Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

When I took piano lessons, I had one goal: to be able to play like Elton John. I knew that playing "Sonatina" and any number of classical preludes were the building blocks I needed to make my dreams a reality. I practiced with that intent, and only a trace of resignation. I knew that it might take years before I was kicking over my stool and playing on my back while lying on top of the piano. I hoped that it would come soon.
Over time, I started to notice a certain amount of diminished return: I wasn't getting a lot better, no matter how hard I practiced. I lied about how much I practiced. I told my mother I had practice when I hadn't. I started to let go of my dream. Then I went to my very first rock and roll show - little Reginald Dwight all grown up, Elton John.
My parents drove us down to Denver and dropped us off in front of the newly opened McNichols Sports Arena: my older brother and his girlfriend, my younger brother and myself. My father had acquired the tickets from some connection of his in the publishing biz, and so we were afforded box seats, just below the overhang of the upper level, two on one side of the arena, two on the other. My little brother and I (he really was smaller than I was back then) were shown to our seats, and my older brother went off into the haze with his girlfriend. I was twelve, my little brother was nine. The lights went down, and the show began.
Two and a half hours later, my ears were ringing, my eyes were watering, and I couldn't wipe the smile from my face. "Saturday Night's All Right For Fightin'" was as big and bad as anything I had ever imagined. This was right about the time that Elton played "Pinball Wizard" for the film version of "Tommy." I thought the roof of the newly-minted sports complex might come off.
My parents had spent the evening across the street, watching from the lounge of the hotel that rose up next to McNichols. There was no way for them to know what was happening to us - to me. When the concert ended, we waited at our seats for my older brother who led us back out through the throng to where my parents waited anxiously in the family station wagon. We all wanted to tell them about our favorite parts, but the persistent ringing in our ears made communication all but impossible.
The next morning, my ears were still ringing. I worried that it might be permanent damage. Still, I couldn't help but smile - and after school I sat down at the piano and practiced for a good half hour.