The year was 1975. Bell bottoms and platform shoes were the uniform, and rock and roll reverberated from suburban garages turned teenage havens. At 13, straddling the line between childhood innocence and rebellious adolescence, music was everything. Led Zeppelin, Kiss, Bowie, Pink Floyd – these were the gods of sound worshipped in dimly lit spaces, fueled by stolen beers and the yearning to appear older and edgier than we were. Coolness at 13 is a fragile construct, a façade barely concealing the lingering softness of youth. We pretended to be hardened rockers, dreaming of all-night parties, yet beneath the surface, vulnerabilities and secret passions simmered. While Eddie might have hidden his Archie comics, my secret obsession was Elton John.
My love affair with Elton began in 1973. “Daniel” resonated with a depth I couldn’t articulate, and “Crocodile Rock” became an irresistible earworm. I spent my allowance on Don’t Shoot Me, I’m Only the Piano Player, convinced it was Elton’s magnum opus. Then, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road arrived later that year, an album of breathtaking scope and brilliance that transcended my eleven-year-old comprehension but captivated my soul nonetheless.
This Elton John devotion was a closely guarded secret. Magazine clippings became treasures meticulously pasted into a scrapbook, hidden away from prying eyes. No Elton posters adorned my walls, no album covers displayed as badges of honor. Maintaining my tenuous connection with the garage rock clique was precarious enough. Bonded by Robert Plant’s wails and hazy discussions about “Stairway to Heaven,” these superficial friendships wouldn’t withstand the revelation of my Elton fandom. Confessing to being the biggest Elton John fan on Long Island felt like social suicide.
Then came Caribou in early 1974. “The Bitch is Back” felt daring, almost scandalous in an era where radio airwaves were still relatively sanitized. Money was tight for a twelve-year-old, prioritizing Slurpees and Fun Dip over album purchases. Caribou would have to wait, perhaps until Christmas. But then, a beacon of hope emerged in November 1974: Elton John’s Greatest Hits. A compilation of all my cherished songs, all in one place! It immediately topped my Christmas wish list, and my parents, surprisingly supportive of wholesome Elton, delivered. They found his music palatable, unlike the perceived cacophony of Led Zeppelin or the androgynous allure of David Bowie. On Christmas Day, Greatest Hits spun on the turntable, filling the living room with “Honky Cat” as I danced with abandon and serenaded my five-year-old sister with “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.”
Elton John’s Greatest Hits became a fixture in the living room stereo cabinet, strategically placed to avoid detection by visiting friends. Embarrassment gnawed at me. It felt like a betrayal to Elton himself to hide my fandom. “Coming out” as an Elton John devotee would have to wait until after the release of Captain Fantastic. For now, preserving my fragile social standing took precedence. Looking back, the absurdity of losing friends over musical preference is stark. They likely wouldn’t have ostracized me, but the fear of ridicule, of laughter, felt far more potent. So, the Elton secret remained.
In a strange way, this secrecy fostered a deeper connection. Elton felt like mine, a personal treasure. Keeping him hidden forged a unique bond, a secret pact between me, Elton, and, to a lesser extent, his lyricist Bernie Taupin. Listening to Greatest Hits transformed into a ritual, a summoning of Elton and Bernie into my world. The lack of personal listening space – my own turntable was still a Christmas away – meant inhabiting the living room, cross-legged in front of the stereo, became part of this ritual. My middle sister invariably joined for the raucous energy of “Bennie and the Jets,” and my mother would often linger, drawn in by the melancholic beauty of “Daniel.” What began as private listening sessions gradually evolved into communal experiences, my family joining in, celebrating the sheer joy of Elton’s music. With them, I could shed the façade, let my Elton love flow freely, knowing acceptance and shared enthusiasm awaited.
My intense connection with Elton waned after Captain Fantastic. New musical landscapes beckoned, and subsequent albums didn’t resonate with the same fervor. Yet, I consistently return to his earlier work, particularly Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and Madman Across the Water. But it’s Elton John’s Greatest Hits that holds a special place, a time capsule brimming with memories of solitary listening sessions and joyous family singalongs.
When I mentioned writing about this album on social media, someone dismissed it as “cheating,” arguing that greatest hits albums lack depth. I vehemently disagree. Elton John’s Greatest Hits is more than just a collection of singles. It’s a portal back to formative years, to family moments, and to a burgeoning musical awakening. It facilitated a profound connection with Elton and Bernie’s songwriting genius. The vivid memories of belting out “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” and dancing wildly to “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting” are testaments to its enduring power and significance, making it undeniably worthy of celebration and reflection.
