there are artists who are legends, and then there are artists who are part of the fabric of (your) life—so much so that you can’t even imagine a world without them. they just are and always have been.
to me, until now, elton john was the latter. i was genuinely surprised when a friend recommended his memoir. i know and enjoy his music, but i have to admit, i’d never really been curious about him or his life.
and my, oh my, i had no idea what i was missing. because disclaimer: his memoir rocked. pun fully intended.
this autobiography is a wild trip from one extreme to the next and back again. it’s a story of innocence, excess, and flamboyance, of creative mastery and indulgence, of humility, self-destruction, and love. it’s got it all.
every other page had me shaking my head in disbelief—how is this guy still alive?
the tone is conversational, which makes for an easy read, but also brings its challenges. and by challenges, i mean some parts feel like a collection of anecdotes that are more or rather less connected. but hey, he’s a musical genius, not a literary one.
and then, there’s also that underlying dryness of fond self-mockery that only comes with distance and lots and lots of therapy.
all in all, i thoroughly enjoyed diving into elton john’s world. for a moment, my life felt richer for it.
