Thoughts On Me, Elton John's New Book

When Rocket Man played in theatres in Russia, they took out all the gay scenes because Russian culture is hella homophobic.  Straight-washing Elton John's life story is wrong for many reasons, one of which is the movie won’t make any sense because Elton John is super gay.  Much like talking about Elton John’s new book Me without talking about suicide and drug addiction wouldn’t make any sense because cocaine and killing yourself is a huge part of his new book.   

My logic here is problematic.  It’s not exactly a two-plus-two-equals-four equation.

What I mean to say is I feel a type of way about talking about drug addiction and suicide publicly.  Like how Russian movie theaters don’t want to be associated with hot man on man action, I don’t want to be associated with booger sugar and killing yourself.

My friend Amy said something this week that stuck with me.  She said, “Perfect is not honest.”  That’s probably the heaviest thing I’ve heard all week.  When you wash an idea to make it pass society's acceptable smell test, it doesn’t smell like anything.  And it’s boring.  And it’s incomplete.  And it's most likely harmful as it’s full of lies by omission.     

So screw you, Russia, for not wanting to show Elton John’s beautiful gay life, and screw me for not wanting to talk about drug addiction and suicide after reading Me. 

Elton John’s biography also made me nervous because at the end he talked about retiring from touring.  I know he’s toured his whole life, but a part of me was all like nooooooo!   Why are you giving up so soon?  Turns out, he’s not done with touring, and a New Orleans show was just announced.  Yay.  Whew.  I was worried.     

Plus the idea that he’d rather have kids than tour seemed so far away from my experience.  I found it hard to relate.  Surprise. Surprise. I found it hard to relate to Elton John.

Maybe hard to relate isn’t the right phrase.  Maybe I was jealous of some things.  Perhaps I was peanut butter and jelly because Elton had a writing partner, Bernie Taupin.  He goes into detail about their process, and it’s gorgeous. Having a consistent collaborator seems pretty cool.  It made me want to work on songwriting with other musicians.

Elton John describes the creative process a little like this.  His friend, Bernie, shows up with a poem.  Elton doodles a little piano melody for an intense but short period of time, and “Your Song” pops out. Then Elton goes to lunch with Freddy Mercury.  That’s awesome.  I want to do that.

On the other hand, his glorification of drugs made me nervous. Except for the brief climax when Elton John’s struggles with cocaine got way out of hand, he made addiction sound like a hell of a party.   Who doesn’t want to dance until dawn for thirty years?

All around, reading Me was a nerve-racking experience but in a good way. The tension got high and stayed high.  

I suppose my biggest issue with Me was I felt like Elton John trivialized suicide.  When he recounted taking too much valium and jumping into a swimming pool during a party, it seemed more like performance art than a cry for help. Or maybe it was a cry for help disguised as performance art. Or maybe all cries for help require a little performance art in order to be effective.  I can’t tell. 

But painting a suicide attempt in a comical light stuck with me more than it should have.  Kind of like when someone drops a bomb in the conversation and then moves on to talk about the weather.  Clouds are chill, but did you just say you have cancer?  I'm sorry. Can we go back to the doctor's visit you mentioned?

Elton John described himself as not having the wherewithal to pull it off.  He made it sound like suicide takes guts.  Maybe it does.  Maybe it doesn’t.  I’d be okay with categorizing either as too much for me to weigh in on. So Me was hard to read and hard to relate to at times.

The way Elton John describes it, he lacked the necessary determination to orchestrate his own death, as if it were something he failed at.  Sure, he felt lonely and unworthy, just not enough to pull suicide off.    If he would’ve only tried a little harder to hate himself, he could have been successful. As if death by your own hand is a magic trick or a song you’re trying to write.

So all in all. Me was a good read.  It's worth it, but it might romanticize suicide and drugs a little more than you're comfortable with.