When I was little, one of the delights of my life was to thumb my way through my father's record collection, kept in two boxes in the basement…33 1/3 rpm vinyl of some of the greatest artists in pop-rock history, but acquired not when their songs had been played to annoying length by classic rock stations but were brand new, never-before-heard, thrilling, exciting. The collection abruptly cuts off, with a few exceptions, after 1975 when he turned 21. That was the age when I, having been schooled by him, my mother, and my Uncle Richard on the classics, began opening my ears to different genres and new artists, and today I am still making such discoveries. Where he sort of ended, I sort of began.
That said, there is something in the "new" music world which binds us. In 1971, when my dad was 17, Elton John—future knight, Hall of Famer, Oscar and Tony winner, and flamboyant showman without peer…and of course, extraordinary singer/songwriter/pianist—released an album called Madman Across the Water. It became one of Dad's favorite records of all time, and when I first became a fan of Elton John in my preschool years after a steady diet of his 80s videos on VH1, I was told by my parental unit to listen to his early work, Madman above all, to hear him at his best.
Thirty years later, when I myself had just turned 17, Elton John released another album called Songs From the West Coast. And as I mentioned in my post a few days ago on Camera Obscura, I consider it the other album of the decade. But while I praise Camera Obscura from an objective standpoint for their mastery of the pop-rock format, my adoration of Songs From the West Coast is mostly subjective. Musically and lyrically it is superb—part of why I bought it is because the critical world considered it a return to seventies form for Elton and his erstwhile partner Bernie Taupin after years of adult-contemporary piffle—but emotionally…it was like when I picked up The Autobiography of Malcolm X and found the saving grace I needed to reaffirm my commitment to God and build up my inner strength for the most traumatic period of my life thus far. I did not know how my life was going to turn out in the seven and a half years after Songs From the West Coast's release, but those twelve compositions have become the soundtrack and mirror of my life thus far and how I have changed.
Obviously, I did end up on the West Coast. But except for one lyrical reference, the album has nothing to do with California et al. What I hear are songs about looking at your past and present and taking stock and adjusting for the future. Songs of falling into love and out of it and losing it but never exactly giving up hope. Songs of maturity. Songs for the emotions running you through the wringer as you go from boy to man in a world shifting far too fast under your feet.
Songs like "Look Ma, No Hands," where a jaunty melody and fanciful lyrics cannot mask the idea of devotion to who raised you and where you came from…and how I still try to make those people, my parents, my family, proud of me.
Or "American Triangle" and "Ballad of the Boy in the Red Shoes." I went from a quiet, rather conservative upbringing in Ohio to a college in Boston where everyone had a sharp opinion, usually a liberal one, and for the first time I was regularly interacting with people of all races, all religions, and most importantly, all lifestyles and sexual orientations. After years of only having vague political and social notions, meeting people like this tapped me into how I could not afford to look away from the rest of humanity. Now I make an effort to stay aware, to stay informed, to think, to argue passionately when I believe something is wrong. Most of all, becoming friends with gays and lesbians and witnessing Prop 8 has cured me of ANY lingering ideas of prejudice against ANYONE on this planet. I believe we all must have the right, as long as we do not infringe upon others, to live as we choose—and in these sad, heartfelt songs, rage and sorrow and indignation…and belief in something better…all mix.
Or "Birds" and "The Wasteland." I once thought I knew it all, or at least enough to handle anything that came my way and plan my future accordingly. But like Socrates, the more I experience, the more convinced I am I know nothing. When I hear these songs, I think of all the times I have stood at the crossroads, dealt with temptations and burdens and rebuilding, and struggled to answer the large and the small questions…and bringing my own version of the raucous energy of the piano to the effort.
Or the love songs. 2001 was the year I first realized how extraordinary it is to find your inner self trying to rip away and cling to someone else, women with beauty and brains and heart and sympathy who make you forget there's anyone else in the world. Unlike McCartney's simplicity and Dylan's obliqueness, however, John and Taupin write of love with a straightforward poetry which tosses in a few surprises, out-of-left-field similes and metaphors and phrases which seem odd at first but, when you think them over, decide that somehow they caught the experience just right. I mean "Off balance, I found love the only place to fall." That's what happens to me…and I think it happens to everybody. I put on Songs From the West Coast most of all to hear about love and to remember…to remember the times I decided who I truly wanted and worried I might never find her ("Dark Diamond," "I Want Love"), the times I did give myself away only to face open heartbreak or the slow, lingering fade into silence as my nerves kept it untold ("Original Sin"), the times I indulged in childish fantasies and dreaming which stayed with me even into my young adulthood of perfection and vengeance ("Love Her Like Me"), the times I wanted to throw in the towel ("This Train Don't Stop Here Anymore"), and most of all, the relationships which gave me moments I'll remember for the rest of my life and comfort me in my darkest thoughts of singlehood and succor me with hope that there will be someone out there, and that all this was a learning experience, laying the ground for something beautiful to come ("Mansfield," the KEY song of the record with a killer Paul Buckmaster string arrangement).
And then, Elton John's voice has lost the high notes, but he sings with unbridled passion, sometimes playful, sometimes wistful, sometimes defeated, always honest. I hear a man who kind of sounds like me. Who is close enough to me to put what I can't express into the best words and music of all.
And now, with Father's Day approaching, I wonder what it was which made my father love Madman Across the Water, why it spoke to him so much. Was it the songs about loneliness and isolation? About fathers and sons and moving beyond what your parent was and what they might have expected of you? About coming to terms with an idealized past in an increasingly cutthroat, industrial present? Or, considering he will have been married to the same woman for thirty years come August, the idea of a person so perfect for you, so able to comfort you in time of need, so HIGH ABOVE you, that she almost doesn't seem real? A person you hadn't even met yet?
All I can guess was there was something in those songs which touched him, just as thirty years later the same men who wrote them would touch me.
He gave me the gift of being able to respond to art in that way…and now, to think that I might be able to make others' lives better by teaching them how to respond.
I love my father for that…among many, many reasons.
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