Five years ago, Elton John was just another schlub like the rest of us. He was broke half the time, he was shorter even than Robert Redford, his hair was already beginning to thin, he was usually more plump than he liked and he wore glasses as thick as Coke-bottle bottoms. Hardly what you’d call a head start in the Rock Star Derby; he would have stumped any To Tell the Truth panel asked to make the real next Mick Jagger please stand up.

Last year he made $7,000,000—and did the impossible: released an album, Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy, that entered the charts at number one and shipped platinum—music-biz jargon for $1,000,000 worth of sales—overnight. Nobody had ever done both before—not the Beatles, the Stones, Sinatra, John Denver. Then, a couple of months ago, he promptly topped himself with Rock of the Westies, which shipped $1,400,000 and again entered the charts at number one.

Elton has become the biggest thing ever to hit the music business, partly because he seems to appeal to—or at least not alienate—all sorts of different people. Teeny-boppers adore him; people who would be moved to murder by Led Zeppelin don’t go for their shotguns when they hear him; and even Rolling Stone sometimes likes what he does—according to its lights, anyway. That’s why his string of singles lighting up the charts stretched uninterrupted for nearly four years, broken only briefly last fall, a record topped only by—can you guess?—Pat Boone. Converting that into plastic, it means nearly 35,000,000 singles have sold world-wide; and his 13 albums are somewhere in the 40,000,000 range, which makes it easy to understand the vinyl shortage. All that vinyl in turn converts, along with touring and little asides like being the platformed Pinball Wizard in the film version of Tommy, into $7,000,000 annually, which in turn converts into a $1,000,000 house in Beverly Hills, another outside London, 200 pairs of shoes, eyeglasses of every shade and outrageous configuration, his own record company, a budding art collection of elegant ceramic deco ladies, more singles and albums than he can count, jukeboxes, pinball machines—whatever gleams next in his eye.

But in August of 1970 he was another unknown here. That changed in a week. On his first trip to America, he played the Troubadour in Los Angeles to audiences consisting mostly of the rock press and assorted music-biz types—a group of people who generally strive mightily to be as jaded and blasé as they are sun-tanned and lean. This time they all went berserk. In a famous review that launched Rocket Man into the skies, Robert Hilburn of the Los Angeles Times began: “Rejoice. Rock music, which has been going through a rather uneventful period lately, has a new star. He’s Elton John, a 23-year-old Englishman whose United States debut…was, in almost every way, magnificent.” Back here in colder regions, we thought at first that all of them had been out in the sun too long. His first American album, Elton John, was all gloomy and doomy, with a brooding, poetic portrait of him on the front and strings to boot—not bad, but not our idea of rock ‘n’ roll. What were those people hollering?

We found out when first we saw him live, Mr. Hyde incarnate, pounding the piano like Little Richard possessed, jumping around on top of it wearing a sequined something or other and a feather boa and flashing neon sunglasses and God knows what else, manic and sweating, forcing the energy to levels higher and higher…and, yes, that was rock ‘n’ roll.

In the years since, we have watched him become, in the astronomy of the hype wizards, a megastar (better and more durable than a nova or a supernova, with their depressing implications of grandly dying light). And as that’s happened, we’ve all heard more and more about his life out of the studio and offstage, when the Alice in Wonderland costumes are back in the closet:

His passion for tennis, and Billie Jean King as a partner; his long-distance collaboration with lyricist Bernie Taupin, who’s written almost every word that Elton’s made famous; popping up onstage to jam with the Rolling Stones; stark tabloid pictures of him decked out in spangles and fur at some fancy L.A. bash, his arm around Bob Dylan or Cher.

It seemed a good time to get his version of it all, find out how it all looked from the roller coaster. So we sent freelancer Eugenie Ross-Leming and Staff Writer David Standish (the same team that got Cher to say all those surprising things in last October’s interview) to talk with him in his newly bought mansion up in the canyon hills. As Eugenie told us about it:

“Nine a.m. is too early to talk to anyone other than the milkman, let alone an anointed megastar, but with our rented Dodge overheating and our own heads in that peculiar brain-baked state that hits you in Southern California, we headed east on Sunset toward Elton’s Benedict Canyon home. We followed PR man Dick Grant’s secret and thorough instructions and continued our cruise up streets lined with palm trees sprouting along the curbs like hormone-infused pineapples. The canyon road steepened and close to the top, right below Alice Cooper’s place—which had mysteriously burned down the previous night—was Elton’s house. It’s Moorish, with a high wall in front and an arched walkway, a fountain and lush greenery—sort of an Alhambra a go-go.

“We talked with him by the pool, under a Bedouin-style enclosure. Coffee and cookies kept us going, although Elton had already played several sets of tennis before our arrival. We talked about superstardom, sex, drugs, politics, music, and just why he is where he is—living the laid-back life in a house smelling of bougainvillaea and Twenties decadence, with the ghost of Garbo listening in his gazebo—and, of course, where he’s going from here. We started by asking him, well, why him?”

PLAYBOY: You were recently voted Rock Personality of the Year. Why do you think people are so fascinated by you?

JOHN: Most people are nosy.

PLAYBOY: Any other reasons occur to you?

JOHN: Well, most people think I’ve got so much money, more than I really have. Hell, Paul Simon has more money than me. He’s into his own publishing. But people are fascinated by anyone who’s got money.

PLAYBOY: Some press reports estimate that you make $7,000,000 a year, which is a healthy allowance.

JOHN: I wouldn’t say that. I probably flaunt it more than anyone else. I spend lots on myself. That’s probably why I got that Rock Personality thing, ’cause I’m the only one who spends money. You forget about the quiet rich—at least you can gossip about me. I dress for it.

PLAYBOY: Yes, you do. Would flamboyant be too strong a word?

JOHN: Oh, I just like to get up and have a lark. I do it tongue in cheek with an “up yours” attitude. I love people who expect me to wear great, feathery costumes—and I do it. It’s like an actor getting into his costume for his part. I don’t really feel the part until I’m into whatever I’m going to wear.

I’m pretty well making up for lost time. Not having had a real teenage life, I’m living those 13-to-19 years now. Mentally I may be 28, but somewhere half of me is still 13. That may be why I dress like a kid onstage. I know I look ridiculous sometimes, absolutely idiotic, but remember, when I started, I was quite rotund. I mean, I’m not exactly your normal teenage idol.

PLAYBOY: What makes you say that?

JOHN: For one thing, I’m quite aware that my hair’s falling out–which is a real drag, because it didn’t happen to the rest of my family. It must be because I was a silly cunt and dyed my hair a lot. So, since I’ve just discovered I don’t want to be bald, I might have a hair transplant. It’s just a matter of going down there with the courage to say, “I want some more hair, please.”

PLAYBOY: The rock press ought to have quite a time with that bit of news. Given your enormous publicity, what’s the worst thing you’ve read about yourself?

JOHN: Well, let’s clear up that incident with the Rolling Stones.

PLAYBOY: You mean the one reported in Rolling Stone magazine—that you barged on stage during the Stones tour and they weren’t exactly happy about it?

JOHN: Yes. Here’s what happened: Mick Jagger asked me to sit in on “Honky Tonk Woman.” I did and then left the stage to watch the show. Later, this roadie gets me and says Billy Preston wants me to join them. So I did. Then I read in Rolling Stone how Keith Richards was pissed that I wouldn’t split the stage. I’m fed up with those damn fucking lies. They don’t get their fucking facts right. Rolling Stone is becoming the National Enquirer of rock ‘n’ roll, and they have no sense of humor whatever.

Now, Creem magazine I adore. They have a sense of humor. They run some very good pieces, and often you’ll read something about yourself that’s entirely insulting but very funny. In their poll this year, I figured in every section. Asshole of the Year, Hero of the Year, Rip-off of the Year.… I really liked that, because it was funny.

PLAYBOY: What are some of the more bizarre rumors about you?

JOHN: There’s one guy who writes for the Daily Express; he’s got a gossip column. He’s printed a couple of things about me—they’ve not been nasty or anything, they’ve just been absolute rubbish. When Evel Knievel was supposed to jump that canyon in the rocket, I was supposedly by his side, singing the national anthem. There I was, sitting in my house, going, Oh, yeah? And silly stuff like having my head superimposed on someone else’s body or headlines like “Elton Loves Ann-Margret” or “Elton Elopes with Cher.” Well, Cher’s eloped with everyone. The National Star wrote that I’d become an egomaniac when I broke up the band and said I believed after my role in Tommy that I was the world’s biggest film star. At that time, I was hiding behind the walls of my Hollywood mansion. Not even my servants knew where I was.

PLAYBOY: Does that stuff piss you off?

JOHN: The things that upset me are the lies. I get very mad at people saying I’m a four-chord musician, with only a four-chord style. I was trying to think of one song I’d written with only four chords in it but couldn’t come up with one. That upsets me. I hate trash magazines. People believe them, that’s the thing about it.… When I read something in the National Star which is absolute rubbish, I say, “Well, how dare they print that?” But then I’ll go on to the next page and read something about someone else and I’ll go, Hmmm…did they really do that? I mean, I’m the first person to get sucked in. But some of them are really sickening. People behind gossip magazines should be run off the street, tied up in stocks, and everyone should throw bad cabbages at them. I’ll lead the way!

PLAYBOY: Do the rumors and publicity make you want to hide, get away?

JOHN: I refuse to become a recluse. And there are inconveniences to stardom, but you just put up with them. If I get stopped for autographs 1,700 times a day, then I get stopped. I’m certainly not gonna shut myself away; I still go out and buy my own groceries. But crazy things can happen. One day recently, I woke up and there was this chick sitting on the bed right next to me. I’m a bit blind without my glasses. I said, “Who are you?” And she said, “Oh, you don’t know me.” She’d gotten in without a key. Christ, it could have been someone with a fucking gun.

PLAYBOY: How did she get your address?

JOHN: The CIA should have the sources these kids have. We never told anyone where I live. Eight people have the phone number, and still it’s gotta be changed every two weeks.

Another weird thing is the fans’ morbid curiosity. Like, the other night Alice Cooper’s house burned down. And people are driving up with their girlfriends and asking, “Can we park?” I mean, it’s fucking sick. People just want to see what’s going down. They probably don’t believe you go to the toilet.

From the January 1979 PLAYBOY.