In the mid-1970s, as a 13-year-old navigating the choppy waters of adolescence, my world revolved around the громкий sounds of rock and roll. Led Zeppelin, Kiss, David Bowie, Pink Floyd – these were the gods of sound worshipped in suburban garages turned teenage hangouts. We, a motley crew of aspiring rebels, crammed into these makeshift clubhouses, feigning a coolness we hadn’t quite earned. Coolness is a slippery concept at thirteen. Beneath the carefully constructed facade of teenage angst, a remnant of childhood innocence lingered. We’d sit there, awkwardly sipping stolen beers, pretending to decipher the deep meanings embedded in the music, all while a softer, more vulnerable self remained hidden. We aspired to be hardcore rockers, the kind who lived by the mantra of “rock and roll all night and party every day.” And while we’d mastered the clandestine art of rolling a joint, a certain softness persisted. Back home, within the sanctuary of our bedrooms, the carefully constructed defenses would crumble. Everyone harbored a secret, a guilty pleasure that threatened to shatter the image of juvenile delinquent rock and roll aficionados we so desperately tried to project. Eddie, I knew, secretly devoured Archie & Veronica comics. My secret? Elton John.
My clandestine love affair with Elton John had begun in 1973. “Daniel” had resonated deeply within me, and “Crocodile Rock” had become an inescapable earworm. Armed with my allowance, I purchased Don’t Shoot Me, I’m Only the Piano Player, convinced it was the zenith of Elton’s musical prowess. Then, later that year, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road exploded onto the scene, and I was utterly captivated. At eleven, I was too young to fully grasp the album’s lyrical complexities, but I instinctively knew it was something extraordinary.
This Elton John obsession remained a closely guarded secret. I meticulously collected magazine articles, snipping them out and pasting them into a scrapbook dedicated to all things Elton. No Elton posters adorned my walls, no album covers served as art. Maintaining my fragile social circle of garage rock acquaintances was precarious enough. These superficial bonds were forged over Robert Plant’s wails and the hazy allure of getting high while debating the cryptic lyrics of “Stairway to Heaven.” Confessing to being Elton John’s biggest fan in Long Island was simply unthinkable.
When Caribou emerged in early 1974, I had to conceal it from my younger sister. “The Bitch is Back” felt scandalous, a transgression in an era where profanity on the radio was still taboo. My twelve-year-old budget, primarily allocated to Slurpees and Fun Dip, couldn’t stretch to a new album. Caribou would have to wait until Christmas. But then, in November 1974, a beacon of hope appeared: Elton released Greatest Hits. A compilation of all my cherished songs, conveniently assembled in one place! It shot straight to the top of my Christmas wish list, and my parents, bless them, happily obliged. They were far more comfortable with wholesome Elton John records than the perceived debauchery of Led Zeppelin or the androgynous mystique of David Bowie. On Christmas Day, after dinner, I eagerly placed the record on the turntable, dancing around the living room to “Honky Cat” and belting out “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” to my bewildered five-year-old sister.
Elton John Greatest Hits became a fixture by the living room stereo, strategically placed to avoid detection by visiting friends. Hiding my Elton fandom felt shameful, as if my embarrassment was a personal affront to Elton himself. It wasn’t until Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy was released that I dared to even consider “coming out” as a fan to my peers. For now, the fear of losing my tenuous friendships outweighed my desire for authenticity. Looking back, the absurdity of jeopardizing friendships over musical taste is laughable. While they might have teased me, they likely wouldn’t have ostracized me. But teenage laughter can be a far more potent weapon than outright rejection. So, the secret remained.
In a way, keeping Elton to myself felt special. It fostered a sense of intimacy, a bond forged in secrecy. It was a connection between me, Elton, and, to a lesser extent, his lyricist Bernie Taupin. Listening to Elton John’s Greatest Hits transformed into a ritual, a summoning of sorts, bringing Elton and Bernie into my private world. Frustration lingered at not having my own dedicated listening space – my own turntable was still a Christmas away – but sitting cross-legged before the living room stereo cabinet became an integral part of this ritual. My middle sister would invariably join me for “Bennie and the Jets,” and my mother often lingered in the room during “Daniel.” Initially a private indulgence, my listening sessions gradually evolved into communal experiences, as my family joined in. With them, I could shed the pretense, allowing my Elton John adoration to flow freely. They wouldn’t mock me. They wouldn’t abandon me. They recognized the pure joy radiating from Elton John’s music and celebrated it alongside me.
My intense connection with Elton began to wane after Captain Fantastic. Other musical landscapes beckoned, and subsequent Elton albums failed to resonate with the same fervor. Yet, I consistently return to his earlier work, especially Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and Madman Across the Water. However, it’s Elton John’s Greatest Hits that holds the most profound emotional resonance. It’s an album inextricably linked to cherished memories of solitary listening and shared moments with family.
Recently, mentioning my intention to write about this album on social media elicited a dismissive comment: writing about a greatest hits album was “cheating.” I vehemently disagree. Elton John’s Greatest Hits provided more than just charming sing-alongs with my family to “Bennie and the Jets.” It facilitated a deeper connection with Elton, allowing me to truly engage with his and Bernie’s lyrical artistry and his captivating music. Vivid memories of passionately belting out “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” and dancing with abandon to “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting” are indelibly etched in my mind. These memories, and the album that soundtracked them, are undeniably worth celebrating and writing about.
