I guess that’s why they call it the blues

Last Friday, I went and saw Elton John’s Farewell Tour stop in Boston. The concert was predictably wonderful. Elton John is a brilliant performer with a brilliant catalog that has stood the test of time. His backup band is terrific, and the graphics/video that accompanied the show were varied and interesting. With the exception of a band-only piece, when he did a quick costumer change, Elton John was on stage without stop for over 2 hours, hard physical work for anyone, let alone someone in his 70’s.

But Elton thrives on the crowd energy, and he was born to perform live.

Anyway, I don’t know what prompted me to get tickets for this concert. It’s not as if I’m some sort of die-hard Elton groupie.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve always enjoyed his music. I may even have a greatest collection CD around here somewhere. (Would I have filed it under “E” or “J”?) But I’ve never been a fan fan.

Maybe it was turning 70 that got me to thinking that seeing Elton John in concert would be nice. It was.

We do go back a ways, Elton and I.

“Your Song” – still a fave – was released in late October of 1970, a few weeks before my father was hospitalized for the final time.

Back then, in those pre-hospice days, if you had a long terminal illness – my father died after suffering through years of progressive kidney disease – they let you stay in the hospital for extended periods of time.

Anyway, between late November 1970 and late January 1971, I spent a fair amount of time in the family car, with the radio on.

I was in college in Boston, which is where my father was hospitalized. During this period, my mother stayed with my aunt and uncle in West Newton, and, weekdays, my cousin Barbara – then a young mother with 2 pre-schoolers – lived in Worcester to take care of my younger brother (15) and sister (11). On Fridays, I went out to Worcester for the weekend shift.

And so it went, with me running errands and chauffering “the kids” in our balky, bottle green Ford Galaxy (a.k.a., The Green Hornet, which had replaced Black Beauty. For a while there, we named our cars.) With the radio on.

So I heard a lot of “Your Song.” The other two songs that always seemed to be playing were Gordon Lightfoot’s “If You Could Read My Mind” and James Taylors “Fire and Rain.” Or was it “Sweet Baby James”?

I remember so much, but not everything.

In any case, Elton John, Gordon Lightfoot, and James Taylor are indelibly associated with the dying and death of my father.

Most of my Elton John recollections aren’t so gloomy.

I took an aerobics class that used “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues” as the cooldown. It was all I could do at the concert to not fling my arms out the way we did 30+ years ago in my Jackie Sorensen class.

And if there’s a better tune for rolling down the windows and hollering along with than “Crocodile Rock,” I don’t know what that tune might be.

So many classics. “Rocket Man.” “Tiny Dancer,” “Daniel”

On our way over to the concert, my sister Trish and I were chatting about Elton John songs we really liked. When we got to “Daniel”, Trish told me that it held special meaning for her. “Daniel” came out in 1973, just about the time I took off on a 5 month trek around Europe. Trish, who is 10 years my junior, told me that, whenever she heard “Daniel” played – it’s a song sung about an older brother – she thought about me, somewhere in Europe, having an adventure.

Then there’s “Candle in the Wind.”

My husband and I were in Ireland shortly after Princess Diana died, and the Diana-version of “Candle” was on the radio everywhere. In one pub, the barman had had enough of the sappy British monarchy worship, and snapped off the radio when the song started. Still, it’s a beautiful song. (And, yes, the original Norma Jean version is still the greatest.)

All of my favorites, which also happen to be everyone else’s favorites, were all performed, interspersed with songs that were lesser known to me but which true Elton John fans would know.

Anyway, the concert brought me back, and in a good way.

Last Friday would have been the 70th birthday of my old and dear friend Marie, who died a couple of months after my husband did, in 2014.

I have no idea whatsoever whether she liked Elton John or not.

For some reason, although we talked about everything under the sun, I don’t remember ever talking about music with her. We must have at some point. We were high school friends when the Beatles first appeared on Ed Sullivan. So we must have.

The only concert I remember her ever mentioning was Arrowsmith, but I’m guessing that Arrowsmith was more her husband’s thing that it was Marie’s.

Another music discussion: when Marie’s son Chris was a toddler, he was fixated for a while on a song about Big Bird on a Sesame Street Album. I was visiting, and Chris was sitting there on the floor with his little record player, bringing the needle again and again to the Big Bird Song.

At asked Marie whether it was driving her nuts (as it was me), and she just shrugged. “Don’t you have a favorite song on an album that you play over and over again.”

She was right, of course.

I am hurtling down the Mass Pike in The Green Hornet, heading back to Worcester. It’s another caretaking weekend. Are Trish and Rick in the car with me, or am I flying solo?

All I know is that they’re playing “Your Song.” And I’m singing along:

And you can tell everybody this is your song
It may be quite simple but now that it's done
I hope you don't mind
I hope you don't mind
That I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you're in the world

“Your Song” is not, actually, my song. That would be “Sweet Baby James.” After all, how many songs mention my birthday? (“The first of December was covered with snow.”) Bonus points for singing about a James – my husband’s name – and for being on the turnpike driving into Boston.

The concert was great. It brought me back in a good way. Just a little bittersweet.

Thinking about my father.

Thinking about Marie.

Thinking about turning 70.

I guess that’s why they call it the blues…