‘It was a completely bonkers time’: Bernie Taupin reflects on Elton, the Sebel and the wonder of Sydney
Touring with Elton John in the 1980s was a riot of booze, drugs and sex. As his lyricist Bernie Taupin writes, it reached its zenith in the glow of the harbour city.
There is a heightened light about Australia, and Sydney in particular. It shines with a crystalline radiance that bounces off the harbour and engulfs this architecturally magnificent city with a cone of complete clarity. I’ll draw the line at utopian comparisons, but making my first trip there was like diving off the deck of the Flying Dutchman.
At this time in history, in early 1984, young men and women came to Sydney in droves from all across the globe. They came to serve time, not in chains like the country’s famous convict forebears, but in electric boots, mohair suits, and with really loud guitars.
I had needed some breathing room, and the coasting nature of things back home wasn’t providing me with lucidity in my work or an honest equilibrium in my personal life. Arriving with Elton’s Too Low for Zero tour in Sydney – a place built on the crack of the whip and the muscle of sweating human chattel – was refreshing and stimulating in equal measure. The country itself and its distribution of cultural diversity was enlightening. Like a colossal cake of unequally proportioned slices, it’s a big-ass island harbouring a divergent collision of all things UK and USA. The cosmopolitan elements of its cities are built around hip universal themes while its boomer populace retains a proclivity for British humour hinged on a very tea-and-crumpets familiarity. Recording artists, comedians and television personalities purely connected to the UK and nowhere else have found continued popularity and healthy shots of career stability in Oz.
Upon arrival we checked into The Sebel Townhouse, Sydney’s very own rock ‘n’ roll Mecca. The Sebel was a boutique operation with a mere 160 rooms, 40 of which we initially occupied. It was modern and comfortable, with a surreptitious vibe – sort of like a hip Chelsea Hotel without the bacteria and weird smell. It was located in the Kings Cross area of the city, none too savoury, but edgy enough to heighten its desirability. The Sebel catered to the idiosyncrasies of its guests, turned a blind eye to indiscretion and had a tiny world-class bar, so it was irresistible.
One of its greatest attributes was the night manager, Steve Rowland. Steve became like an extra wheel in our touring party due not only to his sublime affability, but his prowess in making over-padded bills go away and seeing that anyone in our tribe knew how to find anyone else at any given time. This latter quality got him christened “Reuters” by Elton, a man who felt everyone needed a sobriquet. Rod Stewart was Phyllis, Freddie Mercury was Melina as in Mercouri, and I for unknown reasons was briefly christened Mavis. Things got interesting the minute we arrived. During recording of the Too Low for Zero album on the Caribbean island of Montserrat, Elton had struck up a close friendship with a German sound engineer called Renate Blauel. It was an odd set of circumstances, and while everyone found Elton’s fixation with this perfectly delightful young lady curious, the mere fact that he was spending so much of his free time with her sparked a lot of speculation.
During that period, Elton had been more in the habit of flying his infatuations in and out of whatever location we found ourselves in. He seemed to be in love with someone different every week – usually young men who were smitten with his attention, or the occasional hustler on the make. Either way, they would come and go in a revolving door–like manner: here today, gone tomorrow, and on occasion back again the day after they’d gone the first time. So it was a shock when Elton returned to The Sebel one night after an Indian meal with Renate and announced that he was getting married. Whether the strength of the curry was to blame for playing havoc with his mental state rather than his digestive system could not be determined, although the collective reaction of the band and crew was certainly one of emotional indigestion. “Oh good grief, here we go again...” Memories came flooding back of Elton’s first sabotaged stab at wedlock with Linda Hannon. In actuality it made even less sense now than it had in 1968. Back then, at least, he was still in a quandary over his sexual orientation. Now, however, he’d had 14 years of nothing but gay relationships, both committed and recreational. The absurdist nature of it was solidified by the two individuals he chose as his best men. One, his manager and first live-in lover, John Reid; the other, his spiritual boyfriend, yours truly.
Impulsive and deadset against anyone getting the last laugh, my friend was not joking. Given his irascible nature back then, it was not something anyone wanted to argue with or question. It just wasn’t worth it, and while most of us doubted this was a union that would be any more successful than attempting to raise the Titanic with tweezers, we just shrugged our shoulders and took advantage of the festivities. As you might imagine, everything was done to excess, especially in regard to alcohol and marching powder. The Sebel bar was practically drained dry as we smashed all previous records for the amount of money taken at the bar in one night. The reception, also held at the hotel, was stuffed to the gills with all manner of exotic foods and ridiculously high-end wine. I mean, we’re talking bottles of Margaux and Montrachet of collectable vintage, which I imagine went unnoticed by many of the revellers.
During the evening, I entertained an obviously booze-motivated proposal. Russell Mulcahy, the flashy and inventive director of MTV’s most groundbreaking videos, including Elton’s iconic I’m Still Standing, was moving into motion pictures and planning a time-travelling fantasy action adventure called Highlander. It should be noted that grand plans made under the influence of weighty drinking and drug-fuelled nights lose gravitas in the morning light. That being said, he actually sent me the script and even indicated a part I might be interested in. I took the offer seriously for five minutes. When I couldn’t secure an AFTRA card [for union accreditation] in time, I let it go.
It was a completely bonkers time and just one more episodein a decade when things were careening all over the place, illogical and out of control. The ’80s were the apex of our drug intake and alcoholism, yet this decade also saw some good work from Elton and I, the Too Low for Zero album in particular. In terms of low points, the albums Leather Jackets (made in a complete blizzard of nihilism) and the abysmal Jump Up! (which at least had the exceptional Lennon tribute song Empty Garden) were among our most erroneous. The problem with the rest of our output is that while it was interspersed with some very good songs, they got lost in our catalogue due to a couple of things. In the wake of punk and new wave, we were not terribly hip, and with our addictions marring our sense of purpose I imagine we believed ourselves better than we really were. We had our moments in the sun, but since being reunited at the offset of the decade, we were still not connected the way I would have preferred, our inner demons and dependencies taking pride of place, our social interaction restricted to not much else but the studio. That being said, should I, still his devoted friend, stick my oar in once the nuptials had been announced? Maybe, but what would have been the point? It would have just fallen on deaf ears and caused a rift that I wasn’t about to induce due to my own personal life.
I had recently remarried, after thinking, “How could it be any worse than the first time around?” It wasn’t, not even close. But it was still a mistake; it should have been a temporary relationship rather than a fully announced, “I do.” By the time my new wife arrived in Australia to perform bridesmaid duty, I was seriously doubting my commitment. Not that we had a lot of time to ingest the absurdity of our first few days here. Following Elton’s wedding and its complete bacchanalia, we were winging our way to New Zealand. Not sure how we made it, but the following night I was standing backstage in Christchurch, New Zealand, gazing at the Aurora Australis. I might not have been terribly educated in celestial science at the time, but boy in the aftermath of the previous few days this heavenly theatre left me completely lost for words. It was so magnificent and compliant of God’s hands that I only wish it had had as much of an effect on my morality back then as it did my vacuous ability to stare skyward and simply say, “Whoa, cool!” After more dates in New Zealand, a beautifully anachronistic country that was at the time belittled by the Aussie elite as tragically outdated, we returned to the hatchling incubation of The Sebel bar and the company of John, its smooth and gossipy barman.
In The Sebel bar we would encounter all manner of diversity.While it attracted emerging Australian movie heroes like Mel Gibson, it was the British oddities that made it unique. They were more than likely to be familiar only to we children of the English ’50s who had grown up on radio and the offerings of TV’s black-and-white era, but still there was a well-worn familiarity to them that made us chuckle with realisation and nostalgia. One of the more impressive regulars at the bar while we were there was England’s original guitar god, Hank Marvin. Marvin was legendary in the UK as the former lead guitarist for the Shadows, Britain’s premier instrumental combo of the pre-Beatles ’50s and ’60s. They had risen to fame as the backing band for Cliff Richard. Marvin would later relocate to Perth in 1986, but due to whatever performing duties he had currently agreed to, wound up on a stool at The Sebel bar.
The oddest of all bar sightings on this trip, and one who fit into the criteria I outlined previously, emerged from the crowd one night when the band and myself were enjoying a preshow cocktail. Not sure who it was among us who spotted him first, but due to his boisterous outcry I’m imagining it was guitarist Davey Johnstone. “F..k me, it’s Jimmy Edwards!” Well, yes, it was and who is Jimmy Edwards you may well ask? In post-war England, on both radio and TV, we’d grown up with Jimmy Edwards. He was a man of ample girth, booming voice, and a splendid handlebar moustache, a trademark that flared out from beneath his nostrils like a hairy pair of angel’s wings. He’d been enormously popular in the ’50s as a radio performer before moving into television. He was a huge favourite of mine and one of the first things I recall watching on our black-and-white box when the world was younger. In The Sebel bar, the old geezer seemed amiable enough and was up for anything if a free drink was involved. Did I mention he played the trombone? Well, he did and this is how Jimmy Edwards wound up walking on stage at the Sydney Entertainment Centre playing I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles on the trombone during an instrumental lull in Rocket Man.
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Elton later admitted that he thought he was hallucinating
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I’ve never actually ascertained whether he recognised his interloper. One thing’s for sure – I can absolutely, categorically attest to the fact that 99.9 per cent of the audience didn’t have a clue as to who Jimmy Edwards was and were as perplexed by his invasion of Elton’s space as the star himself.
It wouldn’t be the last time that Rocket Man drew a bizarre comedic accompanist to the stage, either. Several decades after William Shatner’s inexplicably surreal reading of the song, Jim Carrey walked on, sat himself down next to Elton and attempted to play a piano solo with his head.
By the time we got back to Australia in 1986, things had gotten progressively more stagnant on the home front, and I was desperate to find a more liberating release anywhere other than where I lived. Even at my worst, and during times of extreme bad behaviour, I can honestly say I remained on an even keel in regard to my morality. However, there are times that try a man’s soul. And in order to assess my state of mind at this particular time, I’m reminded of the lyric of Tommy Collins’s confessional ode to infidelity. Carolyn, delivered so impressively by Merle Haggard, says it all.
Yes, Carolyn, a man will do that sometime on his own
And sometimes when he’s lonely
And I believe a man might do that out of spite
but Carolyn a man will do that always
When he’s treated bad at home.
I’m not proud of the fact, yet in retrospect I feel no guilt or remorse that I found favour in the arms of others. A marriage without passion is a marriage of convenience. Without a fire in your heart you’re just coasting and running out of time. I was still young, and while I like to think that had the circumstances been different I would have remained true blue, it just wasn’t in the cards. While not technically agoraphobic, due to various forms of low self-esteem my wife wanted to leave the house less and less, which was ultimately fine with me. How do you go from writing declarations of love like I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues to aching admissions of adultery like Sacrifice? Live life like I was living it, desperately unhappy, and without even realising it looking for ways to screw it up.
Back in Australia, Elton was about to embark on a hugely ambitious tour incorporating the 88-piece Melbourne Symphony Orchestra and a stage costume that I imagine was supposed to be a cross between Mozart and 18th-century formal wear. Either way, it was over the top and totally in character with my friend’s determination to always set the bar a little higher than anyone was expecting. Bear in mind, this is the same tour that in the band portion of the set he sported a two-foot-high turquoise mohawk and dragged it up in a full impersonation of Tina Turner. There was an awful lot of people about, and quite honestly I felt a little lost. Not in a bad way, just in the way, which I didn’t mind. It wasn’t my wheelhouse, so in lieu of having anything to do, I stayed under the radar and rolled solo. For a while. Nights would find me occupying a table at La Strada, my favourite restaurant in Sydney’s Potts Point.
Owned and run by an Italian immigrant, Giovanna Toppi, it was a magnet for visiting musicians and celebs who flocked there in droves. More important than merely having a “cool hang vibe”, it was the food that kept me coming back. Giovanna had arrived in Australia penniless and had started her escalation to fame as a dishwasher in all manner of establishments before rising through the ranks to become the queen of Sydney eateries. She cooked, bussed tables, berated the inefficient, and was perfectly charming to those of us paying homage. I loved both her and her stylish room. Decorated with movie stills from the 1954 Federico Fellini movie that lent the restaurant its name, it was like my night-time office. It was here I’d round up a few waifs and strays not directly needed during showtime and carouse for an evening before heading back to The Sebel bar.
For those who might assume that I was simply coasting on a wave of Elton’s tour dollars and flaunting around as if I was owed this luxury by way of my lyrical contributions, take note. I was continually observing, always in the minute, drawing my blueprints from every single thing that steered into my path throughout the day and into the night. My penchant for observation was a constant. I loved writing, I loved chronicling life, and every moment whether I was cogent, sober, or blitzed, I was forever feeding off my surroundings, making copious notes for future compositions. I was deadly serious about my work and even in the times when I may have turned out subpar material, I’m not altogether sure it was due to excessive intakes of alcohol and narcotics. I believe there were times we were coasting and not as committed as we should have been, but as is the way of things we ultimately took our trip off cruise-control and got back to laying down some serious rubber. The thing is, good, bad or indifferent, I never stopped writing. It was as addictive as any drug. I was forever travelling the track and transporting the information back to the terminus. It might not always have been first-rate, but the masses of what I accumulated, once sifted through, offered glimpses of things worthwhile and worth pursuing.
Elton was appearing at the Sydney Entertainment Centre for eight nights with his orchestral show, and I was continuing my marital indiscretions. I’d embarked on a very freewheeling and secretive fling with Elton’s lone female backing singer, Shirley Lewis. It was dumb fun and, once again, an excuse to feel wanted rather than endure sterile cohabitation. Our friend, Steve Rowland, was no longer working at The Sebel, so with the regime change it was a slightly different environment. It was perhaps for the better: the less anyone knew about what I was up to, the less anyone got hurt. I was simply floating free and easy, always waiting to see what tomorrow had to offer.
This is an edited extract from Scattershot: Life, Music, Elton and Me by Bernie Taupin (Hachette, $34.99), out now
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