Captain Fantastic: The Definitive Biography of Elton John in the '70s

by David DeCouto

  Gone too were his elaborate frames. No diamond-studded clouds this time, no blinking lights, no windshield wipers. Instead, Elton wore the same pair of thick white frames with purple-and-orange-tinted lenses nearly every night.

  “He’s getting tired,” a Rocket Record insider noted. “You can bet the end’s in sight.”

  If Elton’s visual excesses were on the wane, however, his musical delivery system proved stronger than ever before. Indeed, as technology had advanced throughout the decade, so too did his state-of-the-art piano. By this tour, his instrument was a high-tech marvel that boasted a Helpinstill pickup, a pair of pressure zone-sensitive mics, and a capacitor mic which had been modified with a Clair Brothers pickup box containing an active mixer. These electronic advances allowed Clive Franks to manipulate the signal at his soundboard through a Lexicon 224 digital reverb unit, creating the fullest-sounding piano to ever grace a concert stage. The rest of the band enjoyed similar sonic verisimilitude; with a consistent 110 decibels of rock ‘n’ roll pouring forth from endless banks of speakers hanging bat-like above the stage, Elton’s latest tour was one of the loudest in history, as well as one of the crispest.

  The opening night gig was held at the Grand Theater in Leeds, an Edwardian jewel-box styled theater that practically had the audience sitting in Elton’s lap. The crowd, according to Sounds’ Vivien Goldman, was “a sea of sheer hysteria and primal, clawing, orgasmatic adulation…decked out in bowler hats with appropriate graffiti around ‘em, scarves to be waved in the air like a football match, elaborately constructed facsimiles of the man’s old ZOOM glasses, top hats made out of Capt. Fantastic posters, the works.” Goldman went on to note that Elton’s fans “knew all the lyrics, mouthing silently all the way through, and they were reverent…I can honestly say that, me excepted, I’ve never seen a more satisfied audience. All Elton’s intense physical and mental activity (that sheen on his face was more than a gentle glow), his extrovert enthusiasm, had all paid off. He’s a people’s artist, and the people genuinely love him.”

  That they did. Nothing could seemingly stop Elton’s legions of devoted followers from basking in the pure celebratory radiance of his music.

  Not even the IRA.

  Early in his set at King’s Hall in Manchester on May 1, a roadie whispered in Elton’s ear that a bomb threat had been phoned in, and that the Chief of Police was shutting down the show.

  “Look under your seats, guys,” the pianist told the crowd. “And hope nothing’s there.”

  Minutes later, the thousands in attendance were forced to clear out of the arena. “Come back when the all-clear’s given,” Elton said, “and we’ll finish the show, alright? Even if it takes all night. It really doesn’t matter what time it is.”

  The entire audience milled about outside in a chilled rain for over an hour, while local police inspected the arena.

  “After the police were through doing their bit,” Roger said, “we all went back in, everybody completely soaked through. And it was the same day that Southampton beat Manchester United in the FA Cup Final, so when Elton introduced the band and he got to me and said, ‘On drums, Mister Roger Pope from Southampton’, well, you never heard an audience boo harder than they did that night. Toilet rolls flying in from every direction. It was fucking brilliant.”

  Despite the long delay, Elton and his band played the remainder of their pummeling set to unbridled applause. Indeed, the potentially ruinous night turned into a resounding triumph—another British feather in the band’s cap. “Playing England was amazing,” Kenny said, “all those gigs we did where we drove from Leeds to Cardiff, all the way around the island. We played Manchester, Liverpool, all these places that only hold like 2,500 people, and there were ten of us onstage. We just tore it up. It was insane, it was just incredible. And I gotta give Elton credit, he let his musicians play what they wanted to play, both onstage and in the studio. He knew that we were looking out for him, that we weren’t showboating. Playing with Elton was just an incredible experience. He’s one of the greatest artists I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot of people, a lot of great artists. I’ve played with everybody, and I’ve never seen anybody work so hard as Elton did. He’s an incredible person, an incredible artist. Generous as hell, an incredible vibe, and extremely—without a doubt—professional. On every level, that guy was incredible.”

  After the concert, Elton had Ringo and his girlfriend, Nancy Lee Andrews, over to the house for a late supper.

  “Ringo loved Elton,” Nancy recalled years later. “Loved him. We went to many of his concerts and ate many a dinner up at his house. And Tony King was so close to Elton, too. It was that ‘group of girls, y’know? They all had nicknames—Phyllis, Sharon, Gladys, and so on. Elton called me Easy Grace. And I remember we were up at his house that night and he was laying on his bed and he had this guitar case down on the floor. And I said, “I didn’t know you played the guitar’. And he said, ‘Hell no, darling, I don’t play the guitar. These are my glasses.’ And I said, ‘What?’ And he started opening up these guitar cases and there were all of his glasses that he wore onstage. It was fantastic. I said, ‘Oh my God, you must have one of these for your jewelry as well.’ And he said, ‘I’ve gotta show you what I just bought.’ And he brought out this black case, and in it were five 1930’s Stage-Door-Johnny diamond bracelets, just encrusted with diamonds. And I started putting them on, and Elton’s putting them on, and Ritchie—that’s what I called Ringo—is sitting at the edge of the bed. And Elton goes, ‘God, that looks gorgeous on you. You can have that one.’ And it’s like a thirty-thousand-dollar bracelet. And I said, ‘Really? Thank you.’ And Ritchie says, ‘Take it off.’ And I went, ‘No!’ And he said, ‘I can buy you a bracelet like that, you don’t need to take his.’ And Elton said, ‘Oh, don’t be silly, Ringo. Let the girl have a bracelet.’ And Ritchie said, ‘No, I’ll buy her one.’ And I wanted to say, ‘Fuck you!’ After that night I was like a myna bird: ‘Get me a bracelet! Get me a bracelet!’ And Ritchie did get me one—diamonds and emeralds and rubies and sapphires. He bought me one that Christmas. But still, Elton’s generosity knew no bounds.”

  Throughout the tour, Elton made sure to keep his ever-thinning thatch hidden behind a succession of baseball hats.

  “[It’s] a real drag,” he said of his prematurely balding pate. “It was bad dye. It was when I had my hair pink and green. I used to have it done at Smile [Salon] in London, and it was never a problem. Then I had it done somewhere in New York, and next time I took a shower I glanced down at my feet and it was like the murder scene from Psycho—pink water and great tufts of hair everywhere.” He grimaced. “So since I’ve discovered I don’t want to be bald, I might have a hair transplant. It’s just a matter of going down there with the courage to say, ‘I want some more hair, please.’”

  Elton’s seamless U.K. tour would end on a particularly high note for his sound engineer. The afternoon of the band’s second Bristol gig at the Hippodrome, Clive Franks was watching television with Davey Johnstone in his hotel room when his boss stopped by.

  “If you could have any car in the world, Clivey, what would it be?” Elton asked.

  Clive thought it over. “A Mercedes 350 SL, I guess.”

  “What color?”

  “Silver.”

  Elton nodded, and left the room.

  “A few weeks later, when the tour was over,” Clive told author David Buckley, “Elton called me at home and told me to come to his house in a taxi. When I arrived he took me out to his row of garages, opened up one of them, and there was a brand-new silver [Mercedes-Benz] 350 SL, which he said was a present for me. I was totally stunned. I sat in it shaking for about half an hour before I dared reverse it out of the garage and drive it home.”

  Seventeen days after the tour’s conclusion, “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” was released as Elton’s summer single. He was pleased with the release, despite the fact that his original plan of issuing the single under the monik
er “Reg & Paulie”—his and Kiki’s birth names—had been abandoned in the mad shuffle of pre-promotion.

  The song took off, easily reaching the top spot in the U.K.—Elton’s first chart-topping single ever in his homeland. “I’ve had about three Number Twos [in Britain], but never a Number One before,” Elton said. “When I heard it was Number One, I rang everybody I knew to tell them. They were pretty annoyed, but hell, it got me excited again. It really did…I’ve achieved all my childhood dreams.”

  Indeed, “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” proved massively popular, especially in America. It was exactly the sweet audio tonic that the country needed to help lift itself out of the post-Watergate, gas-crisis-fuelled malaise it found itself mired in. The song remained at the top of the Billboard charts all summer long, becoming the best-selling 45 of the year, as well as Elton’s sixth American Number 1 single in less than three years. It would also go on to receive a Grammy nomination for Best Pop Vocal Performance, Duo or Group, and would be named the Single of the Year.

  The honey-soaked trifle, which Elton labeled “an out-and-out pop record,” proved equally as popular across the globe, reaching the Top 5 in Switzerland, Holland, Italy and Germany. It also hit Number 1 in Spain, New Zealand, Australia, Canada and Ireland.

  While preparing to perform the first of twenty-nine-dates for the American leg of his tour, Elton achieved another childhood dream by meeting Elvis Presley backstage on June 27 at the Capital Centre in Landover, Maryland.

  Before the concert, Elton and Bernie and John Reid were taken backstage to meet the bloated, glassy-eyed, 41-year-old singer, who sat wrapped in towels.

  “I was introduced to him,” Elton said, “and there in front of me was this gross figure staring back at me blankly. I knew immediately that he was going to die. He had destruction written all over him. There were no signs of life. He already seemed like a corpse.”

  Unsure of what to say to the drugged-out icon whom he’d first glimpsed decades earlier in an English barbershop, Elton joked, “We have the same optician,” referring to Optique Boutique’s Dennis Roberts.

  “Hey, yeah, that’s right.” Elvis managed a wry smile. “Listen, didn’t you write that song, ‘Don’t Let Your Son Go Down On Me’?”

  “It’s ‘Don’t Let the Sun Go Down On Me,” Elvis’ stepbrother David Stanley corrected.

  The King nodded. “Oh, yeah. Okay.”

  Elton ignored the feeble mockery. “Well, it’s great to finally meet you,” he told Elvis earnestly. “I’ve always admired your music. Maybe I could write a song for us to record together.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Elvis mumbled, as visibly intimidated by the Englishman’s success as he had been with the Beatles’ several years earlier. “We’ll see.”

  After posing for a photograph with Elvis’ daughter, Lisa Marie, the pianist stepped forward and embraced Elvis in a bear hug. Elvis’ entourage were stunned. No one ever touched the King—that was the golden rule.

  Releasing Elvis, Elton, Bernie and John headed out to their seats, stage-right, second row.

  Elvis appeared onstage minutes later, singing “C.C. Rider” with surprising vigor.

  “It was easy to see that Elvis was in a very good mood after meeting Elton,” journalist Phil Gelormine reported. “And he seemed to be putting a bit more of himself into the show, perhaps for the benefit of his guest.”

  Elvis was so pumped by Elton’s presence, he sang his latest single, “Hurt,” twice during the concert, even reprising the ending a third time. He also made an impromptu change to his set list, adding in “Heartbreak Hotel,” which Elton had personally requested.

  Despite the King’s benevolence, Bernie was underwhelmed by the brief, seventy-two-minute performance he’d witnessed. “He was so drugged he could hardly sing,” the lyricist said. “He just stood there, handing out scarves.”

  Elton, however, was more impressed. “Even though [Elvis] was hugely overweight, when he actually sung a couple of lines it was magical. You don’t lose that magic, no matter how fucked-up you are…If you’re brilliant, snatches of that brilliance will come through.”

  Elton and Bernie ended the night by catching a Keith Jarrett Trio show at Georgetown’s 9:30 Club. Both agreed that the Jarrett gig was much more to their liking. “Keith Jarrett is, to me, a genius on the keyboard,” Elton said. “I mean, I’m not even in the same country as he is, as far as piano playing…not the same planet…He is a genius…so unorthodox…Probably my favorite album still is Keith Jarrett’s album, The Koln Concert.”

  Elton’s tenth tour of the States would prove a victory lap of sorts, ultimately playing to three-quarters of a million raucous, stoned-out fans up and down the East Coast and northern Midwest.

  Elton’s retinue this time around included eight musicians, twenty family members, six plane crewmen, five sound technicians, three lighting men, a carpenter, and four truck drivers. Additionally, a piano tuner awaited them in each city they landed in, along with six limo drivers and ninety additional security staff. Eleven roadies and a lighting designer, meanwhile, traveled from city to city a day ahead of the main entourage, setting up an elaborate jukebox-themed stage the night before each show, then tearing it back down in the wee hours of the night, after the last notes of music had melted away.

  Billy Connolly, who had transitioned from an edgy folk singer to a full-on comic singer in the years since he’d shared a bill with Elton at the ill-fated Krumlin festival back in the summer of 1970, was the support act for the tour. Appearing onstage in giant banana boots, he treated each night’s crowd to a series of bawdy songs with titles such as “Her Father Didn’t Like Me Anyway” and “Half-Stoned Cowboy.”

  With near-comic reliability, Connolly was roundly booed each and every night.

  “Hearing them announce my name was like someone saying, ‘Ready! Aim! Fire!’” he said. “In Washington, some guy threw a pipe and it hit me right between my eyes. It wasn’t my audience. They made me feel about as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit.”

  Twenty minutes after Connolly’s set, Elton’s marathon three-hour-plus shows would begin with four quick clicks of Roger Pope’s drumsticks and the band—sans Elton—breaking into the textural fury of “Grow Some Funk of Your Own.” The pianist would appear several minutes later twirling an oversized carrot—or strawberry, or banana—around his neck as a manic firestorm of Instamatic flashbulbs lit up whichever darkened cavern Elton found himself in, creating a strobe-lit counterpoint to the chevron lights pulsating onstage. After sharing a word with each band member, as well as with backing vocalists Ken Gold—who had replaced Jim Haas—Jon Joyce and Cindy Bullens, Elton would make his way over to his carpeted piano—encased for this tour in a crimson-striped, brushed aluminum shell so that it resembled the supersonic jet for which the entire outing was named—and launch into the song proper.

  The superstar dashed ceaselessly back and forth across the stage every night, causing pandemonium in the stands. The twenty-nine-year-old superstar reveled in the tumult he created. The only downside? “I sometimes think about getting shot,” he admitted. “Someone’s got to try and do it sometime. But I’m not nervous, ever. There’s no point.”

  After a euphoric “Bennie and the Jets” and an insurrectionist “Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy,” Elton would don an acoustic guitar to perform his “Crosby, Stills, Nash and John track,” Lesley Duncan’s elegiac “Love Song” from Tumbleweed Connection. “I was laughing so hard, it was hilarious,” Caleb said of Elton’s attempts to play guitar. “He knew I was laughing, so he would do it and kind of give me a look like, ‘What do you think about this?’ It was hysterical…But he pulled it off.”

  “He’s just not a guitar player,” Davey agreed. “And that’s being kind.”

  Halfway through each show, the synthesized fanfare which opens “Funeral For a Friend” was piped through the speakers at maximum volume. The band used the darkness—as well as the billowing clouds of dry ice t
hat were pumped onto stage—as cover to snort copious amounts of cocaine. “While the audience was mesmerized, I would walk back and just fill my face up off the top of my amp,” Caleb said. “Then I’d come back and play more raving guitar riffs, and the crowd would go wild.”

  If the fans in attendance were unaware of the covert drug use, they certainly understood what the radio-listening public at large did not: that Elton was anything but a born balladeer. The pianist himself welcomed this distinction. “‘Your Song’ was such a fucking misrepresentation of me,” he said emphatically, “although it’s become almost a trademark. From the first time we went on the road, we were rockers at heart and onstage.”

  Everywhere the tour stopped, Elton was fêted as a conquering hero. The Mayor of Chicago gave him the key to the city. As did the Mayor of Boston. And the Mayor of Philadelphia. And Atlanta.

  Backstage, meanwhile, groups of celebrities—including Patti Smith, Peter Frampton, Frankie Valli, KISS, Queen, Liza Minnelli, Richard Thomas, Clive Davis and Muhammad Ali—would crowd into Elton’s dressing room to bask in the reflected glory of the era’s brightest star. “Almost every night, in every city, the backstage area was like a ‘Who’s Who’ of the entertainment world,” Caleb said. “Movie stars, TV stars, politicians—everyone wanted to meet Elton. Elizabeth Taylor, Michael Jackson, Hugh Hefner, you name it. In every town we went to, the ticket to our show was the hottest and hippest in town.” Particularly memorable was the night Leonard Nimoy stopped by to wish the group well. “Lots of us in the band were Star Trek fans and we just went crazy,” Caleb said. “We were excited to meet him, and here was Mr. Spock excited to meet us.”

  “Mr. Spock, that was really cool,” Roger said. “That whole tour was like a dream, in a way.”