![]() I had a syllogism worked out on this one. Now if only Bernie furnished every song with a perfect out like this one, from "I Feel Like a Bullet": "You know I can't think straight no more." A. Intentionally or not, the marimba accents of "Grow Some Funk of Your Own" and the faked-up Caribbean inflections of "Island Girl" elaborate the songs racial ironies, while the band's fiery temper on "Street Kids" and "Hard Luck Story" cuts through John's arbitrary ebullience. ![]() Bįirst time I read the lyrics I got angry, but not at he lyrics, which are Bernie's best I thought the new band's machine-tooled hard rock and Elton's automatic good cheer was negating their toughness and clarity and complexity. as E.J.: "I once wrote such childish words for you." Do they feel guilty about it? Have they put away childish things? What's happening to our children when a concept album about the hard times of a songwriting team hits number one on all charts the week it's released? Does it matter that the five good songs on this one aren't as catchy as the five good songs on the last one? Probably not. ![]() B+Ĭaptain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy But it's stylistically ragged, two of its four great cuts are also on Honky Chateau, and I'd just as soon hear the first side of Caribou. There are no clinkers here, and I suppose if you only want one of his albums this is it. I don't agree that singles are Elton's metier-his method is too hit-or-miss to permit such a surefire formula, and some of his best stuff ("Your Sister Can't Twist," "Solar Prestige a Gammon") has proven too wild or weird for a&r/p.d. Yes, I hate the way he says "don't diszgard me" too, but "The Bitch Is Back" is my most favorite song. Then I remembered that I ended up paying for that car myself. Then I decided Elton was more like a brand-new Impala I once rented on a magazine's money. ![]() Of course he's a machine, but haven't you ever loved a machine so much it took on its own personality? I was reminded of my first car, a '50 Plymouth. The title cut is good, "Bennie and the Jets" is great, side four is good-to-great, and a few other songs here would probably benefit from more exclusive company, but this is one more double album that would make a nifty single. Too often now it seems to chatter on anonymously. Two LPs ago, Bernie Taupin passed on his way from obscure banality to clean, well-lighted banality to write a batch of imaginative lyrics, and set to those lyrics John's music sounded eclectic but not confused. But that's no reason for you to make the music not-with-a-bang-but-a-whimper. Maybe Bernie refuses to outgrow his pistol envy. One half of a songwriting team can always bail the other out of rock and roll as competent and (not counting that new sexist streak) unexcessive as this, as each of you proved on Honky Chateau. A-ĭon't Shoot Me, I'm Only the Piano Player ĭear Elton: If you're trying to claim it's all Bernie's fault, just hold on. If like me you love "Rocket Man" despite all your initial misgivings, try "I Think I'm Gonna Kill Myself," about the state of teenage blues, or "Slave," about slavery. Bernie Taupin has settled into some comprehensible (even sharp and surprising) lyrics, and John's piano, tinged with the music hall, is a rocker's delight. Paul Buckmaster and his sobbing strings are gone. John is here transmuted from dangerous poseur to likable pro. The two decent songs here-I refer primarily to the melodies of "Tiny Dancer" (just how small is she, anyway?) and "Levon"-clock in (with lots and lots of help from Paul Buckmaster) at 6:12 and 5:37 respectively. Did somebody say Grand Funk Railroad was a hype? What about this puling phony? B. Why do people believe that these latter qualify as songpoems? Must be that magic word "connection," so redolent of trains, illegal substances, and I-and-thou. Bīetween the cardboard leatherette jacket and the cold-type rotogravure souvenir booklet is a piece of plastic with good melodies and bad Westerns on it. But their general lack of focus, whether due to histrionic overload or sheer verbal laziness, is a persistent turnoff. It offers at least one great lyric (about a newborn baby brother), several nice romantic ballads (I don't like its affected offhandedness, but "Your Song" is an instant standard), and a surprising complement of memorable tracks.
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