You’re never who you think you are.
Sometime in the eighties, an old lady approached me and asked, “Mr. Elton, may I have your autograph?” I told her that I wasn’t Elton but David Bowie. She replied, “Oh, thank goodness. I couldn’t stand his red hair and all that makeup.”
They’re never who you think they are.
When I first came to America, around 1971, my New York guide told me one day that the Velvet Underground were to play later that night at the Electric Circus, which was about to close. I was the biggest fan in the UK, I believe. I got to the gig early and positioned myself at the front by the lip of the stage. The performance was great, and I made sure that Lou Reed could see that I was a true fan by singing along to all the songs. After the show, I moved to the side of the stage to where the door of the dressing room was located. I knocked, and one of the band members answered. After a few gushing compliments, I asked if I could have a few words with Lou. He looked bemused but told me to wait a second. After only moments, Lou came out, and we sat and talked about songwriting for ten minutes or so. I left the club floating on cloud nine — a teenage ambition achieved. The next day, I told my guide what a blast it had been to see the Velvets live and meet Lou Reed. He looked at me quizzically for a second, then burst into laughter. “Lou left the band some time ago,” he said. “You were talking to his replacement, Doug Yule.”