Earlier this year, Ron Rosenbaum wrote a persuasive, savage takedown of Billy Joel for Slate. Sample riff: “Billy Joel’s music elevates self-aggrandizing self-pity and contempt for others into its own new and awful genre: ‘Mock-Rock.’”

I thought about that essay as I bought tickets to last night’s Billy Joel-Elton John concert at Wrigley Field as a birthday present for my wife, and I reflected on the fact that, while I still think Elton John boasts one of the strongest overall song catalogs of the 1970s, I haven’t had a kind thought for Billy Joel for more than 20 years, pretty much since I saw him perform a Halloween night show at the Rosemont Horizon when I was in college.

And then there we were in the stadium, the rain magically disappearing as the players emerged in the outfield. And was that WGN’s Dean Richards taking the stage? A young Don Rickles? Nope–it was BJ himself, decked out in suit and tie and ready for bidness. And that’s when I flashed back to that Rosemont concert in the ’80s and recalled what an amusing entertainer Billy Joel is live. He’s a wisecrackin’ showman, a five-and-dime Springsteen, and he manages to out-ham Elton John, which is simply astonishing.

There was Billy using geographically correct references to Cicero and Aurora in apologizing to the right-field rooftop patrons with terrible sightlines and the upper-deck fans with their asses pointing at Clark Street. “Those are shitty seats,” he said. “And you paid for them! Thank you!” There was Billy dropping repeated ironic references to his third divorce, vigorously shaking his head no and then quickly nodding yes as he sang, “got a good wife, got a good life.” There was Billy apologizing for his one stage effect, the piano switching from stage left to stage right while he played, adding sardonically that he had to do something “to keep the ticket prices low.” There was Billy pretending to be attacked by a fright wig someone tossed onstage. There was Billy posing seductively on the piano as Elton started in on a ballad. There was Billy doing mike-stand tricks while belting “It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me.” And there was Billy launching into verses of “Chicago” before the evening-capping “Piano Man,” which was sorta ruined but sorta not by the screeching sing-along rendition of the hell-beast trixie wobbling behind me. (Hi, Katie! Hope you have a two-day hangover!)

By the encore set, Elton and Billy had the ruddy glow of two guys who’d just wrestled over the last bottle of vodka backstage. To be fair, though, they did play a high-energy three-hour show, and they both seemed delighted to be there. After giving myself over to Billy’s antics, I was, too.