The partner was out of town on business and I was planning to lay low after getting my covey booster.
“Hey, you can watch the Elton John Final U.S. Concert at Dodger Stadium tonight on Disney+.”
“What?” I asked the guy who’s worked at Disney for years. “How long you been sitting on that one?”
“I forgot.”
The Goodbye Yellow Brick Road concert was one of the first I’d seen at Mobile Municipal Auditorium before I’d even hit puberty. It still ranks as one of the best in memory. Years later, when he kicked off the Farewell Tour, friends from school were posting their fab reviews from the same venue.
I’d recently told a friend who sometimes works with Elton that since I’d seen him in his prime before the booze, cocaine, and extra weight, I’d rather remember him the way he was.
“No, no. You’re wrong. You can’t miss this show. Tell me you won’t miss this show. Sure, the high notes aren’t there, but his voice is still strong and his piano playing is inimitable.”
“Alright,” I said, “I won’t miss it.” But things happened and it didn’t work out.
This afternoon, I discussed my evening’s plans with my pal Donna, who had seen the same show I’d seen as a child. “Let’s look at it this way,” I said. “Sure, it would be a historic moment if we were there – whatever,” I said, “but I’m sure Disney will do a fab job and instead of fighting crowds and people filming crap in front of our heads, we’ll have a better seat than anyone on the first row.” She shared that her teenaged daughter had just been turned on to him and had even ventured out to his show while away at college. We agreed there was hope for all of us.
While the frozen Disney+ screen ticked the minutes and seconds down to the concert, my mind backflipped to the time I was waiting for the other show to start all those eons ago. My friend Johnny’s older sister and boyfriend had picked us up. After a last minute stop by the tropical fish store, Johnny and I attempted to wait as patiently as the Siamese Fighting Fish counting the minutes from the plastic bag of water on the chair arm between us. Just like him, we were dying inside. The reward for our patience would last a lifetime.
Settling into my present here in Los Angeles, I poured myself a cold one as the show began and one tune after another kicked me back: The one that reminded me of my 12-year-old awkward self, another my 13-year-old awkward self, and on it went. The fact that the man who had captured the world’s attention was weirder than most teens would ever dream of being was a beacon of hope for many. Everyone from truckers to librarians plopped down their money to watch Reginald Dwight prance across the stage dressed as everyone from Minnie Mouse to the Queen. There were minimal judgments. Only love.
It dawns on me that I haven’t danced this much in ages. And right here by myself. I didn’t sit down for over an hour. At one point – and this will not leave this room – I even took my shirt off. And no, I didn’t twirl it above my head, I just took it off. And kept dancing. Maybe it was the vaccine.
Having played Dodger Stadium here in LA almost fifty years ago, Reginald Dwight’s show this time around was without a doubt a home run. As he belted out one hit after another, I’m sure my favorite thing was when the 75-year-old showman, scooting across the expansive stage like a big gay penguin, occasionally stopped to hike up his britches like Chris Farley in an old SNL sketch. All that money, and no diamond-studded suspenders? The BEST.
When all was said and done, the bitch was definitely back. And for a while, so was I.
Thanks, Reggie. For everything. Truly.