Rocket Man – Elton John
She packed my bags last night pre-flight
Zero hour nine AM
And I’m gonna be high as a kite by then
I miss the earth so much I miss my wife
It’s lonely out in space
On such a timeless flight
And I think it’s gonna be a long long time
‘Till touch down brings me round again to find
I’m not the man they think I am at home
Oh no no no I’m a rocket man
Rocket man burning out his fuse up here alone
*
You’re not supposed to post the lyrics of a song in their entirety on the internet because copyright but if that’s the case why are there all those lyrics sites, all with the same mistake ? As I gently age, with spurts of buckling and recovery, I find my mind grows dim, for things seem more mysterious to me now than they were forty five years ago when I was fourteen years old and grooving to Elton John in my bedroom, in particular this classic and the B-side which was, brilliantly enough, two songs : Goodbye, and Holiday Inn. Swoon. The magic year of 1971, when my ears suddenly opened further, deeper, stronger and every tune held different mysterious beauty, had just passed and now we were in the spring of 1972 and I was on a musical jam roll.
We were in Hailsham. I had a record player in my bedroom. It was a luxury, like the view over the fields, and the broom-handle thumps on the kitchen ceiling reminded me of this privilege from time to time. Rocket Man of course was a masterpiece, a song so perfect that I couldn’t stop burbling about it to my Nan, up visiting from Portsmouth, playing it to her downstairs on the record player while she looked at me with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. She’d looked at me before like that, an old-fashioned look perhaps it’s called, but this time I noticed and felt my power. I was fourteen after all, bursting out all over the place.
“Listen to this bit Nan –
‘ and all this science I don’t understand, it’s just my job five days a week…’
and of course by then I had done two and a half years of fucking science at school and found it baffling, like the smoke signal from the Vatican. Talk about mysterious. Perhaps it was the teachers, but perhaps MORE it was me. Science ? Nah.
Not for me. Not my bag. Not clever enough to understand it and perhaps it was never explained to me properly. It is the basis of our civilisation after all – engineers and builders, along with medicine and war. And in the song, when he sings all this science I don’t understand, the music goes all weird and synthesised and jagged suddenly with a staccato chord on the piano to punctuate the oddness. Like science that you don’t understand, I explained to my Nan. She looked at me.
Now I understand that it’s the producer’s job to do that sort of thing. Like the two lines before that :
“Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids,
in fact it’s cold as hell”
when the song empties out (like Mars, he added unnecessarily) and it’s just Elton and the piano – no drums – then one slide guitar note on cold as hell to emphasise the emptiness. It’s completely brilliant, very simple, like brushstrokes on canvas, the effect is concise and emotional. Modern art is thus made. And Gus Dudgeon, who produced this song was a genius in the studio, whatever he touched turned to gold around this time : Osibisa’s ‘Woyaya‘, John Kongos’ Tokoloshe Man, Audience’s House On The Hill, much of the Bonzos output, but he was known best for his work with Elton John.
And on the B-side was this stunning song Goodbye which haunted me then and still haunts me now. Elton of course is a genius, his singing voice is quite superb and his music is exquisite, especially in the 1970s. I’ve always loved piano pop more than any other kind of music, so Elton is on the high end of a list which includes Fats Domino, Ben Folds, Paul McCartney, Todd Rundgren, Marvin Gaye, Gilbert O’Sullivan, Dr John, Ray Charles, Billy Joel, Brian Wilson, Fats Waller, Little Richard, Randy Newman, Georgie Fame, Alan Price, Harry Nillsson, Rufus Wainwright and so on and so forth. But it’s the lyrics on this one folks. I’m not a big on lyrics kind of guy. Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen. I’m a music kind of guy. Chord changes and harmonies. Some people are both, I know. Maybe I am both, but I’m mainly musical, not lyrical.
But Bernie Taupin though. What a lyricist. Check this –
And if you want a drink, just squeeze my hand and wine will flow into my land and feed my lambs
He’s gone all William Blake there. He’s young, they both are, they’re trying stuff. What’s he on about ? Post-nuclear holocaust ? Jesus Christ on the cross ?
And now it’s all over the birds can nest again
But by the end of the song, a mere one minute 40 seconds after it started, Elton’s singing I’ll Waste Away over and over again. Meaning ? Who knows ? Allow it to be mysterious. Not everything is to be named numbered and explained. Categorized. Collected. Scored. Understood. Filed, Forgotten. I am the poem that doesn’t rhyme.
Sorry I took your time.
The innate drama of the lyrics appealed to me greatly as a 14-year old glam-rock softy. Sometime I wish I was back in 1972 with my poor Mum banging around the house either with or without her 2nd husband John Daignault, listening to records up in my bedroom. (My and Paul’s bedroom I should say. We would turn out the light and talk for about an hour every night, both lying down talking at the ceiling. About everything. Precious moments. Healing hours.) We’d play football outside, watch TinTin and Blue Peter, Crackerjack and Morecambe and Wise. Top of The Pops. Match of the Day. The Big Match on Sundays with Brian Moore. Chart countdown with Alan Freeman at 4pm. Took the bus to Polegate every morning, then the train to Lewes for school. No important exams. Just lessons, football, girls, friends. Simple.
Oh well.





And now that it’s all over
The birds can nest again
I’ll only snow when the sun comes out
I’ll shine only when it starts to rain
And if you want a drink
Just squeeze my hand
And wine will flow into the land
And feed my lambs
For I am a mirror
I can reflect the moon
I will write songs for you
I’ll be your silver spoon
I’m sorry I took your time
I am the poem that doesn’t rhyme
Just turn back a page
I’ll waste away, I’ll waste away
I’ll waste away, I’ll waste away
I’ll waste away, I’ll waste away