Bernie Taupin eagerly and cordially invites you to a coming out party—no, to a public unpeeling of a second banana. No longer is he content to be a byline on a sheet of music. The man wants some recognition.

“ . . . but that’s how Taupin is— trashy, cheap, small-time. I always managed to keep him under wraps — well out of the way —but now the little twerp wants fame, fortune, recognition of his own.” —Elton John from the introduction of Bernie Taupin, The One Who Writes The Words for Elton John.

To most of the free world, Bernie Taupin is known as the guy who writes the lyrics for Elton John’s songs. And, as everyone knows, lyricists are usually an invisible breed—just look at Hal Davis or Robert Hunter. Such was the case with Bernie, whose personal appearances were limited to venturing off the stage apron only under duress; like the time the bass player threatened to bend the F key on Bernie’s IBM Selectric unless he picked up a tambourine and joined Elton and the band during one of their showy and colossal encores.

After a few more such incidents, Bernie actually began to like the limelight under the Super Troupers—and thought that maybe it was time to come out from behind his steno pad. He came out alright and went all the way to Elektra Records and recorded an album of his own. Not a rock ‘n’ roll endeavor, like the efforts of his glitzy other half, but two sides of gooey and forgettable poetry. The album went thankfully unnoticed by the public, and Taupin, undaunted by its lack of success was still determined to elevate his profile and shrug off his image of the pensive and reclusive wordsmith.

“I’m not what the publicity handouts try to purport me to be . . . you know, quiet, reserved. I’m not at all like that, but I guess that’s how writers are meant to be. I’m totally the opposite. I get my inspirations partly from booze, TV, and especially from the lowest part of the social ladder. I love sleazy places. When I was in New York City, Freddie Mercury and I went to this place called the Gilded Grape which is frequented by six foot tall transvestites, and I got some superb ideas for songs from there. I love writing songs about hookers and pimps and such . . .”

Bernie trails off, savoring his own seedy images, then suddenly snaps back and reveals confidentially that: “You know, I don’t even like to think of myself as a writer. I like to think of myself as a personality.” There is a studied nonchalance as he fingers the diamond earring in his left ear; he will later make sure that I know it was a birthday gift from Cher.

A personality? Surely Bernie fancies himself a star, but I argue: “For the past 8 years you have been writing lyrics, so I’d say that brands you as a writer.”

“Oh, but in general, writing takes up so little of my time,” he informs me casually, draining a can of Coors before continuing. “I’ve tried a hand at producing, I’ve made an album, I’m working on another, I’m trying to get into acting, I’ve put together, along with Alan Aldridge, an animated version of Captain Fantastic and The Brown Dirt Cowboy, and of course I’ve got a book out,” he finally finishes, delivering the whole spiel without once taking a breath. Seems he is very much multi-multi-media man, but after all, the purpose of this tete-a-tete is to discuss his book, so I’m determined to steer him back to the topic at hand, and ask him the sixty-four dollar question: How did he get his start as a writer?

“I got into the thing purely out of desperation. I was good at it in school, but not particularly interested in writing because, my God, I was 16, in the prime of life and too interested in having a good time. But after I left school everything else ended up at a dead end, so I decided to try writing. I mean, I never really thought you could make a career out of it. I thought that only happened in books and movies.”

I asked him whether he ever thought he and Elton would be so successful.

“No, I had no idea. Elton and I used to think we were very unloved and the world was out to get us. We’d start to get to a point where things were really happening, and then all of a sudden, something would come and knock us down. But we did have a great amount of drive and of course we thought we’d go places, but I know we never dreamed we’d be this big.

“In fact, to quote the Carpenters, ‘We’ve only just begun.’ The early stuff we did was so stiff and starch; I hate it. I’d rather see a million Rock of the Westies than one Elton John. I was taking myself so seriously in the early albums and Elton was just learning how to sing. In fact, on the Elton John album he had just begun to sing! But now Elton is much, much better. He puts so much more feeling into the music than he ever did before and his voice is so much better now.”

I decided to throw a rather common criticism at him. “I tend to think you go a bit too far, the way you overload the market with albums.”

“I know what the world doesn't need is another Elton John album,” explains Bernie. “I know Here and There is just out, but that is not a legitimate album as far as we’re concerned. We had nothing to do with it. Dick James put it out in England and he’s allowed to, so there’s nothing we can do about it. Elton, John Reid and I decided to release only one album per year, but we know Dick James is still going to put out tracks he’s compiled, like Best Of, Volume 300. We get upset because people go ‘Oh shit, not another Elton John album,’ and it’s so maddening because it’s not our fault.” Maddening maybe, but profitable. Speaking of cash “Isn’t Elton a little wealthier than you?” I ask.

“Oh, I hope so!” he laughs with forced gusto. “Of course he is, but don’t worry, I get a good screw,” he leers. “I get cuts of things that I’m normally not likely to get. I get performance and record royalties.”

"The early stuff we did was so stiff and starch; I hate it. I’d rather see a million Rock of the Westies than one Elton John."

“But don’t you miss the applause?” I prod.

“O my God no! I wouldn’t want to perform.' I get too much of a buzz watching Elton and the boys perform. I feel like part of the band anyways and when the crowd applauds I’ve always felt it was as much for me as for Elton because the songs are both of ours. Why should I be jealous?” he asks me.

“Oh no reason,” I blandly comment.

“You know Elton isn’t jealous of me either,” Bernie tells me. “He’s really excited about all the projects I do, and he really went beserk when my book hit number two in England. He’s not the sort who wants to keep me under wraps.”

TURN TO PAGE 68.

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 45.

“So then you two are still close companions?” I ask.

“We’re very close in a brother-like relationship. That’s only natural since we went through all those years together in the basement flat. I really don’t see him that much anymore. We relate very much in a telepathic sort of existence.”

“You mean you’ve broken up?” I kid.

“Oh no!” Bernie says largely. “We both have our own circle of friends, and we both have our own careers. That’s good because I don’t want to be totally locked into his way of life.”

“Is yours so different?” I wonder aloud.

“Well, my friends are shitkickers. Elton’s are much posher. You can tell the difference between a party Elton gives and one of mine. Elton’s parties are elegant and very, very Hollywood. At one of mine people are liable to arrive on horseback in cowboy outfits, and there’s beer instead of the champagne Elton serves.”

Since the duo seem to travel in different social climes, maybe they aren’t the fagabond-lovers rumor has made them out to be. And haven’t the columnists linked Taupin with the lovely Lynsey De Paul lately? Well, here I am, right at half of the horses’ mouth so what can I do, but ask the three dollar question. With a nervous plunge, I ask Bernie-boy whether he and Elton are a “couple.”

“God, I still come up with that so much. People are still wondering whether I'm a faggot or not. I don’t know what the fascination is. I’m really tired of what people think. I mean, they can think Elton and I make out with pigs if they like. My new motto is: ‘I’ve been nice for eight years, and now I don’t give a fuck.’ I’m sure people think that Elton John and I are, uh . . . you know, hitting it off together but it doesn’t bother me. Seventy-five percent of the music business is gay anyway, and you can’t help coming across those people all the time. I know millions of people who are gay. In fact, the only decent club to go to is a gay club anyways, and of course I get propositioned, but everybody does, so it doesn’t mean a thing. Those kinds of things don’t inhibit me. I have nothing to hide. The greater your popularity , the greater the gossip is and the greater your resistance against it becomes. I say live and let live,” he expounds.

“But don’t you think people figure you’re of the happier persuasion, just because of guilt by association?” I ask innocently.

“I don’t give a shit what they think. The press is always insisting “Daniel” is about two fags. It’s actually about a war veteran, but no one believes me. Maybe I’ll write a gay song one day just to keep everybody happy, or better, maybe when I get older I’ll get bored and become an old queen.”