The year was 1975, and at 13, I was navigating the choppy waters of adolescence with a soundtrack of rock and roll rebellion. Led Zeppelin, Kiss, Bowie, Pink Floyd – these were the gods of sound in our suburban teenage dens, converted garages where we gathered, pretending to be world-weary rebels. Coolness at 13 is a fragile construct, a thin mask over the lingering softness of childhood. We’d sit there, awkwardly sipping stolen beers, nodding our heads to music whose depths we barely grasped, wanting to embody the rock and roll all-night, party-every-day ethos, yet still undeniably tender beneath the surface. When garage doors closed, and we retreated home, the hardened facades would crumble. Everyone had their secret, a hidden piece of themselves that didn’t quite fit the juvenile delinquent image we so carefully cultivated. Eddie had his stack of Archie & Veronica comics. My secret? Elton John.
My clandestine affection for Elton John had been growing since 1973. “Daniel” had resonated deep within my young heart, and “Crocodile Rock” had become an inescapable earworm. I remember buying Don’t Shoot Me, I’m Only the Piano Player with my saved allowance, convinced it was the pinnacle of Elton’s musical genius. Then, later that same year, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road was released, and I was utterly captivated. At eleven, I was probably too young to fully appreciate the album’s intricate nuances, but I was old enough to recognize its brilliance.
This Elton John devotion was a closely guarded secret. I meticulously collected magazine articles, cutting them out and pasting them into a scrapbook dedicated to all things Elton. My bedroom walls, however, remained devoid of Elton John posters, album covers conspicuously absent. Friendships at that age were already precarious; my small circle of garage rock companions was a loose affiliation bound by Robert Plant’s wails and the hazy allure of marijuana-fueled “Stairway to Heaven” interpretations. Revealing my status as, quite possibly, Long Island’s most devoted Elton John fan felt like a social risk I couldn’t afford.
1974 saw the release of Caribou, an album I had to shield from my younger sister’s innocent ears, as “The Bitch is Back” felt daringly scandalous in a radio landscape still largely devoid of profanity. Money was tight at 12, mostly allocated to Slurpees and Fun Dip, so purchasing Caribou was out of the question. Christmas was the only hope. Then, in November of 1974, a beacon of hope for my allowance-strapped, Elton-loving heart emerged: Elton John’s Greatest Hits. A collection of all my favorite songs, all in one place! It shot straight to the top of my Christmas wish list, and my parents, bless them, happily obliged. Wholesome Elton John records were far more palatable to them than the likes of Led Zeppelin or David Bowie. That Christmas Day, after dinner, I proudly placed the Greatest Hits record on the turntable, dancing around the living room to “Honky Cat” and serenading my five-year-old sister with “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.”
To keep up appearances with my friends, the Greatest Hits album resided with the living room stereo, safely away from my bedroom. I felt a strange sense of shame, embarrassed by my Elton John fandom, as if it would somehow be a betrayal to Elton himself if he knew. It wasn’t until after Captain Fantastic arrived that I finally felt secure enough to “come out” as an Elton devotee to my peers. But in that moment, the fear of losing my fragile friendships was too potent. Looking back, the absurdity of losing friends over musical taste is clear. They probably wouldn’t have stopped talking to me, but the potential for ridicule felt, at the time, even worse. So, my fandom remained concealed.
Paradoxically, this secrecy fostered a deeper, more personal connection to Elton’s music. It felt like Elton was mine, a special secret. Keeping him hidden was a form of bonding, a private pact between me, Elton, and, to a lesser extent, Bernie Taupin. Listening to Greatest Hits became a ritual, a summoning of Elton and Bernie’s combined genius. Frustration arose from the lack of personal listening space – my own turntable wouldn’t arrive until the following Christmas – but sitting cross-legged before the living room stereo cabinet became an integral part of this ritual. My middle sister would almost always join me for “Bennie and the Jets,” and my mother loved to be in the room when “Daniel” played. What began as a private listening experience gradually evolved into a communal one, as my family joined in. With them, I could shed the pretense, let my Elton John love flow freely. There were no mocking glances, no threat of social desertion. They recognized and celebrated the pure joy radiating from Elton John’s music.
My intense connection with Elton began to wane after Captain Fantastic. Other musical passions emerged, and no subsequent Elton album resonated with me quite like those earlier masterpieces. However, I consistently return to his early work, particularly Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and Madman Across the Water. But it’s Elton John’s Greatest Hits that holds the most enduring power, a sonic time capsule transporting me back to those formative years, to both solitary listening sessions and shared family moments.
Recently, mentioning my intention to write about this album on social media elicited a comment suggesting that writing about a greatest hits album was somehow “cheating.” I vehemently disagree. Elton John’s Greatest Hits is far more than just a collection of popular singles. It provided the backdrop for cherished family singalongs to “Bennie and the Jets,” and, more profoundly, facilitated a deep, personal connection with Elton and Bernie’s songwriting. The vivid memories of belting out “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” and dancing with abandon to “Saturday Night” are testament to this album’s significance. That, in itself, makes it more than worthy of revisiting and celebrating.
