It’s entirely coincidental that I started Elton John’s autobiography Me on the day of his 75th birthday. More than that, I’ve started another autobiography of someone I’m not a great fan of. That is not to say I don’t like the former Reg Dwight: I very much do like and admire him for all sorts of reasons (AIDS campaigning, helping to develop new talent and fighting hard for artists to be heard and to earn a living) but the music, with the exception of mainly early 70s stuff, I can live without. But I still want to read about him.
I’ve seen him live twice. Once at the Bristol Colston Hall in 1971, where he was supported by England Dan and John Ford Coley, and played in a trio, with Nigel Olsson and Dee Murray and later, in 1975, at Wembley Stadium for Midsummer Music, where he was blown off stage by the Beach Boys, not least because he started with Funeral For A Friend/Love Lies Bleeding and later launched into his new album Captain Fantastic and the Dirt Brown Cowboy which almost no one present had heard. We left midway through Philadelphia Freedom, the sixth song in, bored shitless. Here’s the setlist, most of which we missed. With the exception of Pnau’s great mash-up of his songs in 2012’s Good Morning to the Night, I’ve had next to no interest in his music, new and old.
For all that, Elton still has a story to tell and I’m really enjoying it in the same way as I’ve enjoyed autobiographies by Rod Stewart and Phil Collins. ‘Rod – the autobiography’ is a rollocking good read, even if you can feel it was ghosted for him. There’s no doubting his talent and his lasting power, although I’ve only liked the occasional song since his career high Every Picture Tells A Story record in 1971. And there’s Phil Collins.
I don’t know why I bought Not Dead Yet by Phil Collins. I liked Genesis, but only up until 1974 when my reason for liking Genesis, Peter Gabriel, ended with his departure. After that, Genesis as a band and Collins as a solo performer held no interest. And as the years went by, I couldn’t tell where Genesis ended and Collins started, the music becoming generic pop and not the prog element that attracted me in the early 70s. Yet I was still interested in Collins in all sorts of ways and the book, unexpectedly self-deprecatory, was a joy.
It seems to make no sense to read books about people you’re not drawn to, but it made little difference to my enjoyment. Elton’s book drew me in within a couple of lines. I even played my favourite Elton album, the only one I own, Madman Across The Water to help me get the feel.
Is there a lesson to any of this stuff? Probably not and maybe I should read more books from people I’m not interested in and actually dislike, perhaps books about Queen, Nigel Farage and Boris Johnson? I mean, I’ve read plenty of books about the Kray Brothers, the IRA and Peter Sutcliffe. So, why not?
