In December, I took a drive to the Valley of Fire, an hour north of Las Vegas. Scenes from Star Trek: Generations were shot here. What makes this ancient and beautiful enclave of sandstone so spectacular is the architecture of the rock formations. There are lines and cracks and crevasses, primordial outcroppings of such overwhelming texture and presence, you feel humbled just to be sitting among them.
I found this spot off the main road. That's where I've spent most of my adult life—off the main road. With my digital videocamera in hand, I climbed a small peak and found a tiny cave carved in the side of the crimson hill that looked out perfectly on a natural amphitheatre of awesome boulders resembling a herd of elephants. Dozens of elephants, small ones, large, prehistoric woolly mammoths. They sat quietly in rapt attention as the pilgrim meditated on the moment. I could feel their presence. A silent but soaring round of applause honked from their rocky noses. I felt so humble, I almost took a bow. OK, I did take a bow. After all, it was just me and the horn section. No other two-legged lunatics as far as this nearsighted eye could see.
I stood up and was prompted to song. "Soon the pines will be falling everywhere / Village children fight each other for a share / and the 609 goes roaring pass the creek / Deacon Lee prepares a sermon for next week."
I crooned at the top of my lungs, to no one except the elephants. I know these words as I know my own breath. I throw my head back and wail the chorus like I was standing on stage at the Royal Albert Hall in London: "And it's good old Country Comfort in my bones / Just the sweetest song my ears have ever known / Just an old fashioned feeling, fully grown / Country Comfort's any truck that's going back home."
Out of the thousand songs through four decades of musical appreciation that splash around in the warm waters of my subconscious, I chose Elton John. For Elton to me is like the Beatles, the Stones, the Who, Pink Floyd, Brian Wilson, Peter Gabriel and Led Zeppelin—one of the Holy Fathers, a face on Rock's Mount Rushmore. And through two decades of journalistic travels, I'd never met the man, the myth, the madman.
Last month, I went to see Rufus Wainwright at Royce Hall on the UCLA campus. I went to UCLA, graduated in March 1979. I saw Paul Weller and the Jam literally destroy Royce in 1977. Me and my punk'd-up classmates ripped four rows of seats out of the floor.
Stepping out of the parking structure on the north end of campus, just adjacent to the 'hood of the super wealthy, Bel Air, I'm greeted by the Janss Steps that lead up to the heart of the campus. It's only 7:30. Rufus won't go on for at least an hour.
After 20 years in the business, I'm bound to run into someone I know.
"Lonn Friend!," comes the cry.
"Melissa!" The bodacious, eternally accommodating tour marketing wunderkind lands a big smooch on my cheek and a backstage pass in my hand for a private, pre-performance hang in Rufus' dressing room. I tally my blessing, give an appreciative glance to the big moon smiling above and ride the wave of grooviness that has already engulfed the evening.
A half-hour later, a dozen or so label folks, selected fans and close friends of Rufus are sipping bottles of water in the backstage enclave. Young Wainwright is smiling and chatting with everyone he meets, signing posters, engaging in gracious small talk with the industrial keepers of his commercial fate. Melissa introduces me. I offer a brief but glowing commentary about his recent Vegas show.
A few minutes later, reality takes a turn for the surreal as I move my attention from Rufus to the lounge chair in the corner of the room and the man sitting there. "It can't be," I say to myself. "But then again, Rufus is adored by the artist community from legend to peer, and he's a piano player and he makes no bones about his gay sexuality and his father is Loudon Wainwright III so … am I still talking to myself? I must be. I'm still in quotes." Pause. Check the surroundings. No one is talking to him, approaching him, save a bald fellow with a laminate around his neck who must be in the business because I can hear him dropping names. Takes one to know one.
"Um, excuse me, Rufus, but that's Elton John!" I exclaim softly.
"A fan and a friend forever and ever," he replies.
"Elton John is sitting on a chair in your dressing room, right there, four feet away. Elton John." Rufus is nonplussed. "Just go up and say hi," he instructs. "He's the sweetest man in the world." Time stands still. My brain flashes back to the time George Harrison was standing 10 feet away from me at a party. And I couldn't move. Won't make that mistake again; as you get older and wiser, you become more acutely aware of those rare moments. Here's where time and opportunity and the way of the journalist all collide. The room begins to empty. No one has engaged Elton. They're either intimidated, distracted, unconscious, clueless or a combination of all four. I remain fixated on the mythological man of melody whose music provided a nice chunk of the soundtrack of my life. I coax my feet onto the Yellow Brick Road and wait for the right words to come. They always do:
"I can remember the day I bought Tumbleweed Connection at Moby Disc records in Van Nuys the year they opened their first store."
"Well, hello, then," smiles Sir Elton. And so the world stops turning and the conversation begins. "I went to school here," I say. "Do you recall the MTV Awards at Pauley Pavilion on the other side of campus, when you performed "November Rain" with Guns N' Roses?" He twists in his cushy throne, his eyes meeting mine. "I had such affection for Axl," he says. "I thought he got a bad rap with all that rubbish that he was anti-gay. I knew he wasn't. Just like Eminem. So when he asked me to perform the song with the band, I said 'great.' It was hilarious backstage. Krist from Nirvana and Duff from GN'R almost getting into a fight."
I interrupt. "I know. I was standing outside Guns' dressing room when the shouting began."
Please, Sir Elton, continue.
"So before the show, I need to know the piano chords for "November Rain," and I'm looking for Axl." It is apparent he loves telling stories. My stomach begins to unknot. I can feel every cell bouncing about my insides, crocodile rockin'. "I can't find Axl anywhere," he continues, "so I see Slash. I say, 'Hey, Slash, what are the chords for "November Rain," and he says, 'I dunno, man, I'm the guitar player.'"
By now, even Rufus has left the dressing room. "I was very close with GN'R," I tell him. "Still am, with everyone but Axl. Haven't seen him in years." Elton was curious about Axl, his health, his mind, the decade-long endeavor to complete the LP Chinese Democracy. "He is such a gifted, wonderful artist." My mind is swirling. I'm talking to Elton John about Axl Rose. What a trip.
"Elton," I said, "I live in Las Vegas. Are you enjoying yourself at Caesars?" He lights up even brighter. "I absolutely love it," he boasts. "They're treating me so well, and the show is absolutely breathtaking. I mean, it's the best production I've ever been involved with. There is so much going on."
The subject changes to the Who. "I just love Zach Starkey!" he says, referring to Ringo's son, the latest and according to Elton and most everyone else, greatest Who skin-basher since Keith Moon departed this earthly plane in the late '70s. "You know, they're finally making a new record," he adds. "I've been asking Pete about that for years. When are you gonna make some new music, for Heaven's sake?" Is this really happening? Now I'm talking to Elton John about the Who. I glance around as if waiting for someone to halt the proceedings.
"I saw the Who in Portsmouth in January 2002," I announce proudly. "In the building where they shot your amazing Pinball Wizard scene. I'm pretty sure it was the last club date they ever did with Entwistle." Elton nods, as if he's remembering John. I've lost track of time. Rufus must be going on. I need to make a move, but first, an autograph. Not for me; for my daughter who hasn't stopped listening to "Tiny Dancer" since we watched Almost Famous for the third time together last November. "Can you please sign this for my daughter," I ask, grabbing a UCLA performing arts program off the table. "What's her name?" he inquires kindly. "Megan." And so I stand there as Captain Fantastic leaves his immortal mark. "To Megan. With love, Elton John."
This is the alchemy of storytelling. You're in the room. No one gets in this room. Pay attention, scribble the sensations on the insides of your psyche and hold precious every instant and what it represents because you don't have to be a journalist to be a storyteller. You don't even have to be a madman.