In the reflected light of Elton John’s diamond-studded lapels, aided by the hundreds of flashing pairs of Elton specs out in the arena, the end of the road – yellow brick, naturally – is in sight. We’ve fallen for the arena-filling farewell tour scam so often now that it’s an industry joke – Roger Waters is currently on what’s nudgingly billed as his first. But five years and almost 300 shows into Elton John’s globe straddling long goodbye – Farewell Yellow Brick Road, the highest-grossing tour in history – it’s hard to doubt Sir Reg’s sincerity.
“I need to be with my family,” the ultimate piano man tells the O2 Arena as he says his goodbyes, gazing back fondly at his 500-plus UK shows over 52 years, and forward to his purported final gig in Sweden in July, via a Glastonbury headline set. “I’ve done enough schlepping in my lifetime.”
At 76, the fourth best-selling artist of all time intends to leave us with a sepia portrait of himself as a far younger man. The setlist is almost entirely drawn from his first nine albums; only four of its 23 songs date post-1975, and those come slathered in nostalgia. “I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues”, its overblown arrangement emphasising its fundamental Chas & Dave-ness, comes accompanied by pictures of Seventies couples losing interest in each other; “I’m Still Standing” by a collage of showman Eltons through the ages, from rising phoenix to Louis XIV. For the rest, he time-warps us back to that early Seventies period when one in 50 records sold worldwide were Elton’s, and he bestrode the world’s stage decked out, more often than not, like the Mayor of Munchkinland.
As a diamond bust of himself gazes down from the stage-wide screen – as it has, in effect, over pop culture for five decades – Elton and his formidable band of besuited drummers and double-necked guitarists pile into the plodding brilliance of “Bennie and the Jets”, the glitzy boogie of “Philadelphia Freedom” and a rare “Border Song” dedicated to Aretha Franklin and set to images of human rights champions across history: Franklin, John and Yoko, Mandela, Pussy Riot. This is no cursory plough through the obligatory hits, then, but a deep-ish dive into the foundational era of the grandmaster of the bellow ballad and king of the bespectacled boogie. For every “Sad Songs (Say So Much)” or “The B**** is Back”, there’s a sultry noir “Have Mercy on the Criminal”, 1970’s piano prog powerhouse “Burn Down the Mission”, or a high-drama “Someone Saved My Life Tonight” about Elton’s 1968 suicide attempt. What could have been a cheap final cash-in turns out to be a rich origin story.
Hits do abound, of course. “Tiny Dancer” appears early as testament to a craftsmanship that would be almost unthinkable in today’s please-the-algorithm age, building sonic tension over several minutes to a timeless pay-off of a chorus, delivered with a smile that’s pure Vegas. The crowds, clad in their spangliest frocks and blazers for the occasion, rise to bask in the fireworks of “Rocket Man”’s celestial gospel. “Candle in the Wind” literally glides along – Elton’s motorised piano does a full circuit of the stage while he’s playing it. The rock ballast of “Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting” neatly counteracts “Crocodile Rock”’s corny boogie, and the transcendent emotion of “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” is only slightly marred by the mass brawl that breaks out in block B2. Sunday night’s perfectly acceptable too, it appears.
Elton’s occasional pub singer tendency to bark rough approximations of his lyrics muddies “Levon” and “Take Me to the Pilot”, but he otherwise seems utterly rejuvenated by the performance. After each major tune, he punches the air or flexes his biceps like he’s just KO’d Tyson Fury – you’d think he could crack on for another 50 years or so. As he emerges for the encore in a jewel-studded dressing gown for a karaoke duet with a virtual Dua Lipa on “Cold Heart” – his disco-fied “Sacrifice” – the final curtain clearly beckons, and we’re in for a teary send-off. Tonight, 52 years in, “Your Song” proves itself still capable of giving the gods goosebumps and a bitter-sweet “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” closes, in typically irreverent fashion, with Elton riding a stairlift to the stars. There’ll be musical life beyond the yellow brick road, he promises, but the stage will certainly seem bereft without one of history’s greatest showmen.
