Farewell Yellow Brick Road - Elton John in Concert

Elessar Younglove (they/fae)​

Elton John is an iconic singer, pianist, and composer whose career spans six decades. How could one possibly summarize such a dazzling and dynamic career? On Tuesday, February 8th I attempted such a feat at the Elton John Farewell Yellow Brick Road Tour. ​

Elton John receiving his star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, Hollywood (Los Angeles), 1975. Photo courtesy of The Regents of the University of California.

The current plan is to meet at the restaurant Frita Batido. “Yes, like the place in Ann Arbor,” my mom says. However, after running up and down Detroit in a thin jacket and boots, it becomes clear my parents have no idea where we’re going. I can’t judge so my mouth stays shut. Until we see the planned restaurant is closed. 

My parents and I end up at a bar restaurant. The restaurant connects to the concert venue. A pleasant surprise after the bitter cold. Though I don’t plan to eat much; I have a concert to see!

That plan is subverted when I see a salad with green apples, walnuts, some fancy dressing, and feta cheese with dark greens. I decide that I will treat myself. My parents are currently leading a discussion about who is more successful. My mom says Billy Joel is more famous for an amount of time. She just doesn’t know as many Elton John songs. Which is totally fair.

But personally? Big Elton John fan here. I mean, he’s an amazing singer and he’s lived such a life and he’s a gay icon. Like, hello! I love him a bit. To me, Sir Elton John is like the Regina George of real life. He’s a staple of pop culture; the man of the hour. A confident, talented, eccentric gay man who captures pride and power in a name. I still can’t believe I get to see him.

I am showing my love the best way I know how– being extra.  I’ve taken a break from the masks and tired eyes of COVID-19 for new foundation, long black lashes, and a warm pink lip. My hair is coiled at the back of my neck. My smile is wide and my pants are plaid bell bottoms. I think Elton would be proud. 

I have forgotten about the salad by now. When it arrives I am in shock and awe. I don’t know what I expected. But it’s exactly what I ordered and I thoroughly enjoy it. The problem is that I forgot love to talk, and my salad is quite big. I decide the salad will be my concert buddy. I raise my hand to ask for a box when my parents suggest I reconsider. 

“You’re not really going to bring a salad with you to put on the ground for two hours are you?” my mom asks.

Common sense begs I say no. And so, sadly, I change my mind. I decide to save what’s left of my theatrics for Elton. The salad is left on the table.

My parents and I separate at the gate. They’re seated below me. I attempt to settle my nerves as I go down the aisle. A steep journey, but I make it. My parents wave when they reach their aisle. I grin and bounce in my seat.

The concert is held at The Little Caesars Arena, a notoriously crowded venue that looks like a Red Sea with all of the brightly colored, plastic chairs squeezed together. Shortly after, the Red Sea is illuminated by blue lights. Temporarily, I’m blinded. My ears take a moment to adjust and I squint at the flashing stage below. Smiling rock stars wave at me. I offer a goofy smile, and wave back. A hand in the Red Sea. 

Behind the rock stars are three sets of what look like band drums. I try to impress myself with drum knowledge that I don't have, but alas, I’m unsure what the longest drum is. I raise my drink to it anyways. 

A large, white screen stands behind the stage. The lights flash once more. The Red Sea jumps up and down in their seats. Hands flash at their sides like firecrackers.

... And there he is. 

Sir Elton John stands in a bedazzled tuxedo, smiling. His trademark glasses are white and, naturally, they light up. He is a bit of a funny man. His legs wobble when he walks, a sort of awkward shuffle. I am both endeared and in love.
         
The air smells like the snap of a flame, short and ashy with a hint of something that seems appropriate for an Elton John concert.

Sir Elton John begins with a single note. The piano echoes. The room is filled with screams. “Bennie and the Jets” opens the show. Neon lights pop across the screen, feathers and bedazzled glasses falling across it. The song was released on February 4th, 1974. It was the closing track on the album “Goodbye Yellow Brickroad.” John thought the song was a flop and so it remained a B-track. It became an instant classic in Canada and the United States. Destined for greatness, the song became the No. 1 song in the Detroit market over 40 years ago. 

The next song is unrecognizable to me, though a classic for others. “All the Girls Love Alice” plays on as I sip my drink. I begin to question its strength when John’s words blur together. I still can’t believe I’m seeing him. I take another sip of vodka and fruit. It isn’t revolting, though my lip curls at the taste.

“I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues” is a famous, melancholy song. Fists wave throughout the air in unison. Fans and femmes are united by the iconic song. It’s similar to fans reacting to SpongeBob performing Sweet Victory. I look around for lighters. The air smells like fans have already lit other things. I begin to question my judgment as I laugh about Spongebob to Elton John. I look down at the ice floating in my drink. Clearly, it hasn’t watered anything down.

“Border Song” is a lovely ballad also referred to as “Holy Moses.” In 1972, Aretha Franklin re-recorded the song for her album “Young, Gifted and Black.” Her cover hit No. 37 on the Billboard Hot 100, 55 points higher than the original. John gushes about her talent and interest in his song. The concert is painted in soft lighting, black and white photos crossing the screen. Men and women stare into the camera’s screen as photos of Rosa Parks and Aretha Franklin. 

“Tiny Dancer” opens with a soft lit video of a small town. A young woman rocks her baby as John sings. Fans wave their phones and cheer. Several women shout, “Ow!” After the song, I head for the bathroom.

The bathroom has a container of paper seat covers. On the silver is the slogan Rest Assured. The container is empty. Resigned to the fact that I will never be reassured by a toilet cover brand, I leave the restroom swarmed with fans. The concert attracts people of all kinds. Girls with long ponytails and holographic skirts, men with long, leather coats and sunglasses. Half of the crowd is reminiscent of the sixties, wearing faded jeans and jackets. The other half looks like the inside of a gay party bus.

Getting to my seat requires several people to stand so that I can  precariously balance myself, and the pair of boots I borrowed from my mom, along the cliff that is the Little Caesars Arena. I feel like Mufasa, clinging to the edge over thousands. Which reminds me of my disappointment that “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” has yet to be played. However, the beauty of “Rocket Man” qualms my concerns.

Sir Elton John plays against a blue and silver screen. The chords are familiar. His words are soft. The screen shifts between night skies. An astronaut lost in space floats along. John and Taupin were as lost as the astronaut when “Rocket Man” became a hit. The song was No. two in Britain, much higher than their singles had reached before. In the United States, it went Triple Platinum.

“The Bitch is Back” steals the show. Without a doubt. A bright chorus of drums sets the beat. A red guitar emits an upbeat riff. Expensive cars pull up on screen. John is in his element. A master of the stage, his performance is full of life and cheer; ironic, considering the song. “The Bitch is Back” was the result of John’s friend and lyricist, Bernie Taupin. Specifically, Taupin’s then wife. When John was in a mood, Maxine Feibelman would say, "The bitch is back.” To which John replied, “It is kind of my theme song.”

Now, the screen shows a group of drag queens entering a mansion. Queens of all sizes and colors decked out in satin, diamonds, wigs, and makeup. The extravagance of John’s touch is unmeasurable. He plays in a pastel blue suit. His glasses are red with white frames. They don’t hide his smile. Behind John, the screen shows a pink mansion. Running on high heels, the drag queens stampede it.

It’s a mess of color, of thrown pearls and snatched wigs. Feathers fly through the air. The glass house is gutted. John’s fingers control the piano, the story, the concert. He is a celebration of extravagance. On screen, an aqua pool lures the queens from the mansion. This turns to chaos. The drag queens shove at one another, fighting with everything they’ve got, not unlike a “RuPaul’s Drag Race” episode. 

The true drag queen remains above the water. A Black woman in a silver dress. Her hair and makeup are perfect, unlike the soaked queens beneath her. They’re a mess of smeared makeup. The saxophones highlight her laugh. John sings the chorus proudly. “I'm a bitch, oh, the bitch is back. Stone-cold sober, as a matter of fact. I can bitch, I can bitch 'cause I'm better than you. It’s the way that I move, the things that I do.”

“Crocodile Rock” is shown on the screen with actors and dancers. It’s an immersion of color, changing quickly. On screen, a man flips his pink boa. The screen breaks into green, red, and yellow stripes. The performers laugh and dance in the ever altering color wheel they rock. The crowds are alive. Unabashadely, I scream along. 

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