I know the following might provoke scraiks of horror, but I have to get it aff my breestie.
To Elton John’s Farewell Yellow Brick Road tour, first booked five years ago, postponed by Covid, then his hip op. The same age as me, the loon has written and recorded some of my favourite songs; both of us still standin’ after a’ this time, I couldna wait.
In 2018, during the rush to get online, I’d booked the best seats left at the time: £104, block P on the ground, about 30 rows back. Got there Wednesday, looked OK, but a frisson of fear hit me when a sign came up announcing that Elton “welcomed his guests” getting up to dance. Fit aboot my view?
Sadly, the seats were awful for this concert because the star and his band were on the ground floor as well, rather than raised on a platform, where we’d all a chance to maybe glimpse them. Only when I was on tiptoe, neck giraffed, did I spy a Lego man at a toy piano. Once.
Yes, there were screens – a big one in the middle and two much littler ones at each side. But, for probably more than half the time, the big one just showed videos – stuff like dancers, fancy interpretations of his songs, merchandise, even. If I come to see a star and I canna see him from my seat, surely I should expect a constant big-screen version? (We got three giants at Peter Kay at Glasgow Hydro.)
I know none of that’s the fault of P&J Live, but of the actual production, yet it was truly galling. When everyone in front of us stood up, not even a wee screen was visible.
And, yes, I did stand up and dance, starting with the first song – one of my favourites – Bennie and the Jets. But, here’s another but. Was it my hearing? Or was it because the music was so loud and somehow distorted? It took several lines of each song before I actually recognised fit the laddie was singin’.
Even then, a lot of them I didn’t recognise in the first place, where he’d dug into some of his lesser-known repertoire. Fair enough, but he missed crackers we all wanted to hear, like Daniel.
The aisles were like Union Street as it used to be on a Saturday
The legend and his ancient troubadores were obviously having a ball, so much so they’d go into overlong, hugely-amplified riffs, like a pucklie al’ mannies indulging themsellies in a jam session.
Only when he played I’m Still Standing (and I was) did he actually bring the hoose doon. We begged for more.
Ken ‘is, Elton, it would have been good if you’d actually had proper chats to the audience between songs. But you didn’t seem to have any real, warm interaction with us.
Finally, a word about those audience members who were constantly on the move. A couple near us came in late, then ootski for mair pints barely 15 minutes in.
The aisles were like Union Street as it used to be on a Saturday, with (much younger) folkies in and oot. If they really were fans, they missed loads of the show. And how come they all seemed to have seats at the front?
As we left, my quine asked how I’d enjoyed it. Here’s me: “I barely saw him and I’d never heard a lot of the music.” Sez she: “Well, I hope that didn’t spoil it for you.”
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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