Extraordinary songs from an ordinary man - and vice versa -
A secret: this post was supposed to cover something else. The ill-fated revival of a once-successful TV series, marred by the most ridiculous fashion extravaganzas and stifling political correctness. But last night I made the mistake, perhaps, of straying from the topic and watching the new documentary Billy Joel: And So It Goes. -available in two parts on HBO Max- and now I can't think, much less write, about anything other than this: the nobility of a musician and his work.
The subject matter is sensitive: many of us were surprised two months ago when Billy [I've decided to call him by his first name because, at this point, he's like an uncle to me], 76, shared his diagnosis of normal pressure hydrocephalus, a disorder that causes problems with hearing, vision and balance, and canceled an international tour that was also set to feature guests such as Sting, Stevie Nicks and Rod Stewart. The decision was abrupt and he's not one to shy away, let's say: he was the artist with the longest residency - a decade, 150 shows - at Madison Square Garden in Manhattan.
In this state of affairs, we now see this wonderful documentary - produced by the actor Tom Hanks - already skin deep, we learn facts that we ignored or we rediscover passages from his rich discography - so unfairly despised by a more intellectual and snobbish sector of the critics -, especially his first two albums, which he released at the dawn of the 70s, with an astonishing compositional maturity for his young 22 years.
The film is filled with testimonies from colleagues, family members, and even a neighbor, who recall the difficulties the musician and his sister endured in their childhood home on Long Island ; anecdotes from recordings; and some surprising statements from Billy himself, for whom success for a long time "was just paying the bills" ("This guy, Billy Joel, I don't really know who he is," he says at one point. "I run into him every time I'm out on the street and people point him out to me."). But of the myriad memories and vestiges of memory the documentary unearths, I'm left with three.
In 1973, with a record deal signed but facing serious financial difficulties and practically forced to move with his budding family to the West Coast (precisely Billy, the quintessential New Yorker ), he began working under a pseudonym as a simple pianist in a Hollywood bar . The seemingly daunting experience became the exquisite “Piano Man” , a hymn to ordinary people, the story of some regulars who meet up in a lounge on a Saturday night, filled with thoughts and drinks in hand , “while the piano sounds like a carnival and the microphone smells faintly of beer,” the lyrics say.
Shortly after, already more established, he put aside his dream of recording with George Martin (the "Fifth Beatle") when the legendary producer agreed to work with him, but imposed the condition that all the musicians in what had long been his stable band be replaced. Billy chose his friends, "his gang."
And finally, his bond with Elizabeth Weber, his first love, the strong woman who brought him fame, who was his wife, his manager, and the inspiration for so many of his most wonderful songs ( “Just the Way You Are,” since we're talking anthems). “Together, we were more than the sum of our parts,” she recalls now in the documentary, with visible tenderness.
In 2016, I saw one of his shows at Madison Square Garden . I was struck by his naturalness as a balladeer in a suit and tie, a guy who never considered himself a star despite being the fourth-best-selling solo artist in his country, who never struck a stage pose. So many decades later, there he was: an ordinary man who made extraordinary songs, or perhaps an extraordinary man whose greatest talent is making us believe he's one of us. That simple, great pianist from the bar.
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