Returning to the Well
After writing off much of yesterday, I finally got to the cinema with my eldest daughter on Sunday afternoon – a promised trip to watch “Rocketman”. A second visit for myself, and a first exposure for her to both the man and his music. Sure, she's heard one or two of Elton's songs on the radio over the years, but the movie tied them to a living, breathing, walking disaster, fully aware of his vices, gremlins, and fallibilities.
I just about made it through the movie without falling apart. I'm not quite sure what it is about my make-up – if it's about escapism, or empathy – but I tend to get affected really easily by emotional scenes in movies. Don't even talk to me about the grave scene in Forrest Gump. So yes, ahem, anyway. I made it through the movie with only a few tears, and then as the lights came up we wandered back out into the lobby. I didn't have to ask her what she thought.
“That was so much better than I thought it was going to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything really. The music. Mostly the music.” (she hates musicals)
We spent the next few minutes walking towards a coffee shop – our bus home wouldn't depart for another three quarters of an hour – exchanging favorite moments. I'm not sure I can remember her being as excited following a movie in the past.
It feels like I'm passing something on to her when she discovers music. I guess a part of it is to do with growing up – getting older – and seeing beyond the latest bands, fashions, and so on – realising that the whole circus has come this way before. Some songs are timeless – the struggles singer-songwriters sang about forty years ago have remained much the same. The movie of course binds the music and words to a relateable person struggling with sexuality, relationships, love, notoriety, fame, and everything in-between.
While eating dinner this evening – a collection of leftovers from the freezer – my other half delved into the random collection of vinyl albums that have sat unplayed for the last however many years, and came up with a yellow vinyl gate-fold album.
“Goodbye Yellow Brick Road”
Our fifteen year old daughter laughed as the album was unfurled across the now empty plates on the dinner table.
“Why would you even keep this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well... it's old.”
She left moments later to watch YouTube, while her older sister quietly picked at leftover salad, and the title track began to play.