When my brother and I were kids, our mother didn’t subscribe to the idea that the house must be silent once we were in bed, trying to fall asleep. She wasn’t all like “Don’t make a sound, the kids are trying to sleep.” Nah-uh. Once we were in bed, she did her housework – vacuuming, washing, all the noisy stuff – all the while, the stereo cranked up. Because of this, I have a deep affection for Bob Seger, T. Rex, Elton John, Rod Stewart, et al. (And I can also fall asleep no matter the noise level.) One of my favourite memories is being tucked up in my single bed as a child, listening to a pair of jeans in the dryer (you know that noise of the metal button on jeans as it hits the inside of the dryer) and Elton John’s Philadelphia Freedom playing.
I saw Elton John in concert last night at Rod Laver Arena. He was good. He sang all his hits … amazing though how all of his songs sound. the. freaking. same when they’re played all in a row. I mean, I enjoyed it and all, but we committed the cardinal sin of gig-going: leaving before the fat lady has sung (so to speak). We bailed during the encore – but seriously, who plays only one song for an encore before leaving the stage? I’m assuming he was planning to come back out for a second encore but I was buggered if I was going to hang around for another five minutes of piano bashing.
I loved Candle in the Wind and I had to blink really fast for a couple of minutes because it always reminds me of this, and I loved Benny and the Jetssssss, and I loved Crocodile Rock, Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word (which, apropos of nothing, I listened to on repeat on the flights from London to Singapore, Singapore to Melbourne, bawling my eyes out over an affair of the heart), Your Song, Rocketman (though Stewie Griffin's version will always crack me up). I loved them all but I don’t know if seeing him sing them live was necessary. Some things are better left to the imagination.