Gospel Matt and his lovely fiance, The Architect, scored four seats to the Elton John show, and invited us along. I’m not sure that any of us are huge fans, but how can you not go? I mean, who doesn’t like Elton John? To see his show is to spend three hours hearing song after song, each time turning to your companion and saying with a big grin, “wow, this is his song too?”.
What made it even better were the primo seats we had: straight off of stage right, at Sir Elton’s eleven o’clock, and within easy sight of the crazed front-row fans, and the technical people, and the band, and (especially) the Clay Aiken look-alike secondary percussionist. It was lots of fun to watch people dancing with wheelchair-bound concertgoers and to see the sign language interpreters exhuberantly doing their thing (which is more self-sacrificial than you might think– I mean, how many different ways can you sign, “the bitch is back!”?).
But the very best thing was to watch the guitar player, who was right in front of us. The archetypal guitar god, with a new instrument for every song, and a hard-working guitar tech who was required to remove one guitar, place the new one on the performer, and turn on said instrument while our guitar hero stood with one hand raised to the sky. He had the perfect skinny heroin-addict look, too: long gray hair, sunglasses, a fitted white dress shirt with its large cuffs unbuttoned, bell-bottom jeans, and pointy-toed, low-heeled cowboy boots. And boy, did he have the moves. I entertained myself by imagining him around the house: strutting across the lawn to get the mail, goose-necking while folding laundry, putting one foot up on the dishwasher as he puts his dirty glass in there, taking the wide stiff-legged stance to eat a sandwich, doing the deep-knee bend as he brushes his teeth, leaning back with a cringe to butter his toast, and going for the hand-to-heaven flourish as he sets down the coffee pot.