Nobody said it would be easy.
You have your eyes set on something but doing it will take time, sacrifice and effort. You’ll get things right, but you’ll also get in your own way before you get to where you want to be and if you don’t believe that, then read “Me” by Elton John.
On and off through most of his life, John had a tumultuous relationship with his mother. She was sometimes angry, sometimes abusive, rarely loving, but she did one important thing for him: she introduced him to Elvis Presley’s music.
Though John says he’d wanted to be a musician since he was very small, the 78 RPM his “mum” brought home opened a window for a huge record collection, a passion for seeing live music and a dream of playing in a band onstage. Soon, he was gigging with regional bands and accidentally meeting people who would help his career.
At 19, he was still a virgin, still naïve about being gay and rather blithe about his natural ability to write music. That was OK, though; he’d met Bernie Taupin, who wrote lyrics over breakfast and together, they’d pen hits by lunchtime.
At 22, John had fallen in love with a man, was no longer a virgin and “things (professionally) were starting to move, very gradually.”
Just one year later, he performed for the first time in America.
Through his early career, stardom gave John a delightful platter of surprises and he seized most everything that came his way: singers he admired praised him, famous people he’d watched wanted to meet him. He later hobnobbed with royalty, both the music kind and the Buckingham Palace kind. He fell in love, married, divorced and fell into an obsession over something that made his life so, so much harder.
There is a certain aura surrounding the first third of “Me,” and it’ll charm the socks off you: author Elton John writes about his childhood, quickly, before he leaps into the bits about his early career with a sense of wide-eyed awe at what life had just handed him. If he’d said “Gee whiz!” even once, you’d understand.
Alas, after the kid-in-a-candy-store naiveté evaporates and his career takes off, John’s account of his young-manhood seems jaded; he says he was “exhausted” by constant work and pressures, and the second third of his book shows that in the voice readers see. Here — in the stories of parties, recording sessions and industry goings-on — the tale starts to slip into that which plagues so many star biographies: name-dropping and seemingly unnecessary sameness. It would mar the book, were it not for the sense of droll humor that John continues to pack around his anecdotes.
By the final third of this book, we get a settled John who’s clean, happier, less frenetic but still funny. Here’s where readers reach what is likely familiar, as though we’ve read this book before. But, of course, you haven’t because “Me” (also the title Katharine Hepburn chose for her memoir) is John’s first and only autobiography and enjoying it is easy.