Elton John and Ray Cooper together again You are Elton John Your zest for life seems to grow as the years go by

For over half a century you have balanced yourself atop a piano bench, singing to smoky pubs and overflowing stadiums. You have measured the planet a million times, entertained countries that no longer exist, composed for royalty and cartoon characters.

You have worn the badge of the Knight Bachelor; you’ve donned tutus and tail feathers.

The memories of two generations have poured from your fingertips. You have taken the phrase “the soundtrack of our lives” from figurative to literal. You’re a miner for gold at a concert grand, a tightrope walker on piano wire.

You could extract a melody from a stock report.

You adore your flowers, finery and furnishings. You have caused spectacles, filled newspaper columns with articles of clothing. Your life is packed with studios and galleries, referee’s calls and charities.

Your idea of slowing down is to do twenty things at once.

You chase the sun with passport in hand.

Red Piano…Rocket Man…solo…with Billy Joel…you name it...

In the past you have had more than a dozen people playing behind you on stage.

Tonight you have but one.

You are Elton John. You are Ray Cooper You are the übercussionist

Since swapping the smell of the greasepaint for the roar of rock and roll, you have played on over eighty Elton John recordings. Your first tour was in 1974, and you instantly won over audiences with your stage persona, tambourine-tossing, and duck call solo on Honky Cat.

You can also be heard on other hits of the day: you have rocked on - you were so vain - you have been through the desert on a horse with no name.

When you’ve set aside your bells and whistles you have had adventures with Beatles, time bandits and Baron Munchausen. You have been captured on film from Russia to Brazil.

But most of all,

You have been missed.

Tonight, you are not in the band,

You ARE the band.

You are Ray Cooper. You are The Piano You are the keeper of the keys

You are limousine-black and nine feet long, filled with the echoes of Mozart, Mingus, and Chico Marx.

You speak in chords and melodies. You are sanctuary for the song; the back-catalogue’s Filofax. You are You are the womb for the unwritten tune. The Tambourine You can waltz, you can rock, you can honky-tonk. You weep, then you laugh, then you ponder. You are wood… Wired to the soundboard and the MIDI and the speakers.

You sit so still and well-behaved. and metal… You’ve been tickled and slapped, and still sustain. and skin The voice of reason amongst the surrounding chaos. You are stroked, smacked and tossed. You bring us to our feet; you bring tears to our cheeks. You shudder at the slightest touch, you swagger on the chorus. You are the piano. You wait for the downbeat and then spring in to action.

You glow in the moment before punctuation.

Vertically, horizontally, magnetically drawn to the hand that doesn’t hold you.

You are an impact statement repeatedly waiting to happen.

You are the tambourine. You are The Song You are born of inspiration

You are inevitable and invisible.

You can carouse; you can cajole.

You are part poetry and the rest alchemy.

You have been created…rehearsed…recorded – usually all within a few short hours – and you have been captured at each turn.

Captured by the cowboy on assorted scraps of paper.

Captured by the muse who gave you to the musician who pulled you through the piano that brought you down to Earth.

Captured on magnetic tape and in binary code.

Multi-tracked and equalized.

Faded out and organized.

Set in stone, and sold in stores.

Captured with guitar licks and bass lines, harmonies and symphonies; all stitched together in the fabric of the final product.

And tonight, you will be released.

Released like doves from a preacher’s hands.

Released to breathe and stretch and yawn.

Released to tell the story yet again.

You are the song. “It’s for people like you that keep it turned on...”