Elton John's Wild Ride Through 1971: A Year of Genius, Mayhem and Musical Witchcraft
Image credit: Joe Daly 2024
Gazing numbly through the bay window of my cruise ship — a floating den of iniquity — the Åland Islands slipped by like a series of missed opportunities, a silent rebuke to the debauchery of the last twenty-four hours in Helsinki. There I was, sailing back to Stockholm, sitting alone on the ship’s deck at the crack of dawn, nursing a bludgeoning hangover with coffee, as the ship disgorged a stream of nauseatingly chipper passengers into the buffet line. Jim Kelly, still passed out back in our cabin, bought the tickets as a going away present. A quick, alcohol-powered jaunt to Finland before I packed up and headed home. My Swedish dream had died a pitiful death, throttled by my own hand. Save for a bag of clothes, a laptop and my Taylor 410 acoustic guitar, I had stowed all of my worldly possessions in a storage container in Chicago and flown away to start a new life in Sweden. With a little planning and a lot less alcohol, I could have pulled it off but my my astonishing lack of foresight found my wallet as empty as my ambitions. In less than a day, penniless and tail between my legs, I'd be hurled back to the American maw, my Nordic escapade curdling into bitter regret.
As I stewed in my own existential broth, Elton John's Can You Feel The Love Tonight oozed through the ship's speakers, an ironic soundtrack to my one-man pity party. But then — maybe it was the lingering effects of the Finnish beer or maybe a sense of relief that at least I finally knew where I was going — I caught myself grinning. Through the years, Elton had never let me down and here he was, once again, piercing through the fog of my misery with a single song. Everything was going to be OK.
(l-r) Jim, me, Mick and Michael, two Australian maniacs, banishing our hangovers with warm sunshine and cold Finnish beer
My maiden voyage into the tempest of rock and roll was bankrolled by a bit of Christmas money from generous relatives. I wisely invested in a copy of Elton John’s Greatest Hits. My neighbor had turned me on to this sublime collection and at the age of ten, it became the first LP that I’d ever purchased. At the time, it was also the only music that I owned. Elton John’s Greatest Hits proved to be far more than a mere album; it was a gateway, a treasure chest of auditory riches that turned a pre-teen neophyte into a zealot of the vinyl disc. Considering that it was my only album, that record spun on repeat in the sanctuary of my cozy little bedroom, its grooves a map to worlds unknown. Through Elton's lens, I discovered the kaleidoscope of rock, soul, blues and honky tonk, each song a masterclass, each note a revelation. Elton, with his flamboyant genius and his swashbuckling band of sonic pirates, looked every bit the rock deities that they were, hurtling through the musical cosmos with effortless cool.
To say that album lit the fuse of my passion for music would be an understatement of criminal proportions. It was the spark that ignited a wildfire. From the embers of that first love, my life in music was forged—concerts, road trips, learning instruments and eventually scribbling notes into the margins of the scene as a music journalist. My journey from fan to (hack) musician to scribe, chronicling the anarchic symphony of the music world, all traced back to that first, sacred acquisition. Elton John, with his audacious talent and boundless energy, didn’t just give me a collection of hits; he handed me the keys to the kingdom.
One of my favorite metaphors for good fortune is “luckier than a two-peckered puppy,'“ but equally valid (though appreciably less-disturbing) would be “luckier than an Elton John fan in 1971.” Because in 1971, Captain Fantastic released three separate albums. Today, the idea of releasing new albums in subsequent years is commercial heresy. It rarely happens, thanks to the vaunted two-year album cycle. But the early-70s were the Wild West of the music industry and all of the great bands released new music as quickly as they could write it.
In the seething cauldron of 1971, amidst the echoes of a world caught between the smoldering ashes of the 60s and the uncertain dawn of the Aquarian Age, Elton John didn't just enter the fray; he dominated it with a prolificacy that borders on the mythical. The sheer audacity of releasing three albums in a single year, each a full-bodied exploration of diverse themes and sounds, not only underscores John's indefatigable creativity but also marks a high watermark in the annals of rock history, a feat made all the more staggering when juxtaposed against the painstakingly slow gestation periods of modern albums.
First came Friends, the 1971 soundtrack to the British teenage romance, revealing a mixed bag, a concoction of brilliance diluted by stretches of mediocrity, where Elton tiptoes between genius and apathy. This was Elton’s fourth album and he and his writing partner Bernie Taupin, had yet to break out as the mega stars they would very soon become. The record, punctuated by flashes of Elton's iconic flair in Honey Roll and Can I Put You On, occasionally surges with the vibrant energy reminiscent of 1970’s Tumbleweed Connection. Its title track, which became a minor hit, teetered on the brink of being forgettable, saved only by subsequent listens that peel back layers of subtle craftsmanship. The album's dalliance with instrumental tracks, notably in Variations on Michelle's Song and Four Moods, showcases Paul Buckmaster's string-arranging finesse, yet fails to ignite the fire of true musical innovation. Despite popular ambivalence however, the album notched a 1972 Grammy nomination for Best Original Score Written for a Motion Picture.
Despite its flaws, Friends stands as a testament to John's willingness to experiment, to push beyond the confines of pop and to explore the nuanced realms of soundtrack composition. It's an album that, while not reaching the zenith of his early '70s output, enriches the tapestry of his career with its beautiful, if under-appreciated, moments. In the grand scheme, Friends is both an emblem of an era, a piece of the puzzle that is Elton John's legendary status and softly radiating beacon of things to come.
Next came the live album, 11-17-70. In the rosy-fingered dawn of Elton John's career, this juicy little collection, now light-years removed from the mainstream radar, remains warmly cherished by Elton’s diehards for its deep cuts, daring covers and the pure essence of the artist’s nascent genius. This is no ordinary album; it's a secret handshake among aficionados, packed with Tumbleweed Connection tracks (Amoreena, Burn Down The Mission), a bold reimagining of Honky Tonk Women and the stupidly-catchy Bad Side of the Moon, showcasing a side of Elton that predates his global superstardom.
To dismiss this as a minor effort in his discography is to overlook its true value. This record captures the raw, unadulterated energy of a young, impassioned Elton John, an artist unblemished by fame, channeling his songs with startling conviction. It's an electrifying snapshot of a superstar in the making, delivering a performance that's both fierce and infectious.
Finally, alongside Bernie, Elton veered into the stormy seas of prog rock with Madman Across the Water, a bold departure from their previous work. Under Paul Buckmaster's orchestral guidance, the album adopts a hauntingly rich tone, each track demanding a majestic execution. Evocative swaths of humanity like Levon and Razor Face, showcase Elton's knack for vivid storytelling, but it's Tiny Dancer that, through the years, would soar to iconic status, finally immortalized in the film Almost Famous, and cementing its place as one of Elton's most beloved anthems.
Though it doesn't chase the wild frontiers of Tumbleweed Connection, the album's ambition is unmistakable. Look only at the title track, in which Elton conjures a bleak and harrowing odyssey through the darker recesses of the human psyche, where each note quivers with the unhinged echo of a mind teetering on the brink. Though the intensity ebbs somewhat in the album’s final stretch, Madman Across the Water remains a darkly introspective masterpiece, capturing a moment of unparalleled creative daring in John's career, a testament to the album's enduring legacy.
In today's music industry, where artists often adhere to biennial or even longer album cycles, the idea of releasing three albums of such quality and diversity in a single year seems almost unfathomable. The contemporary landscape, with its focus on singles and streaming algorithms, has largely moved away from the album as an art form, favoring instead a more fragmented and cautious approach to music production and release schedules. The industry's shift towards maximizing digital footprints and marketing strategies often leaves artists caught in a relentless pursuit of virality, at the expense of the kind of bold and expansive creative explorations that characterized Elton John's early career.
Elton John's 1971 triad calls back to a different era, one where the album reigned supreme as both a narrative form and a medium for artistic experimentation. It's a testament to a time when artists were not just creators but adventurers, charting new territories with each release and inviting listeners to embark on journeys that could be sprawling, introspective, whimsical or deeply personal. In a world where the pace of life and art has accelerated, yet somehow also become more cautious, Elton John's 1971 odyssey stands as a beacon of artistic ambition. It harkens back to a time when artists dared to dream in albums, not singles, and in doing so, left indelible marks on the canvas of popular culture.