Some autobiographies fail due to the rock star memoirist insisting on writing every word, irrespective of his experience in the field; others can be doomed by the employment of a ghost writer more interested in fact and formula than on capturing the essence of his subject.
Thankfully, Elton John avoids these pitfalls and, assisted by journalist Alexis Petridis, produces a remarkably self-lacerating and frequently hilarious account of a fantastic life.
In common with many confessional works, it is the formative years that shape the character and the story. The creation of “Elton John” is partly an attempt to escape the pain and confusion of a troubled adolescence. Beneath a conventional suburban upbringing lurks a dysfunctional family set-up.
The relationship with his parents is ambivalent, confusing and psychologically revealing. His father, Stanley Dwight, is portrayed as authoritarian, violent and emotionally unreachable.
For all that, he remains strangely unknowable. When he remarries we learn that he has a very positive association with his second family and it is clear that he never exploits his son’s superstardom for material gain. Even at the peak of Elton John’s success he stays in the shadows, never attending a gig or offering any comments. In urgent need of a heart bypass operation, he declines his son’s offer of financial assistance, preferring to retain his independence and integrity, almost to the point of perversity.
John’s relationship with his mother is even more mystifying, veering from affection to disdain and worse as the book progresses. A revealing photograph of a party celebrating his civil partnership reads: “Mum, being an appalling pain in the arse, is not pictured.”
And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Unpredictable and subject to constant family quarrels, she resembles “Mommie Dearest” incarnate. Her Victorian parenting skills are highlighted, most memorably with an attempted cure for constipation which sounds like a parody of the homosexual act: “She laid me on the draining board in the kitchen and stuck carbolic soap up my arse.”
By contrast, she can also be supportive, funny and endearing. Tellingly, she not only introduces her boy to the music of Elvis Presley, but understands and appreciates its innovation: “She’d never heard anything like it before.”
When he reveals his sexuality, she shows no signs of homophobia and later is pictured onboard a jet watching Deep Throat while marvelling at Linda Lovelace’s larynx. Later still, there are fallings-out and years when mother and son are not on speaking terms.
“What was going on?” he wonders. “I haven’t got a clue. I’ve no more idea of what my father’s problem was than I have about my mother’s.” Despite grappling with these questions throughout his life, any answers remain tantalisingly out of reach.
I'm probably the only British musician of the 60s who went to work on the Reeperbahn and came back still in the possession of his virginity
The legacy of this troubled upbringing proves both a blessing and a curse. He inherits what he calls the “Dwight Family Temper” (better known to his musician friends as “Reggie’s Little Moments”) with scarcely believable displays of childish petulance. Conversely, he also has a tendency to avoid confrontation, hiding away in his bedroom and locking the door when things become overwhelming.
As a youth, he has severe self-image problems, barely able to look at himself in the mirror for any length of time. As therapy, he seeks comfort in material possessions, tirelessly collecting records, comics and magazines. “Objects couldn’t do me any harm. I found them comforting. I talked to them, I behaved as if they had feelings.” All these adolescent traits, insecurities and indulgences are magnified in adult life.
The pre-fame years are documented briskly and not entirely without affection. His mother’s divorce and remarriage herald a spell of domestic contentment, reinforced by tentative live performances. An unlikely claim that he earned £15 a week in tips while playing at a local pub is balanced by an apprenticeship with Mills Music for which he receives a more realistic £4 a week.
A punishing schedule working with Long John Baldry in Bluesology is described with self-effacing asides worthy of a professional gag writer. At one point the group are shipped to Germany but instead of the usual tales of drugs, groupies and exotic sex, everything is chaste. “I barely drank and I still wasn’t interested in sex . . . I’m probably the only British musician of the 60s who went to work on the Reeperbahn and came back still in the possession of his virginity.”
Compared with the foibles of Presley, John Lennon or Michael Jackson, his own behaviour is almost normal
Hereafter, the narrative quickens, reaching a bewildering pace as we whisk through albums, tours, awards, songwriting collaborations, shopping sprees, promiscuous dalliances, a surprise marriage, psychiatric meetings, suicide attempts, temper tantrums, hair transplants, heart problems, a cancer scare and much more. There are numerous, enormously entertaining tales, many of which have never appeared in print before.
The cast list is of a high quality as John hobnobs with royalty, A-grade film stars and rock’s all-time elite. The jaw-dropping stories must have had the subsidiary rights department of his publisher salivating over the sales potential, but they serve a secondary function, distracting critical attention and sanctimonious judgments from John’s endless extravagances.
Ultimately, he is felled by his multiple additions: alcohol, drugs, food and sex. Cocaine becomes the great destroyer
Compared with the foibles of Presley, John Lennon or Michael Jackson, his own behaviour is almost normal. Unlike them, he has minimal mystique and somehow retains a man-of-the-people persona through his purchase and lifelong support of Watford Football Club. It’s difficult to imagine any of his superstar pals enduring the pomposity-pricking catcalls that he endured from the football terraces.
Legal actions
Two big set pieces, the epic legal action against publisher Dick James (DJM Records) and the libel case against The Sun, are surprisingly understated. Of the former, he concludes, “we won”.
There is no acknowledgement that his “victory” failed to secure his master recordings or copyrights, which were surely the ultimate aims of the lawsuit. Instead, he swiftly moves on to more uproarious tales.
Ultimately, he is felled by his multiple additions: alcohol, drugs, food and sex. Cocaine becomes the great destroyer, ably assisted by bulimia. At one point he transforms into a middle-aged uber version of the teenage Reg Dwight: “I spent whole days writing out pointless lists of records I owned, songs I’d written, people I’d like to work with, football teams I’d seen . . .” Then, the chilling nadir: “I didn’t wash, I didn’t get dressed, I sat around w**king in a dressing gown covered in my own puke. It was sordid. Awful.”
Like a modern-day morality tale, the final section documents his salvation: therapy, sobriety, a civil partnership and marriage to David Furnish, the birth of a surrogate family, a commitment to Aids charities and hopes for a long life. It’s a rollicking and salutary story, written with verve, humour and pathos. Few, if any, rock autobiographies have been so nakedly revealing.
