborhood, putting numerous lives at risk.” He argued that the shooting “could easily have resulted in multiple homicides.”

Witnesses to the March 8 shooting reported seeing a white Tesla Model 3 with a paper license plate fleeing the area. A police helicopter quickly located the vehicle, leading to Ortiz’s arrest. Investigators later found six bullet holes in the vehicle gate at Rihanna’s home and a seventh in a pedestrian gate, according to court documents obtained by Rolling Stone. Inside the property, police found three bullet holes in a wooden fence obscured by tall hedges.

Before the shooting, Ortiz posted erratically on social media, addressing and tagging Rihanna directly. “Listen, Rihanna. When you die, God is taking me to my future. You want to kill me. Shut the fuck up,” she said in a YouTube video titled “Praying Woman’s Journal, Day 39,” posted on Jan. 4, 2026.

Ortiz worked as a licensed speech pathologist in California before the alleged attack. In a filing obtained by Rolling Stone, an executive officer with the state’s Board of Speech-Language Pathology and Audiology asked the court to bar Ortiz from practicing while the criminal case is pending, including through sentencing and any appeal. A different judge granted the request.

Mighty Sparrow at New Orleans Jazz Festival in 1998.

Mighty Sparrow, the undisputed king of calypso music who singlehandedly elevated one of the most intensely flavored genres of the Caribbean into an unprecedented level of artistry and global popularity, died on Sunday. He was 91.

His daughter, Karen Francisco, announced the musician’s death, adding that he died after a “brief illness.” “It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of Trinidad and Tobago’s Calypso icon, Slinger Francisco, known to the world as ‘The Mighty Sparrow,’ Francisco wrote on social media. “He was an institution in the entertainment industry, well admired for his skill and finesse as a singer, songwriter and mentor; beloved by many.”

The winner of countless Carnival Road March and Calypso Monarch competitions, he leaves behind a prodigious discography that traces the transformation of calypso from its folk roots in the Fifties to the progressive, jazz-inflected splendor of the Sixties to the funky soca of the Seventies and Eighties.

Born Slinger Francisco on July 9, 1935 in Grenada, he moved with his family to Trinidad — the birthplace of calypso — when he was one, and began performing with a steel band as a teenager. But just like other Caribbean giants such as Puerto Rico’s Ismael Rivera and the Dominican Republic’s Johnny Ventura, Sparrow’s restless creative persona transcended the limits of the dance genres that blossomed around him. The Fifties were the perfect decade for his imagination to take flight, as calypso enjoyed a brief spell of international popularity, with Harry Belafonte’s Calypso becoming the first LP to sell 1 million copies.

A formidable singer, Sparrow could switch from vociferous anthems of racial defiance to comical tales of carnal excess and tender declarations of longing. As a songwriter, he possessed a novelist’s understanding of Caribbean lore, with tales of obeah spells and sexual encounters that end up in chaos and disaster.

On “Bikini Girl” — obsessively attracted to a girl at the beach during a night party, he doesn’t realize until the end that she’s Dorothy, his own fiancée — he sounds both goofy and endearing. And even though early hits like “Big Bamboo,” “Congo Man,” and “Sell the Pussy” took calypso’s double entendre spice into new extremes, Sparrow softened the vulgar implications of the lyrics with an irresistible aura of bonhomie and charm.

Much like plena in Puerto Rico, early calypso functioned as a musical newspaper of its time; on 1960’s rollicking “Ten to One Is Murder,” Sparrow recounts being attacked late at night by a gang of knife-wielding men. But the success of both his recorded output and frequent gigs at local Trinidad hotels — captured for posterity in several live albums — inspired the singer to expand his sound.

Released in 1968, Calypso Carnival may well be the finest album of his career — a timeless Caribbean classic. Backed by the dazzling arrangements of longtime collaborator Ron Berridge and his jazz orchestra, Sparrow found the perfect vehicle for his larger-than-life storytelling. This is progressive calypso, complex, and cosmopolitan, as the tracks leap out of the speakers with the propulsion of a tropical hurricane. The sexual metaphors are downright surreal on “Jook for Jook,” while the brassy chorus of “Jane” could wake the dead with its raucous groove.

The following year, he released Sparrow Meets the Dragon, a collaboration with Jamaican bandleader Byron Lee and his group The Dragonaires. It opens with “Maria,” a calypsofied cha cha that underscores Sparrow’s willingness to experiment with other styles. The pair reunited in 1975 for the excellent Sparrow Dragon Again, with a smoldering reading of “Obeah Wedding,” one of Sparrow’s biggest hits. Overall, the Seventies signaled the singer’s apex, even recording an album for Warner Bros. with producer Van Dyke Parks: 1974’s atmospheric Hot and Sweet.

Just like his frenemy and lifelong calypso rival, Lord Kitchener, Sparrow embraced the emerging soca sound, adopting the new style’s pulsating beat, use of synths, and strong soul influence. His melodic sweetness remained intact, as demonstrated on “Soca Man,” a tune off 1984’s King of the World.

Sparrow eventually settled in New York, where he remained active in music. In 2008, he recorded “Barack the Magnificent,” in support of Barack Obama’s presidential campaign, and 2020 saw the release of Live at 85!, a 2019 concert.

As of this afternoon, precisely 49 years and 342 days have passed since the four members of U2 first hung out together, and they still haven’t gotten sick of each other. Or maybe they have. “Look, it’s been 50 years of hell,” says Larry Mullen Jr., sitting with his three bandmates at an outdoor lunch table just a few feet from the Mediterranean’s pointillist pastels. He’s looking sleek, as usual, in a black polo and Wayfarers, his hair in its perpetual pompadour, shorn at the sides. “I mean, honestly, having to round these guys up, get them to go and do the songs — it’s been hard. And then when it comes to touring, OK, the stage sets and all that stuff, but sweet Jesus, the haircuts. And then having to watch them from behind. Honestly, it’s been hard.”

“The mullet phase must have been terrible,” the Edge says, once they all catch their breath from laughter.

“He only got the party at the back!” adds Bono.

It’s a beautiful day, inevitably, here in early September on the French Riviera, a mere 900 miles or so from the band’s birthplace, Mullen’s childhood kitchen in Dublin. In three weeks, these four guys will celebrate U2’s 50th anniversary in the least retrospective manner possible, announcing their first album of new material in nine years, Carnaval De Luz, due Nov. 13. Its first single, “Street of Dreams,” turns out to have been something of a head fake, a soothing, status-quo-U2 moment on an album more inclined toward risk, ambition, and jagged energy. Its guiding theme is what the Edge calls “defiant joy” in dark times, hence the carnival setting, which brings with it way more Spanish-language lyrics than anyone might expect from a thoroughly Irish foursome.

“The record was made through, probably, the most disturbed period any of us have lived through,” says Bono, who’s begun to see the actual devil at work in the world these days. “Not personally, but globally.” He notes that a new documentary about Ukraine, Black Sunflowers, begins with a rave amid war’s devastation, and brings up the writer Dan Savage’s words on queer life during the AIDS crisis: “We buried our friends in the morning, we protested in the afternoon, and we danced all night…. It was the dance we were fighting for.”

“It’s not putting your head in the sand,” Bono continues. “It’s just saying, ‘These people can’t control our mood.’ We don’t even have to name them, because everyone has their own version of who that is.”

Summoning the spirit to make a great U2 album at this late date comes with its own brand of defiance. “The past and me have got to break up,” Bono sings on the opening track, the pleasantly jarring, Suicide-inspired, Brian Eno-assisted “Go (Carnaval De Luz),” offering a mission statement that echoes “I’m ready for what’s next” from “Zoo Station.” “More importantly,” the frontman adds at the table, piggybacking Bono-ishly onto his own line, “every time a band like U2 goes into the studio, you sort of have to break up and make up. It’s a hard thing to say, but I think part of it’s true. Or certainly there are pivotal albums where you know you have to start again.”

Stop him if you’ve heard that one before. At a Dublin concert the night before New Year’s Eve in 1989, he stood onstage in a black cowboy hat and told the crowd, “We have to go away and dream it all up again.” The band embarked on a spectacular leather-and-neon run in the decade that followed, only to fear they had drowned themselves out with electronics on 1997’s Pop (even if tracks like “Mofo” hold up). They returned to musicians-in-the-room basics with All That You Can’t Leave Behind, but not quite, because they had never before written songs quite so simple and soulful. Twenty-six years later, Carnaval De Luz feels like yet another starting point, at a moment when anyone not named Mick or Keith might reasonably be eyeing the finish line.

Their wellspring hasn’t changed. “Faith is at the very heart of this story called U2,” says Bono. Today’s hat, which he’s removed at the table, is a rustic straw model; today’s sunglasses are orange, reflective, and round-lensed, John Lennon-style. He’s wearing dark-gray linen from his head to his toes, which poke out of black leather sandals. Behind him, against the restaurant’s white fence, is a vaguely biblical lime tree. “Faith in each other, I suppose. Faith in ourselves, faith in our community that got us here. Faith that something bigger than us had a wind at our back.”

Still, the Edge went into the process with questions. He’s sitting to Bono’s right, and could almost pass for his bodyguard, his black baseball cap pulled low, gold chain draped over a black T-shirt. “‘Are we still relevant?'” the guitarist recalls asking. “‘Do we have anything to say that’s of interest to anybody?’ Whether we’re relevant or not is not up to us. But we can choose to try and be relevant, and that’s what we decided.” It wasn’t, he adds, “a burdensome thought. It was just more of a quickening. Like, gotta make this matter. And first to ourselves.”

Carnaval De Luz is of a piece with the two EPs the band released earlier this year, Days of Ash and Easter Lily. As an upcoming deluxe edition makes clear, the whole thing is essentially a double album built around the liturgical calendar, and meant to be listened to that way: Carnival, Lent, Easter. You could also hear it as an eternal cycle, since the final sounds on the Easter EP turn out to be the first notes of Carnaval. “Trying to ask a wearied world to follow the liturgical calendar might be a lot to ask,” Bono says with a smile, “even of our most fervent fans. But maybe not. It’s an art project.”

On a lyric from the second EP, Bono borrows the first half of the title of a book he loves, The Death and Resurrection Show: From Shaman to Superstar, which unearths the mythic roots of show business. If you’re in U2, of course, that’s the nature of the gig, complete with your own liturgical calendar. You keep re-creating yourself, sometimes wandering so far that you get lost. You may swing off to write songs about Spider-Man. But you always find your way home, never quite unchanged. You waver in and out of fashion, try to save a world that doesn’t seem to want to be saved, perhaps show up unbidden on a few hundred million phones, all while continually achieving transcendence and elevation in football stadiums. And you may need to learn the same lessons over and over again.

“It took us a long time to realize that the less you put into a recording, the better it sounds,” says Adam Clayton, who’s grown a rather dashing silver mustache. To match the carnival vibe, he’s chosen a tropical shirt by Casablanca, decorated with colorful graphics of boxers. “And actually, the sound of the band is good enough.”

“We’re slow learners,” says Mullen, who went through his own slow, private resurrection for this album, after suffering a neck injury that had doctors advising him to retire. “Very slow learners.”

IN EARLY JUNE, less than three months before her death, an ailing Dolly Parton made her way to a microphone and recorded the final vocal of her 70-year career. “Nothing hurts a mother more,” she sang, in a voice all the more commanding for its slight quaver, “than a family at war.” The song was “Torn,” a duet with Bono that became the final track on Carnaval De Luz. “When she got ill, she got out of her bed to sing this song,” says Bono. “And you can hear that. And I can’t even listen to it now.”

In the song’s closing moments, the Edge hears something older than country music in Parton’s voice. “It’s like keening at the end,” he says, “the Irish keening at the funeral. And she’s got that in her blood.” Her last words: “Every heart is torn.”

Bono had been pursuing Parton for months, initially for a still-in-progress Irish-roots side project. “There’s a courtship involved,” says Bono, who sent Parton bagpipes for her birthday. “There’s a chase. Dolly Parton is a sassy lady … Flirtation is part of her persona, and she doesn’t wanna grow out of it. And that’s one of the reasons I so admire her.” He played her a couple of sketches over the phone, including something called “Lifelong.” “She said, ‘That’s a little too Irish,'” he recalls.

“She wasn’t having any of it,” adds the album’s producer, Garret “Jacknife” Lee, who’s been working with U2 on and off since 2004’s How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb. “Understandably, because the songs weren’t right.” He remembers Parton telling U2, in essence, “Yeah, I want to do a song. You just haven’t given me one that I can sing.”

So she sent one of her own, “Torn,” a tale of a woman trying to decide between two men. Bono heard potential in it, but he and Snow Patrol’s Johnny McDaid, a collaborator on the folk project, rewrote the lyrics around a mother agonizing over a divide between two sons. Bono considered retitling it “Civil War.” With his voice in the mix, he knows the song evokes divisions in Ireland, but it could be about Parton’s nation, or any number of other troubled lands. “You name the location,” Bono says, “but everyone knows what it is … People say in the U.S. now, people are scared to go into Thanksgiving.” At first, Bono wanted the track to veer toward “sci-fi folk,” a description that recalls Johnny Cash’s appearance on Zooropa, but Lee pulled him back toward a more grounded approach. “It’s Dolly Parton, and you don’t want to not have the people who love Dolly Parton listen to it,” the producer says. Daniel Lanois added pedal steel, and Mullen finished it off with an evocative, echoing drum track inspired by one of Lanois’ greatest productions, Bob Dylan’s “Most of the Time.”

It wasn’t easy for Bono to figure out how to sing alongside Parton’s performance, so he kept it understated. As he wrote to Parton, “‘I just got out of your way’…. I said, ‘What am I gonna do? I’m just gonna have to just talk, basically, and just let her do what she does.’ She sang her heart out, and I cannot believe that’s an 80-year-old woman.”

Much to the band’s relief, Parton approved the final mix. “Dolly loved it,” says Lee. “She was so proud of her vocal …We were very nervous that she would be uncomfortable with it, but she loved it.”

The Edge sees Parton representing “the radical center, which is becoming like a no-man’s-land right now … We have aspirations in that area ourselves, but things have got so polarized, it’s very, very hard to not be taken down by both sides … But she managed to get accepted by both sides and beloved by everyone. That’s an amazing thing. And she did it, as Bono pointed out today, with humor. Humor was her secret weapon. And no tyrant has a defense against humor, turns out.”

Another, very much living, female spirit presides over track four of Carnaval De Luz. It’s called “The Mirror Maker (Rosalía),” and it is, in fact, about the Spanish singer. “We normally just write songs about people in jail or dead people,” Bono says. “You know, dead heroes, or trying to get them out of jail. This is just celebrating somebody just because they’re an extraordinary artist.” Like most serious music fans, Bono is obsessed with Rosalía and her 2025 masterpiece, Lux, which beat him to many of the themes he was hoping to explore, down to the Lux/Luz/light title. “She’s arrived at the same point just before us, which is annoying and also really inspiring,” says Bono, who believes she shares a goal of “the re-enchantment of the world” via art.

The song, which kicks off with a massive, Pete Townshend-worthy acoustic guitar riff, began around 2017 as an Edge demo called “Kuti Rocker,” denoting a Fela Kuti influence. At various points it was also called “Delilah” and “Child of the Age.” “The version that we’re using on the album is the 196th version,” says Lee. “With completely different lyrics. That was a very difficult one to do, because it started off as a rock & roll song with electric guitars, and we just kept on trying to bring it back to Ziggy Stardust or something, the acoustic guitars…. Rock & roll can be quite masculine, and it’s off-putting when it’s too masculine. So you gotta have a bit of femininity, which is why I think Bowie works and T. Rex works … It’s just not cock rock.”

About halfway through those 196 versions, by Lee’s reckoning, the song acquired its subject. “Why are we singing about Rosalía?” Lee remembers the band asking. “How is it relevant?”

Bono’s answer goes back to The Death and Resurrection Show, which he first read in the Nineties. (“The ‘magic’ of showbiz is real magic,” author Rogan P. Taylor argues, linking performers to shamanism. “It draws its power from an immensely well-stocked religious bank.” The book also states that ancient shamans tended to lose a parent at a young age, which surely raised Bono’s eyebrows.) “We all have some narcissism to contend with,” Bono says. “Just the act of writing, or thinking somebody should be interested in your ideas — it’s very easy to get lost in the mirror there. Or just what’s reflected behind you as you look in the mirror, the world that’s behind you.” As he speaks, I catch a glimpse of myself in his sunglasses. “But there are artists who want to go through the mirror and see what’s on the other side of the mirror. Patti Smith was one for me when I was growing up. There’s many. Not enough … Certainly Rosalía is one of them. And it’s this idea that we’re body, soul, and spirit. This rather old-fashioned, quaint idea. And she approaches it with great courage and great self-effacing humor … There’s not just physics, there’s metaphysics.”

“It’s just a little embarrassing that she became so popular before we put out the song,” he adds. “But that doesn’t matter to me. Everyone knew about Martin Luther King too.”

He didn’t feel remotely comfortable releasing the song without the artist’s permission, so he reached out to a mutual friend, Penélope Cruz, in something of a panic. “I called Penélope: ‘What am I gonna do?'” he says. “‘Just call her’ … I’m like, ‘I look like a stalker.'” Rosalía, he says, was playful about it, and has “been really encouraging, and made me laugh a lot”; they’ve texted, and talked about their mutual fandom for the poet Federico García Lorca. He still hasn’t met her. “I sort of don’t think I could meet her now. I’m just working up courage to send her the final mix.”

The song starts out with Bono’s falsetto, “impersonating her soprano,” as he puts it. “The idea was to try and convince Rosalía to do it,” says Lee. “And then we realized, why would somebody sing on a song about them? Doesn’t make any sense. ‘Listen to me sing how great I am!’ I thought he sounded great doing it, so I thought, why would we replace it?”

IN MARCH 2024, Larry Mullen Jr. attended his first U2 concert as a member of the audience. It was, at that point, entirely unclear whether he would ever be able to play again. For their 40-date run at the Sphere in Las Vegas, his bandmates recruited a substitute drummer, Bram van den Berg. Mullen waited until the 39th show to see them. “I just didn’t want to draw attention,” he says, but that wasn’t his only hesitation.

Mullen’s personality is as intense as his drumming; even when he’s cracking jokes, the sheer force of his eye contact can be intimidating. Lee admits he was once “afraid of Larry as an individual,” wondering if Mullen might punch him for some errant remark. That all changed this time around, with the two men staying late in the studio together for hours, trying out different percussive approaches on their own, something Mullen had never done before for any other album.

In his infirmity, Mullen turned all of that energy inward. “There’s a certain amount of humiliation when you get injured and you can’t get over it, and I felt humiliated,” he says, sitting at the same beachside lunch table the following afternoon, ready to talk in depth for the first time about his journey back to U2. “And it’s my own — that’s my own shit.”

The idea of suddenly standing outside a collective you had always been at the heart of seems nightmarish, but “it wasn’t as bad as you’d think,” says Mullen. “ The band were doing what the band needed to do. Those drum parts are mine, those parts that I played when I was a kid, a lot of them not really knowing what I was doing. And I was hearing those parts played very well by Bram, and I was grateful for that. It’s an odd thing to say, but I was. ‘Cause I had no sense of having been left behind. All those feelings were my own — they were personal feelings of humiliation. But they weren’t to do with the band. They were directed at myself.”

For years, Mullen was all too aware of a problem with his neck, a congenital fusion in a facet joint. He would’ve been fine if he wasn’t continually aggravating it by hitting things, hard, for a living. “If you don’t do my job, you wouldn’t really notice,” he says, “and I got away with it for years.” By the 2019 leg of U2’s Joshua Tree tour, that was starting to change. He was in pain, and the medical treatment he needed each night to be able to play was harming him in the long run. “By the time I came off the road, I was really in a bad way.”

He was exhausted after relentless years of touring, but still assumed he’d recover. “I just thought I always bounce back,” he says. “I always make it back…. I did need time away. I just would’ve preferred to have booked a flight somewhere as opposed to booking the trolley in the hospital.” When Covid arrived, Mullen stopped playing altogether. “I wasn’t playing drums in the bunker, ’cause it was too sore. It was through COVID that I realized that I was physically damaged beyond repair… I shut down, everybody had, and my body just went, ‘You’ve had enough.'”

Even so, Mullen initially agreed to the Sphere residency when it first came up, circa 2022. “ I signed up to do it,” he says. “And then a couple of weeks later my physio said to me, ‘You won’t make it through rehearsals. So you need to undo that,’ which was very difficult, very complicated to undo it, ’cause I’d made a commitment.”

He had no issue with his bandmates continuing without him. “I absolutely understood,” he says. “Business is business, and nothing can get in the way of the process, and I accept that 100 percent. So the unspoken rule” — that a band member could be replaced onstage — “applied to me in that case. It could apply to somebody else in another case. And that’s the cost of doing business. It is complicated being friends, being friendly, being in business. So yeah, we all have feelings. So I’m not gonna lie that it wasn’t difficult, but nobody imposed it.”

Watching U2 play without him, he did think about musicians who’d been swapped out of bands “at a singer’s whim.” “I thought about … how that must feel,” he says. “I didn’t have that feeling.”

Around the start of the Sphere run, Mullen joined his bandmates in the studio to record the one-off single “Atomic City” and appear in a music video. “We were at that point of not knowing if this was the last time he would play with us,” says Clayton. Bassists and drummers share a unique link, and Clayton sees his relationship with Mullen almost as a marriage. Playing with a different drummer “felt very promiscuous,” he says, as much as he admired van den Berg’s musicianship.

The band’s future felt uncertain. “We didn’t know if Larry was gonna come back,” Clayton says. “Could we keep going? Would we wanna keep going? That’s still an open question.” But the Edge says Carnaval De Luz only exists because Mullen did return. “I don’t think we would’ve made an album if Larry hadn’t been able to play,” he says. “We would’ve just gone, ‘Why? Why make an album without Larry Mullen on it? Doesn’t feel right.'”

BACK AT THE LUNCH TABLE, the members of U2 are sharing some of the whole grilled fish Clayton ordered, and talking, at startling length, about progressive rock. Bono has for years presented prog-rock, or a vague caricature of it, as a musical boogeyman that represents everything U2 were trying to avoid. In his mind, it was less an actual genre that veers from greatness (King Crimson, Rush) to ridiculousness (Tales From Topographic Oceans, Rick Wakeman’s infamous Camelot-on-ice thing) than a shorthand: atmosphere, pretension, and self-indulgence over hooks and immediacy.

“We grew up on the rock & roll 45,” he told me in 2009. “It is by far the most difficult thing to pull off, and it is the very life force of rock & roll: vitality, succinctness, and catchiness, whether it’s the Sex Pistols, Nirvana, the Pixies, the Beatles, the Who, the Rolling Stones … And when rock music forgets about the 45, it tends toward progressive rock, which is like a mold that grows on old, burnt-out artists who’ve run out of ideas. We have a soundtrack/Pink Floyd side of our band, and it has to be balanced by fine songwriting.” Later, Bono decided that the very album U2 were making while we had that discussion, No Line on the Horizon, suffered from a prog infestation. He sent the band back to what he’s described as “songwriting school” for its next two albums, 2014’s Songs of Innocence and 2017’s Songs of Experience.

The Edge, as it turns out, actually likes prog, particularly Yes, a band he worshipped to the point of writing their name on his jeans in high school. And Bono has something to tell him. He’s talking about how much U2 owe their producers, which brings him to Brian Eno. During the making of The Unforgettable Fire, Eno insisted the band listen to Donna Summer’s masterful, Quincy Jones-produced “State of Independence” on repeat until it “turned into a prayer, which is what it really is,” Bono says. The song took up residence in the singer’s head for the next 40 years, but he only recently went online and learned that former Yes lead singer Jon Anderson co-wrote it.

So Bono listened to some Yes songs, for the first time in his life. In Steve Howe’s chiming guitar harmonics, he recognized a kindred spirit to the Edge, another player determined to avoid rock’s blues cliches. Then Bono was reminded of the title of the band’s fifth album. “It’s Close to the Edge,” he says. “The Edge’s name comes out of this moment that I’ve been fighting with!” (At the table, the Edge doesn’t dispute this assertion, but he’s previously cast doubt on this version of his nickname’s origin story.)

Bono turns to the Edge. “I owed you an apology,” he says, citing “my long-held, and probably hurtful, campaign to accuse you and others of suffering from a lurgy” — a Britishism for malady — “called progressive rock on your worst moments.”The Edge grins, his neat, dark goatee crinkling. “I just wanted to point out that Bono is totally pro prog-rock when it suits him,” he says, citing the chords and arrangement of “The Tears of Things,” from Days of Ash, as “progressive rock in its best iteration.” He also reveals that Bono wrote an alternate intro to the new album’s opening track that’s “heavily influenced by Yes.”

(Mullen, for what it’s worth, sees all his roots in glam rock, and the closest he’ll come to prog is Blind Faith’s only album. As for Clayton: “I didn’t seek out music played by men in tights,” he says. “I knew there was nothing there for me.” That said, he is a Tool fan.)

The whole discussion was less of a wild digression than it seemed. Part of the excitement of U2’s newest music is that it’s slipped the bonds of the 45. Easter Lily ends with the striking, hypnotic track “Coexist (I Will Bless the Lord at All Times?),” which happens to be nearly seven minutes long. It began as some gently pulsing synth chords from Eno in a file he’d labeled “Melancholic Space Grandeur.” Bono improvised over it, taking some inspiration from “State of Independence.” This song, too, is a prayer. The original version ran for 17 minutes, and Bono seriously considered putting it out that way. Lee convinced him to pull back: “I was going, ‘It’s very good, but people will only ever listen to it once.'”

There are plenty of pop hooks on the new album, from the downright sexy “Glorify” (“As the heavens fall/Baby don’t we all?”) to the rollicking “La Reina” (“Let’s hear it one more time/For the face of the future”) to the falsetto earworm of “Superficiality” (“Freedom is a feeling/It’s a feeling that I have around you”). But Bono acknowledges that after Songs of Experience, he’s finally let go of the idea that U2 could still have a chart-dominating smash. “I guess when the pop charts get fed up with you, you defend yourself by saying, ‘Oh, I wasn’t really interested in them in the first place,'” he says. “When you know that’s not true … I wanted to hear our songs on the radio. Nothing still thrills me more … When there was a shot at that, I really wanted to carve a perfect pop song. I really did. Nearly got there, but didn’t quite get there. Met some incredible people, learned from them but could not distill it into that one song. The one. Just couldn’t.”

“Now,” he says, “the song is its own reward.” Whatever happens with the new album, he adds, “I’m not holding it against the songs. It’s just the moment we’re in … It’s just for the few, not for the many.” He remembers reading a late-period Bob Dylan interview where the bard accepted that his music wasn’t for the masses anymore, and said he’d simply double down on being himself. “No one’s better at being Bob Dylan than Bob Dylan,” Bono says. “No one’s better at being in U2 than Edge, Adam, Larry, and me. They might want to be in U2, but we’re actually not bad at it.”

All that said, the band is trying to come up with a radio edit of Bono’s favorite new track, the five-and-a-half-minute “The Greatest Show on Earth.” “It’s maybe our greatest song in a very long time,” he says. “That was a reason to stay in the band.” The slow-burning, IMAX-sized epic takes on a shattered love affair, with some shots at Christian nationalism along the way (“Is this a church of love or fear?/Have we made God feel like a stranger here?”). It aims to capture some of the ecstatic, crooning heartbreak of “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’,” with a hint of Bertolt Brecht: “Love is a business that works at night/I sold myself for less than was right.” Bono had the title for a long time, but catching Elvis Presley sing “Lovin’ Feelin'” in his friend Baz Luhrmann’s recent concert film helped him crack the elegiac concept for the song: “We were once the greatest show on earth.” “There may be,” he says, unable to help himself, “a version of it that we can get on the radio.”

Mullen and Clayton are just glad that the band changed its ways from the Innocence/Experience period, when they would ping-pong songs between wildly different producers and co-writers. “It was very hard when we had so many producers involved,” Mullen says. “So what is the band? What does the band do? How does it function? … I didn’t know what I was meant to be doing. So the studio environment was sit back and watch. I’m not used to sitting back.”

During that period, Clayton adds, “the sound of the band got very cloudy, got very muddy. You know, keyboard overdubs and what have you. And this was very definitely a record based on wanting the band to sound like they’re in a room playing together.” It’s also full of huge, song-propelling bass lines. Clayton is quick to credit the Edge with composing some of them, but the guitarist throws the praise back at him. “The thing I always know is when Adam plays, it’s a different thing altogether,” says the Edge. “So I might throw an idea at him, but it’s amazing how, when Adam and Larry play, everything goes up 50 percent just in terms of the depth and intensity and personality.”

Lee, who worked on the last two albums, watched songs get passed among far-flung collaborators until “you end up with these kind of Frankenstein monsters, and bits of things, and they don’t add up to much.” He doesn’t exempt himself. “I, shamefully, didn’t understand the power of Larry and Adam,” he says.

The Edge thinks the band overcorrected twice. No Line, he argues, is where the band “lost sight of songwriting as a discipline.” On the next two albums, they “almost came the exact amount off the path in the opposite direction,” ending up “a little too technical … a little too precise.” This time around, “nothing was sacred. Nothing was finished till it was finished.” But he still loves the last two albums. “I think it came at a moment where U2 were maybe not as in vogue as we had been, so some of the work possibly has been slightly overlooked,” he says.

Mullen now realizes that all of that creative struggle, however frustrating, had a purpose. “The contrarian in me would go, ‘Told you, we don’t have to work that hard,'” he says. “The problem is that’s not correct. The correct thing is you have to push and take the risk to get to the other side.” The lesson, as he sees it, is less about songcraft than about identity. “U2 can’t be like everybody else. We just can’t. We don’t have the skills to do that. We always will be and have to be outliers … The circuitous route to this record is just that. It’s the recognition that the band is not malleable in the way that maybe we would have hoped … It took a lot to get to this place. And it’s a recognition of 50 years.”

AT ONE POINT DURING the sessions, Barack Obama came around, and why wouldn’t he? “We were having a good time, just talking about music and Kendrick Lamar and lots of films,” says Lee. “He’s got good taste.” Bono played the former president an in-progress song, “The Tears of Things.” “A lot of times he’s not looking for somebody’s take on it,” Lee adds. “He’s looking at how they feel when it’s being played, and you can tell when a line doesn’t land.” Obama had more than a take; he had notes. “He pointed something out to Bono about the halfway pivot,” Lee says. “He had an observation that was valid. He’s very good.”

The song is, to say the least, a big swing, Bono’s elliptical take on the thousands of years that led up to Gaza, with an empathetic look at the history of the Jewish people, all narrated simultaneously by the biblical David and the statue Michelangelo made of him. By the end, he’s pleading, “Everybody is my people/Let my people go,” and wondering, “Who would choose to be chosen?”

“It’s an attempt to try and grasp what’s going on in a world where we never needed the moral force of Judaism more than now,” Bono says. “And yet, what is happening?” Not for the first time, he condemns Hamas’ Oct. 7 attack, calling it “an unholy offense.” But he’s particularly horrified by the words of Itamar Ben-Gvir, Israel’s far-right minister of national security, comparing his rhetoric about Gaza — “there are people there who are not worthy of life. They shouldn’t live. They’re not even people” — to Himmler.

“As a person who has stood by Israel,” Bono says, “and standing by Israel — as I stand with the Palestinian people, by the way, that they have a Palestine — there’s all this semantic back and forth over genocide, and it’s a legal term, and the ICC and the ICJ will rule on it eventually. But here’s a guy, a minister in the government, and he’s not being locked up … and this guy Netanyahu says, ‘Well, I need him to keep my majority.'” He shakes his head. “So many of the people that have expanded my mind, changed my consciousness, made me laugh, broken my heart with their songs, lifted my spirits, are Jewish. And this guy’s putting their religion in the shade … It’s just outrageous.” Israel, he adds, has “to fix the situation. They have to put what happened at the Nakba right, by making some compromise that some of these people don’t wanna make, and do the just thing. Justice is at the heart of Judaism.”

“The quietness of ‘Tears of Things’ is boiling rage,” Bono concludes. It was also a powerful song that didn’t seem to belong on the album they wanted to make, and it wasn’t alone. U2 had, by Clayton’s count, “25, 30, 35, 40 pieces that were being worked on, that were being considered, and it just seemed like an awful lot to fit through the gate.” The band members were targeting the Carnival-Lent-Easter cycle early on, but initially thought of it as somehow all working on the same album.

Early this year, they changed their minds. “Amongst the body of work we had was stuff that really just didn’t fit in the countervailing, joyful, carnival, celebration-of-the-physical-self idea,” says the Edge. “So I said, ‘Let’s just put out a few songs now. We’ve got these songs finished that probably won’t see the light of day, and they make sense.’ Then Bono says, ‘Yeah, they make sense around this part of the calendar.'” Ash Wednesday was weeks away. “It makes perfect sense. Let’s do it. I thought one or two songs. He’s like, ‘No, let’s do, like, six.'”

Lee was about to go home to his family for some time off. Instead, he and the band began working with nearly crazed intensity. “You think, ‘Oh, this could be a terrible idea.’ Because it’s so disruptive, and we only have a few days to get this done, and we haven’t written two songs. So this is a lot of jeopardy here, and we really have to start doing 18-hour days, seven days a week, for the next two weeks to get it done.”The Edge started the music for “American Obituary,” which mourns the death of Renée Good at the hands of an ICE agent, only four weeks before it came out. Before Bono finished the lyrics, he arranged a Zoom call with three generations of Good’s family, “the best people you could ever meet.” “As chief lyricist, I just wanted to make sure people were OK with it,” he says. “And the father, when I got to the bit about ‘America will rise against the people of the lie,’ he asked me where that came from. I said, ‘It’s a book that Edge gave me, by M. Scott Peck, back in the Eighties.'” Good’s dad pointed to the same book on his shelf. “And what was so extraordinary about these people was they were trying to make me feel at ease.” Good’s partner told Bono she prays for the ICE officer who shot Good, which inspired his lyric “I love you more than hate loves war.”

They released the Days of Ash EP with no advance word and zero fuss, essentially just slipping it onto streaming services. It was the precise opposite of dropping an album onto every iPhone in the world. ”We’d had a very big accident a few years ago,” Clayton says with a smile. “And we didn’t wanna repeat that mistake. We liked the idea of putting them out in a way that didn’t make people think that this was a substitute album.”

“We’re hiding our new album,” Bono says. “I was surprised everyone went with it.”

They had barely recovered when the frontman suggested a second EP for Easter. The scramble began anew. “Another kind of emergency happens,” says Lee. “And then we go, ‘We can’t do it again.’ But I think we did, and I think potentially better. When everyone’s pulling in the same direction, it can be a very powerful thing, especially with U2, because Bono’s like a juggernaut when he gets this energy.”

Lately, more than ever, Bono’s been thinking about evil. He was struck by Simon McBurney’s recent stage adaptation of The Master and Margarita (the book that inspired Mick Jagger to write “Sympathy for the Devil”), where Satan thrives in a Moscow where no one believes in his existence. “Whatever it is, you call it whatever you want. I don’t know what it is,” Bono says. “But something entered the air. Everything that you and I hold sacred — because we probably would’ve gone to the same concerts, we might have argued over Rush, but not really — most of what you hold sacred is under threat.”

The devil, “a thief at large in a carnival of souls,” is also a character in the album’s fiercest song, which just dropped as a single. After the EPs, the band members suddenly realized that they had used up some album tracks and needed more. One of the final tracks they created was “Silencio.” Lee was worried that the album was “potentially a little low-key,” and the Edge dug out a nasty, fire-breathing guitar riff he had left over from the Songs of Innocence era. “We genuinely were like, ‘We need something of that energy,'” the Edge says. “And everyone just went, ‘Wow, let’s work on it.’ And it came through really quickly.”

“In the silence,” Bono sings, “the devil rock and rolls.” But the lyrics distinguish between two kinds of silence. “There’s a beautiful silence, which is, you know, when you’re in that reflective place — nothing wrong with that,” says the Edge. “But there’s the other form of silence, which is a kind of censorship, self-censorship, which is where things can get very dangerous.”

“You would know the essay by Hannah Arendt on the banality of evil,” Bono says. “So in the silence, that is it. That’s literally what that’s about.”

ONCE HE BACKED OUT of the Sphere, Mullen became determined to pursue surgery on his neck. But doctors wouldn’t even discuss it with him, let alone agree to perform it. There was no guarantee the surgery would work, but that was the least of it. There was a small but real chance that it could leave Mullen paralyzed. “People don’t want to take a risk,” he says. “Most people were, ‘You know what? You’ve done incredibly well. Just retire. Sail off into the sunset. Why would you do this to yourself?'” Mullen’s family was against the idea, as well. I ask how he responded to them, and he shrugs: “Override it.”

Call it heroic, or foolish, or the most extreme of the band’s many leaps of faith, but Larry Mullen Jr. was willing to take the chance. That’s how much U2 means to him. “There wasn’t a moment that I questioned, bizarrely,” he says. “This is somebody who thinks things through. If you’ve got the head and the heart, I’m a head guy. I’ll do the calculation, the logic. But my desire to play again overwrote that…. It’s only when you are faced with the possibility that you may not be able to do the thing that you love, that you’ve done for most of your life… It’s funny what your brain will do, and your body. It goes into a different mode.”

Eventually, a young neurosurgeon in Dublin agreed to perform the operation. Mullen was grateful, though taken aback when she told him she’d take the risk on the grounds that he was “a national treasure.” “I thought, ‘Shit, OK. It’s really all going wrong now,'” he says. “‘Might be an out-of-work national treasure.'”

The surgery went well, and after three or four months, Mullen sat down at a drum kit. “And I realized that I was playing differently,” he says. “Everything was different. My body didn’t work the same way as it used to.” He knew drummers like Max Weinberg had sought out lessons after injuries to reshape their technique, but couldn’t imagine taking that path. His only drum teacher, a Dublin jazz player, briefly tried to show a young Mullen how to play like the virtuoso Steve Gadd. It didn’t work. “I think I broke the man,” he says. “I’m unteachable.”

Instead, he went back to basics, returning to the “most efficient” way of playing everything. “Over the years, you get ahead of yourself,” he says. “All you need is a neck injury to bring you back to that place. Because now you don’t have all those things you learned, all those little flicky-dee-dos, all the little skills. You now can’t rely on those.”

When he felt ready, he texted his bandmates. (Oddly, there’s no full-band U2 group chat. “ We haven’t done that yet,” Mullen says. “Definitely should get one of them.”) They gathered for a session in their friend Julian Lennon’s studio, not far from the vacation house Bono and the Edge own here in the South of France. “I sat behind the drum kit,” Mullen recalls. “Literally, it was like I got into a car, and I just put it in first gear. And I just started to drive … I haven’t played for a few years. I don’t know if it still happens, that creative thing. Has that died in me? I didn’t know.” He threw everything he had at the track. “And I looked into the studio, and I could see the band kind of going, ‘OK, that’s not what we expected.’ And I’m going, ‘Not for me either.'”

A second session there yielded “Street of Dreams,” with the version on the album ending up as “pretty much what we played together,” according to Clayton. “So it was a very positive first step,” he says.

“Once we got Larry in the room, it really all started to make sense,” says the Edge. “All my questions and insecurities, everything started to just fall into place.”

“I certainly was very aware from the first sessions with Larry back that he was playing differently,” Bono says. “With more authority, if that makes sense to you. But it was playful. Very playful.”

On Days of Ash, a drum performance or two was swapped out for a drum machine. “In the past, I might have said, ‘Shit,'” Mullen says. “This time I went, ‘That really worked. That was the right thing to do.’ … I don’t need to be on everything.”

“Old Larry would’ve been more of a veto merchant,” says Clayton. “This new Larry … he’s much softer. He’s much gentler. He’s much more respectful of other people’s commitment to something.”

“I’m working on the positive ‘no,'” Mullen jokes, but he knows the old role had its risks. “The contrarian can get miscast as a villain, and I felt that. I felt I was always walking the plank. I think people have roles … You’re the guy, the Bono character, who wants to push it: ‘This is how it’s going to be.’ You need some of that. And I recognize that now. That without that, there’s no need for a contrarian or a peacemaker or an aesthetic guy.”

The band is planning an as-yet-unannounced stadium tour, and they just began rehearsals, with Mullen playing the old songs for the first time since the surgery. Clayton thinks Mullen is approaching them differently, but that may be nothing new. Before attempting “Pride (In the Name of Love),” the drummer compared the studio version to various live performances, only to realize that it was never quite the same from year to year. Then, when he listened back to a recording of the recent rehearsals, he “was pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t sounding old.”

He isn’t sure how long he can play each night on tour, or how he’ll hold up. “Even if I can’t play for two and a half hours, if I can play for an hour, that’s enough,” he says. “I’ve had it so good that I’ll accept that.”

“I just pray that we are all well,” Bono says. “And that Larry, of all of us, keeps hold of his fitness.”

THE MORNING AFTER the group lunch, the Edge was already working on another new song. “It’s sort of what I do,” he says with a shrug. “When I play guitar, I’m just seeing where the chords will take me, and I’m going, ‘This could be a song.’ Not necessarily, ‘Can I do my scales?’ That doesn’t interest me so much.” He’s sitting under an umbrella on the terrace of the spectacular summer home he shares with Bono, not far from the restaurant. He’s chosen a gray T-shirt today, with the same black baseball cap and chain. Terracotta tiles are at his feet; behind him is a gnarled pine tree, arching toward the sea.

Today’s song-in-progress has a lot of company in his archives. His phone holds over 11,000 voice memos, many of them musical ideas. ”It’s actually a bit of a challenge to keep tabs on the really promising ones,” he says, “but it’s funny how most of the time you do remember them — or remember to keep them.”

Collectively, U2 are sitting on a trove of music that’s far closer to completion. Even with all the released tracks, there are still Carnaval outtakes they loved, including “Get Back to Now,” with lyrics inspired by time Bono spent in Hanoi. Lee describes the Edge maintaining two whiteboards during recording sessions, one for the project at hand, and another listing “another five albums, and you’re going, ‘Let’s just finish this one first!’ … There could be an acoustic record, there could be an electronic record … There’s always songs coming.” On his computer, the Edge says he has “about eight folders of different projects or side projects,” including one labeled Songs of Ascent, the reflective, acoustic album the band has been teasing since Bono first told me about it in 2009. “There are a bunch of songs in there that we definitely could resurrect,” the Edge says.

Near the beginning of this album process, Bono and the Edge spent five days with Brian Eno in a one-room demo studio in Enniskerry, south of Dublin, with Lee engineering. They came out with 40 pieces of music, which sparked three songs on Carnaval, as well as “Coexist” from Easter Lily. “It was just really wild,” says Lee. “Brian works very quickly, or arguably not at all. He just appears and then you get something.”

The original idea was to resurrect their side project with Eno, which produced a single album in 1995. “We talked about it as a Passengers album,” the Edge says. “But we weren’t sure where it would end up. We felt Brian would really like it if these pieces ended up on a U2 album, which he turned out to be delighted about.” He and Bono still expect to release the rest of the Eno music in some form (the singer is particularly excited about a track known as “The Clapping Song”), and the acoustic Celtic side project as well.

But when it comes to the top-secret stadium tour they’re planning, they already have too much music. The Edge has “about 11” new songs from both the album and the EPs in his planned set list. Bono is more wary of overemphasizing the new material in stadiums, and he hints at a vague idea of setting up separate, smaller venues on the road where they could spotlight it — “a way of meeting our fans in the city in another teatro, which I can’t tell you about either.” Mullen, in turn, thinks the teatro thing is “great in theory. The practice might be a little harder to pull off.” They have a good sense of a unique concept for the stage design, and Bono even knows what he’d like the opening song to be.

In 2010, Clayton told me he had trouble picturing himself playing rock past age 65. He’s 66 now, and at his own holiday house, a striking ultra-modern structure built from scratch a few miles away along the coast, he says he’s still thinking about age and limitations. “I feel like I’ve been blessed with tremendous good health,” he says. “But you look at the passing of Dolly recently at the age of 80 — and when this cycle is finished, I’m probably gonna be 70. That time of good health is valuable. It’s probably the most valuable time you have in your life.”

I mention the obvious point that the Rolling Stones are still going in their eighties. “I think these people are an aberration within the blip of the music business,” he says. “There’s a certain Peter Pan-ness to Jagger and what the Stones do. I don’t think we convey the same thing. I think we ultimately are more age-appropriate. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.” Lately, he says, he and many of his friends have been thinking about “downscaling. We’ve all had these busy lives with lots of stuff. Now it feels like it’s the time to shed.”

So can Clayton picture U2 playing in their eighties? “Well, you can’t say never … Perhaps we’re all playing things differently. And because of the chemistry and the history of those 50-odd years, we’ll move and adapt to that. Do I imagine this is something we would be doing in our 80s? I don’t know. I don’t know.”

The Edge has no such doubts. “I don’t see why not,” he says. “I’d make the distinction between age and biological age.” He smiles when he learns of Clayton’s hesitation. “I think Adam always considered himself a young old person,” he says. “And I always now think of myself as an old young person … That’s the dangerous thing about this band. Our next song, our next album could be our best ever, and we sense that.”

Mullen, again, is in no mood to be a contrarian. “After this record, and the experience of it, I think it’d be something to look forward to,” he says. “I think it will be an amazing thing to have that in your sights: that we will always, no matter what the circumstances are, come together somewhere and build the church … I think we’ve all grown, and we’ve all changed, and we all now understand something that we didn’t understand before, and that was that there is real value to U2 in its original form. It’s worth fighting for. And it’s also worth compromising for.”Our conversation is winding down, but Mullen has a question of his own. “So, did Bono say any nice things about me?”

He did.

“OK, that’s good,” Mullen says, and smiles. “I was just checking.”

Slipknot's Corey Taylor, 2025.

Fresh off the release of their new single, “Arsenal,” Slipknot will embark on a North American run of dates they’re calling the (Sic)est Stadium Tour next summer. The title is a nod to “(sic),” the first full song on their 1999 breakthrough self-titled album.

The tour, which will feature new staging and set lists, kicks off in Washington, D.C. on July 16 and will wrap up in Phoenix on Aug. 18. Bring Me the Horizon are set to open all of the dates with various additional support coming from Lamb of God, Motionless in White, Lorna Shore, Loathe, Acid Bath, Polyphia, Kublai Khan TX, and Vended.

Tickets go on sale Friday. Presales begin at 10 a.m. local time on Tuesday. Full details are on the band’s website.

Earlier this month, the band released “Arsenal,” which found frontman Corey Taylor screaming, “I got a lot to fuckin’ say/And if you didn’t listen, you didn’t hear me anyway.” It leads to the chant, “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” which may as well be their clarion call for the tour. The song marked their first recording since the departures of turntablist Sid Wilson, who parted ways with the group in August, and keyboardist-sampler Craig Jones, who left in 2023.

The band last released a new album, The End, So Far, in 2022. They didn’t announce plans to release any new music at the time of the release of “Arsenal.” But earlier this year, the band’s Clown teased that more music may be on the way in an interview with Rolling Stone, noting that he was in the middle of a writing session with Slipknot.

Slipknot North American tour dates:

July 16 – Washington, D.C. @ Nationals Park *July 18 – New York City @ Citi Field *July 21 – Montreal @ Parc Jean-Drapeau **July 23 – Toronto @ Rogers Stadium ***July 25 – Chicago @ Soldier Field ****July 28 – Hershey, Pennsylvania @ Hershey Park Stadium *****July 31 – Boston @ Fenway Park *****Aug. 3 – Nashville @ First Bank Stadium ***Aug. 6 – Houston @ Daikin Park ******Aug. 9 – Commerce City, CO @ Dick’s Sporting Goods Park *******Aug. 13 – Los Angeles @ SoFi Stadium *******Aug. 15 – San Francisco @ Golden Gate Park ********Aug. 18 – Phoenix @ Chase Field *********

* with Bring Me he Horizon and Acid Bath** with Bring Me the Horizon, Kublai Khan TX, and Vended*** with Bring Me the Horizon and Kublai Khan TX**** with Bring Me the Horizon and Lamb of God***** with Bring Me the Horizon and Lorna Shore****** with Bring Me the Horizon and Polyphia******* with Bring Me the Horizon and Loathe******** with Bring Me the Horizon, Motionless in White, and Loathe********* with Bring Me the Horizon and Motionless in White

Ariana Grande has officially crowned Montréal the winner of her Eternal Sunshine Tour mute challenge, and it turns out Centre Bell really can keep quiet when asked.

The singer announced the result Sunday on Instagram, revealing that the audience at her first Montréal show had managed to pull off what became one of the tour’s most difficult crowd challenges.

“And the winner was ....... montreal night one ♡ !” Grande wrote on Instagram.

See on Instagram

The challenge took place in every city on the tour, during her performance of we can’t be friends (wait for your love), when Grande invited audiences to fall completely silent immediately after singing the line “Me and my truth, we sit in silence.” Rather than filling the pause with screams, cheers and the usual arena roar, fans were expected to maintain total silence before the song continued.

Videos of the moment have circulated widely among fans throughout the tour, with audiences in other cities often struggling to suppress their excitement long enough to complete the challenge. The two-night Centre Bell engagement was also Grande’s only Canadian stop on the Eternal Sunshine Tour.

Grande wrapped the tour in London on Sept. 1 after a run of 10 sold-out shows, closing out a major live chapter as she continues to balance her music career with her acting work.

Stevie Wonder, promoting 'Songs in the Key of Life' after its original release.

Stevie Wonder surprise-released Songs in the Key of Life 50: The EP, which contains four previously unreleased studio recordings, on Monday. He recorded “It’s Easier,” “My Life Story of Love,” “I Can See the Sun in Late December,” and “I’m Into Livin'” during the sessions for his celebrated 1976 album but held onto them for the past half century. Now that he’s planning a tour commemorating the 50th anniversary of that album, he decided to finally issue them.

“We’ve lived with Songs in the Key of Life for 50 years, but there’s still more to hear,” Wonder said. “We didn’t add these songs to the album, but they were part of what I was feeling and discovering as we made it. They bring me back to that time in my life, and now they get to become part of yours.”

The recording engineers who mixed the original album, John Fischbach and Gary O. Adante (credited as Gary Olazabal) mixed songs for the new EP. The songs further extend the legacy of the original album, which included another four-song EP, A Something’s Extra.

The tracks were timed to the 50th anniversary of the release of the diamond-certified album, which came out on Sept. 28, 1976. The EP arrived on streaming services at 4:54 a.m. PDT, the time the original Songs in the Key of Life sessions wrapped, at which time bassist Nathan Watts remarked, “Fo’FiftyFo’,” which became an in-joke Wonder and his musicians have used to mark the end of sessions ever since.

When Rolling Stone ranked the 500 Greatest Albums of All Time, Songs in the Key of Life placed at Number Four. “[The album] encompasses an incredible range of life experiences — from the giddy joy of a baby in the bathtub (‘Isn’t She Lovely,’ featuring the cries and giggles of Wonder’s infant daughter Aisha Morris) through tributes to his musical heroes (‘Sir Duke’) to dismay about the indifference of the wealthy (‘Village Ghetto Land’),” the magazine said. “Wonder pulled from every imaginable musical source — the ecstatic ‘Sir Duke’ references Duke Elington and Ella Fitzgerald, while ‘As’ featured Herbie Hancock on Fender Rhodes.”

The four songs on the EP expound on the double album’s themes of acknowledging all life and love have to offer. It opens with “It’s Easier,” an upbeat breakup song with the message, “It’s easier to say, ‘Love, bye-bye’/Than to go around with a heart that wants to cry.” The similarly heartbroken “It’s My Life Story of Love” finds Wonder singing, “It’s my life story of love that never comes true,” though he sounds more hopeful than plaintive as he proclaims he’ll win his love back in lyrics he co-wrote with the Supremes’ Susaye Greene. “I Can See the Sun in Late December” is a slow-shuffling ballad about nostalgia for warmer times. And “I’m into Livin'” is an easy, jazzy funk ballad on which Wonder sings, “I’m into livin’ for your sweet, sweet love, L-O-V-E, love,” his voice rising and falling with the music.

As on the original album, Wonder plays most of the instruments on the EP’s songs, including drums, GX-1-Dream Machine, Bass-GX-1-Dream Machine, Fender Rhodes, and electric bass, variously, in addition to singing. Gregory Phillinganes played the Rhodes on “My Life Story of Love,” and Watts played bass on “It’s Easier” and “I Can See the Sun in Late December.” “I’m Into Livin'” features backup vocals by Shirley Brewer, who sang on the album’s “Ordinary Love,” Thelma Houston (who latter recorded the hit “Don’t Leave Me This Way”) and longtime Wonder backup singer Deneice Williams.

Wonder will perform each of the 17 songs from the original double album on a world tour this fall. It kicks off Birmingham, England on Oct. 13 and wraps in L.A. on Dec. 19.