Hope for the Flowery (while listening to Elton John)

You know it’s a melancholy day if you’re listening to Elton John at five pm. It might even be the kind of night that I shut off all my phones and my Mac, the kind of night I stay inside and read Cooking Light in the granny chair. Hell, somehow I’ve acquired an afghan this winter…yeah.

Seriously, I’m really feeling the lull of Elton’s gorgeous schmaltz. Elton annoys me, overall, ever since he recycled Marilyn’s song and dedicated it, along with that England’s rose tripe, to poor Diana. Did not the Great Huntress and Hunted deserve her own exquisite lullaby? He ruined a moment, but hell, no one seemed to notice but me. I can’t doubt that the grief he was experiencing at the time made him crazy, but certainly you could have come up with something just for Diana? You’ve got to wonder why he forewent the chance to earn another zillion when my trashiest girlfriend, Anna Nicole Smith, tripped the light fantastic last year. And he mustn’t miss the Britney opportunity ahead!

I must forgive any of this cheese, for the madcap genius and originality of his better numbers. There’s something so old-school about the EJ experience. I must forgive the man for thinking he was locked in a closet- anyone who wears such outlandish, garish, exquisitely flaming clothes is definitely making a statement. Loud and clear, sister. And on top of all of that amazing gaiety, there are the odd moments of musical brilliance and those soaring, friendly, sad-tinged happy vocals. Certainly as an entertainer, El is absolutely, well, entertaining.

I’m not super versed in the man’s magic- I’m scared off fast by shit like Blessed and Can You Feel the Bile. It’s not cruel: if I’m a harsh judge, it’s only because of the moments when Elton gets it. Those moments are pure artistry. Creativity and originality at their apex, with a stellar set of pipes and a stunning engagement, intensity and depth. I’m talking about Rocket Man, Sacrifice, about Benny and the Jets, I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues, Sad Songs. Operatic, but easy going. So what’s going on when dude sells out to this kind of Lion King ballad pap? I don’t know, man, I don’t know.

The very gay bravado of his cinematic selections and collaborator Bernie Taupin’s thoughtful songwriting make sketches of kooky people we might even know. Elton’s blend of swishiness, sentiment, and madness is a very unique brand. He’s just the epitome of flaming, in the most grandiose and chummy ways possible.

And then he might make smarmy, poorly thought out barbs at Madonna, who made a world where he’s allowed out of the closet, but I guess that’s just him being the cranky old queen that he is now. He ain’t getting any younger. My bravado lies largely in my youth, also, as is the way for nearly every sentient being.

Still, for both of us I hope our best is yet to come. A fine moment like Nikita can be a nostalgic trigger for a finer moment, just as velvety, and darker. And pure, polished bubbles of tremendous joy and shininess like Don’t Go Breaking My Heart may be a glossy memory next to another frivolous morsel of sweet nothingness. Despite that my heart was broken by such predictable consumerist slickness as that Lion King debacle, in truth that was something of the comeback to respectability EJ had to have after a rattling career. Recall how many queens hid behind Glam Rock, as if no one could tell. The flamboyance we now revel in, the Gok Wans and Co Jos, all owes a debt of heritage to Elton John. All this ridiculous movie soundtrack balladry just proves that the wildest of us will mellow out in middle age. It’s true that the stress of being forced to admit he was bisexual in the mid-70s closed off the brightest chapter of his career, and from then on was a struggle. He even married a woman, an act I might call cowardly with my cavalier attitude of the Free to Be generation. But I can’t know what it’s like to be afraid your career will end because you are gay. Of course dude had cocaine and alcohol problems and an eating disorder. So did Elvis. Under the stress of fame, a girl needs a little something-something, and how easily that spins out of control as you become a spin-off in our disposable world.

It doesn’t matter if I feel ready to hurl when I hear songs like Tiny Dancer and Circle of Life. There are dozens of shining gems and hundreds of perfectly good rhinestones: I can leave the plastic on the shelf for someone else to coo over. I also have to respect the man because I know he tries to be flexible. He’s been brave enough to bridge the flaming arts with the testosterone riddled fury of gangsta in unusual creative endeavours like Ghetto Gospel. He bravely moved on from the hissy fit (so did Moby, still waiting for B y George to come around) and performed with Eminem in front of the world at the Grammies. This is what I love- to be surprised, to have the unexpected happen. Stan is one of the more unusual chunks of collaborative genius out there. This kind of spectacle is truly diversity. Rumour has it that he’ll be on Eminem’s next project, as well, and that his upcoming solo album might be hip hop. This is THEATRE , dahhhling.

It’s not just limited to the hot and tragic hip hop boys, either. There are more dazzling surprises: Kate Bush changed Rocket Man into a crisp, icy blade, it’s own ethereal world, clean and fantastical. Take three, Baby Stewie. I know the day that Stewie reads my poetry is the day I can say I did what I set out to do.

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