AS WITH many veteran artists, there is a formula for an Elton John show. He will wear something gaudy, point at individual members of the audience, at least attempt to climb on his piano and regularly go walkabout to press the flesh with the front ro
ws. He will also systematically tick off all the most obvious favourites from his back catalogue (so no Nikita then) with an efficient sense of duty.
In Glasgow, even a lesser- known track – Skyline Pigeon from his debut album Empty Sky – was performed because of a fan request. So if turning up and playing the hits is all that is required to keep the audience happy, so be it. This being Scotland, a Saltire flag was added to the mix.
But this was a poor performance. Unlike, say, Leonard Cohen, age does not become Sir Elton. He can no longer scale the vocal range of his younger self, leaving percussionist John Mahon to deal with those tricky high notes. Fair enough, it happens. But his vocal tone was often ugly and unsuited to tremulous ballads such as Sacrifice and Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word, both of which were just painful.
The large screens did him and his leathery band of "seasoned" musicians no favours, although one had to admire Edinburgh-born guitarist Davey Johnstone's meticulously tonged locks and drummer Nigel Olsson's customised drum kit and matching shocking-pink shirt ensemble. Less admirable was their collusion in the blaring arrangements that robbed the set of any subtlety or dynamic.
Tiny Dancer was not as lithe as it once was, but at least Bennie and the Jets is supposed to be strident. An extended Rocket Man, meanwhile, exemplified the best and worst of the set, degenerating from creative early 70s odyssey to tedious pub rocker – a metaphor for Elton John's career, perhaps?
