Elton John, by his own cheerful admission, is an anorak, a pop culture magpie. Early on in his hellzapoppin’ memoir, he waxes lyrical about two formative piano-playing influences: outrageous Little Richard and genial Winifred Atwell, who delighted Fifties audiences with her light classical and pub singalong stylings. His paradoxical persona in a nutshell.
Written with Guardian music critic Alexis Petridis, Me is packed with such details. It’s the brutally frank story of a shy, funny music nerd who became a megastar and who, at his lowest ebb, was a cocaine-addicted alcoholic sitting at home alone for days, masturbating, clad only in a vomit-caked dressing gown.
Unlike so many celebrity memoirs, it isn’t remotely self-serving. He’s always quick to admonish himself for bad behaviour and career blunders. The book’s riveting mid-section, which covers his 16 years of substance abuse, is basically an appalled mea culpa.
Absurd anecdotes come thick and fast
Despite the often grave subject matter, Me is hugely entertaining. Elton’s self-deprecating humour and Petridis’ droll turn of phrase make sure of that.
Absurd anecdotes come thick and fast. Elton driving an Aston Martin with Martha and the Vandellas crammed in the back. Elton playing charades with Simon and Garfunkel and Bob Dylan (they were terrible at it). Elton making the disastrous mistake of surprising an acid-fried Iggy Pop on stage while dressed as a gorilla. Elton telling Tina Turner, a bigger diva than even he, to cram her duet sideways.
As for song-writing, you won’t find any deep insight into the composition of Tiny Dancer or Rocket Man, because Elton can’t give you any. They just poured out of him.
