Elton John calls The Red Piano, the David LaChapelle-designed concert that has been packing them in at Caesar's Palace Colosseum in Las Vegas, "the most elaborate show we've put together". But then, as the video screen behind him bursts into life with images from his past - including footage of the singer being driven in a golf buggy with a pair of enormous illuminated glasses attached to the front - you're left thinking: yeah, but not by much. Elaborate is a relative concept in the world of Elton John.
Such is the buildup The Red Piano has received that, initially at least, the reality can't help but be faintly underwhelming. It's not as if it is the first stadium show to feature specially commissioned films, neon signs and inflatables dwarfing the stage, though it may well be the first stadium show to feature an uncomfortable dramatisation of its star's late 60s suicide bid. Still, no one employs David LaChapelle for his discreet good taste. When his films work, the effect is as spectacular as the advance billing would have you believe. A choreographed fight that accompanies Don't Let the Sun Go Down On Me is breathtaking. Philadelphia Freedom soundtracks a gleeful Day-Glo montage of majorettes, dancing hippies, vintage porn, and clips of John from over the years, his hairline going backwards and forwards like the tide at Bognor.
The set list is bulletproofed with hits, and John's performance is keener than you might expect from someone celebrating his 40th year of touring. Indeed, it might be too keen for its own good. His enthusiasm frequently expresses itself through lengthy extempore endings to songs: at one juncture, you begin to worry Rocket Man might still be staggering towards its conclusion when John celebrates his 41st year of touring.
Then again, The Red Piano is all about excess, not least of phallic symbolism. Its finale features vast inflatable lipsticks, bananas, priapic hotdogs and inverted ice-cream cones. Alas, in a case of art imitating life, the faux penises don't always behave themselves. Stage left, a couple of operatives seem to be having trouble getting their banana to perform. No such difficulties for the star: as The Bitch Is Back ends, he leaps from his piano stool and runs across the stage. Basking in applause, he pats a distinctly testicular-looking cherry with a satisfied grin.
