The out-and-out rock song is structured like a series of switchbacks and hairpin turns.
It begins like a rant against injustice, against those who "line their pockets off the misery of the poor" and other human rights abuses. Why can't we all just enjoy the blessings of nature, Simon muses, and "wash our face[s] in the summer... rain"?
Then the song takes an unexpected twist. Rather than continue to point his indignation outward, he directs his accusatory finger at himself; "It's outrageous a man like me stand here and complain." (Yes, with this lack of punctuation and prepositions!)
We expect the song to then proceed in one of two ways. One would be to encourage himself to "do something" rather than just "stand there." The other would be to say that all people should do likewise.
But neither course is taken. Instead, Simon immediately pardons himself. "I'm tired/ Nine hundred sit-ups a day!" His self-maintenance is taking up all of his energy, and he has none left to volunteer, say, or advocate for a cause. On top of that, he has to disguise his age, which is also time consuming... and dispiriting! Instead of simply saying "I'm dying my hair, even-- can you believe it?!" Simon moans: "I'm painting my hair the color of mud!"
Between his age and his deceptive practices toward hiding it, who would take him seriously, anyway, should he bother to advocate for some cause: "Anybody care what I say? No! I'm painting my hair the color of mud!"
Now comes a deeper insecurity, repeated several times: "Who's gonna love you when your looks are gone?" So the bluster that began the song has turned to doubt and self-pity.
But... this is uncomfortable, so he lashes out again, first against the poor quality of "food they try to serve in a public school," and then being talked down to and patronized by... well, it hardly matters! Them!
Yes, there is a "blessing" to be found, not this time in nature but in relationships, in "the circle of your love." There, he finds "rest." But no peace. The last thing he finds "outrageous" is that he "can't stop thinking 'bout the things [he's] thinking of." This is the same mental restlessness that has dogged Simon for ages.
Simon repeats his litany of self-care, again wondering if he will be lovable when he is no longer attractive: "Tell me/ Who's gonna love you when your looks are gone?"
Surprisingly, he hits upon an answer: "God." God's love is unconditional and free-flowing. Why, He even "waters the flowers on your windowsill." Surely, He would not abandon a human, simply because he has outlived his attractiveness! What cares God, Who has no appearance, for yours, one way or another?
So far, Simon has been speaking to the general "you," but now he makes it clear he means himself: "Take me," he says, for example. "I'm an ordinary player in the key of C," a very ordinary key. While we might see Simon as an exceptional musician, he evidently compares himself unfavorably to even more skilled players.
"My will/ Was broken by my pride and my vanity," Simon confesses. For decades, Simon has been a vocal advocate of social justice and human rights, ambitious in his career, and in general an "alpha male." But now he realizes that this fire has been doused. He seems to say: "Who's going to listen to a old codger, who can't even pull off a decent dye job to look young? Who is going to love some geezer, all gone gray?"
And he tries to find some solace that, at the last, he will still be loved by God. But even his hoped-for source of acceptance rings hollow. Even though he knows, on some level, that his lack of self-confidence is more unattractive than his gray hair, he can't help himself.
So the song that began with the soapbox orator railing against all things "outrageous" trails off with the unanswered, unfulfilled longing question: "Who's gonna love you when your looks are gone?" What began with a bang has ended with a whimper.
Yes, all of the things Simon said were "outrageous" and unacceptable are indeed so. But what he finds most unacceptable is his own mortality and impending frailty. No amount of outrage, no number of sit-ups, no tonnage (gallon-age?) of hair dye is going to stop the march of age.
He flails-- maybe he can find meaning in standing for a cause, or basking in nature, or relishing love, or worshiping God. The one place he doesn't look for love is... inside himself. But then, if no one will love him, he is unlovable! And what is the love of an unlovable person worth, anyway?
And so he unceasingly seeks outside confirmation and assurance, all while projecting the supposition that he may now be too wrinkly to love. The quest is endless, and so the song ends with an unanswered question.
Next Song: Sure Don't Feel Like Love
Showing posts with label frustration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label frustration. Show all posts
Monday, February 4, 2013
Monday, April 16, 2012
Further to Fly
Before we analyze this song, it is important to note the many allusions in it to other Simon songs:
The image in "Can't Run But" of a couple dancing return thus:
"Effortless music from the Cameroons
The spinning darkness of her hair"
while the "pencil-point/love bite" stab in the "shoulder blade" from that song is here softened to:
"...a love/ Who falls against you gently as/ A pickpocket brushes your thigh"
The "Dangling Conversation" reappears here as:
"A conversation... going nowhere"
The opening line to "Call Me Al" is now rendered:
"Sometimes I’ll be walking down/ The street and I’ll be thinking/ Am I crazy"
And the man who, in "Boy in the Bubble," said "Don't cry, Baby, don't cry" now tells the listener to:
"Take it up with the great deceiver/ Who looks you in the eye/ Says, Baby, don’t cry."
Lastly, a plant that we just encountered in "The Coast" returns, namely "The Rose of Jericho."
That taken care of, we can now turn to the song itself and consider it on its own merits. The song seems to be about desire and the many ways and reasons it can go unfulfilled. There is always, it seems, "further to fly" in order to reach such goals. (Also, the breathy alliteration of this phrase sounds a bit like feathery wings.)
The first verse returns to one one Simon's major themes: weariness. One reason desires remain unfilled is simple exhaustion. Some dreams seem to take so long to become realized that the dreams themselves seem to beg for euthanasia-- "Give me up already!" they moan.
But maybe, you will find a love... only it will present itself so gently you will miss it. It will breeze by and be gone before you even realize you should have tried to catch it, and like a "pickpocket" victim, you won't understand until later what you have lost.
There will be sweet "music", yes, and the hypnotic "swirl" of her hair in the "crowded room,"-- perhaps a bar, dance floor, or reception hall. But the "conversation" will frustrate and "go nowhere." (The Cameroons, today simply called "Cameroon," is a West African nation).
"Desire," the speaker insists, is insatiable, like an "open palm" that holds nothing, but keeps needing to be filled. It "wants everything," because it is always empty.
The futility of endless wanting ends up feeling like either madness-- "I’ll be thinking: 'Am I crazy?'"-- or some sort of cosmic sarcasm-- "'Is this some morbid little lie?'"
Desire is not only for things yet to be gotten, but for things once had and now lost. The next lines seem like a description of dementia or Alzheimer's disease: "A recent loss of memory/ A shadow in the family." The "shadow" is both the genetic reality of the illness in the whole "family," and the almost literal sense of "absence"-- the person is absent because he or she does not even remember being part of the family. The specific memory itself is also in "shadow," as it can no longer be seen clearly.
"The baby waves bye-bye" can mean several things. (This is clearly "baby" in the age sense, not "Baby" in the romantic one; all sources agree the word is not capitalized.) One is that childhood is lost as one matures; the "baby" is one's own infancy. Another is that one's children grow up and leave; to us parents, they are still our babies. Sticking with the Alzheimer's idea, whole family members can leave the awareness of the victims and fade into forgotten-ness and "shadow," another sort of farewell. Or perhaps, the Alzheimer's patient is the baby, since he is as helpless as one.
As for the speaker, he pleads, "I’m trying." If there is "further to fly," well, he's "flying" as hard as he can, and has not given up.
Knowing that things lost are desired, the speaker bemoans the idea that he might lose the things he still has, from his relationships to his sensibility. The image is of "falling backward" into a soft-yet-smothering blackness, a "velvet night."
The "open palm" now wants contradictory things (well, "everything" would presumably include opposites). It wants "soil as soft as summer"-- an easy life, in which no effort is required to flourish. It also wants "the strength to push like spring." Few things push as strongly as excited new growth; roots and shoots break stone and cement, and "spring" itself pushes away the drifts and floes of seemingly intractable, implacable winter. So the "palm of desire" wants strength, but the luxury to grow without it. No wonder it is never satisfied!
"A broken laugh," is a rueful thing, but "a broken fever" usually is a hopeful one, as in "I hope her fever breaks soon." For it to be another disappointment, this would have to be the "fever" of the type Peggy Lee sings.
And this is when the speaker calls the "Boy in the Bubble" speaker on his reassurances. Only a "great deceiver" would say "Baby, don’t cry." There is always a reason to cry, and something lost or not attained worth crying over. (It seems this is the "Baby" of the other song, since it is capitalized, but it would be wrong not to explore the possibility of it being the baby mentioned earlier in this song.)
"The Rose of Jericho," again, is a plant that may seem dead, yet can be revived. This may symbolize the endlessly regenerating nature of desire.
The last line, however, seems to finally express what is truly desired-- the ability to fulfill the desires of others, even if that means one's own desire is thereby unfulfilled: "The strength to let you go." It would be weak indeed to give in to one's own selfishness at the expense of the needs of another soul.
The song, in short, starts with the second line of the Serenity Prayer-- "the courage to change the things I can" and ends with the first: "the serenity to accept the things I cannot change." Except this time, it's never going to be "serene" once his love is gone, which she eventually she will be, no matter what. And for that, he's going to need the "strength" to continue to "fly further" toward the ever-retreating horizon of contentment.
In a way, this song is a more mature version of "The Impossible Dream" from "Man of La Mancha," and a more jaded version of Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn":
"Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal – yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!"
For Keats, having "further to fly" means always having a reason to fly, and isn't flying fun? For Simon, flying is exhausting, never reaching the goal is frustrating, and knowing that he will lose his love in the end no matter what is devastating.
He is "tired," the conversation goes "nowhere," and the whole thing might be insanity or a "morbid lie" of Fate. Yet, he flies... and hopes for, at the end, the strength to stop.
Musical Notes:
The flugelhorn here is played by Hugh Masekela, one of Africa's greatest jazz players. He had an instrumental horn hit in the US-- right around the time of Herb Alpert and Chuck Mangione-- called "Grazin' in the Grass" (1968), which went to #1 and went multi-platinum. Masekela later played on some Byrds cuts. He had left Africa in 1960, following a massacre of unarmed protestors. Years later, Masekela joined Simon onstage at his Graceland concert in Africa.
The trumpeter is Randy Brecker, with a long list of sessions with greats from Springsteen to Mingus. He is Michael's brother, they have recorded as a duo.
The notes that sound like a wood flute are Michael Brecker's EWI.
(There is another error in the liner notes. The guitar is not played by "Ringo Star" and this is not a misprint of the Beatles' drummer's name. It's actually an understandable misprint of the name "Rigo Star.")
The song was covered by folk songbird Holly Near.
Next song: She Moves On
The image in "Can't Run But" of a couple dancing return thus:
"Effortless music from the Cameroons
The spinning darkness of her hair"
while the "pencil-point/love bite" stab in the "shoulder blade" from that song is here softened to:
"...a love/ Who falls against you gently as/ A pickpocket brushes your thigh"
The "Dangling Conversation" reappears here as:
"A conversation... going nowhere"
The opening line to "Call Me Al" is now rendered:
"Sometimes I’ll be walking down/ The street and I’ll be thinking/ Am I crazy"
And the man who, in "Boy in the Bubble," said "Don't cry, Baby, don't cry" now tells the listener to:
"Take it up with the great deceiver/ Who looks you in the eye/ Says, Baby, don’t cry."
Lastly, a plant that we just encountered in "The Coast" returns, namely "The Rose of Jericho."
That taken care of, we can now turn to the song itself and consider it on its own merits. The song seems to be about desire and the many ways and reasons it can go unfulfilled. There is always, it seems, "further to fly" in order to reach such goals. (Also, the breathy alliteration of this phrase sounds a bit like feathery wings.)
The first verse returns to one one Simon's major themes: weariness. One reason desires remain unfilled is simple exhaustion. Some dreams seem to take so long to become realized that the dreams themselves seem to beg for euthanasia-- "Give me up already!" they moan.
But maybe, you will find a love... only it will present itself so gently you will miss it. It will breeze by and be gone before you even realize you should have tried to catch it, and like a "pickpocket" victim, you won't understand until later what you have lost.
There will be sweet "music", yes, and the hypnotic "swirl" of her hair in the "crowded room,"-- perhaps a bar, dance floor, or reception hall. But the "conversation" will frustrate and "go nowhere." (The Cameroons, today simply called "Cameroon," is a West African nation).
"Desire," the speaker insists, is insatiable, like an "open palm" that holds nothing, but keeps needing to be filled. It "wants everything," because it is always empty.
The futility of endless wanting ends up feeling like either madness-- "I’ll be thinking: 'Am I crazy?'"-- or some sort of cosmic sarcasm-- "'Is this some morbid little lie?'"
Desire is not only for things yet to be gotten, but for things once had and now lost. The next lines seem like a description of dementia or Alzheimer's disease: "A recent loss of memory/ A shadow in the family." The "shadow" is both the genetic reality of the illness in the whole "family," and the almost literal sense of "absence"-- the person is absent because he or she does not even remember being part of the family. The specific memory itself is also in "shadow," as it can no longer be seen clearly.
"The baby waves bye-bye" can mean several things. (This is clearly "baby" in the age sense, not "Baby" in the romantic one; all sources agree the word is not capitalized.) One is that childhood is lost as one matures; the "baby" is one's own infancy. Another is that one's children grow up and leave; to us parents, they are still our babies. Sticking with the Alzheimer's idea, whole family members can leave the awareness of the victims and fade into forgotten-ness and "shadow," another sort of farewell. Or perhaps, the Alzheimer's patient is the baby, since he is as helpless as one.
As for the speaker, he pleads, "I’m trying." If there is "further to fly," well, he's "flying" as hard as he can, and has not given up.
Knowing that things lost are desired, the speaker bemoans the idea that he might lose the things he still has, from his relationships to his sensibility. The image is of "falling backward" into a soft-yet-smothering blackness, a "velvet night."
The "open palm" now wants contradictory things (well, "everything" would presumably include opposites). It wants "soil as soft as summer"-- an easy life, in which no effort is required to flourish. It also wants "the strength to push like spring." Few things push as strongly as excited new growth; roots and shoots break stone and cement, and "spring" itself pushes away the drifts and floes of seemingly intractable, implacable winter. So the "palm of desire" wants strength, but the luxury to grow without it. No wonder it is never satisfied!
"A broken laugh," is a rueful thing, but "a broken fever" usually is a hopeful one, as in "I hope her fever breaks soon." For it to be another disappointment, this would have to be the "fever" of the type Peggy Lee sings.
And this is when the speaker calls the "Boy in the Bubble" speaker on his reassurances. Only a "great deceiver" would say "Baby, don’t cry." There is always a reason to cry, and something lost or not attained worth crying over. (It seems this is the "Baby" of the other song, since it is capitalized, but it would be wrong not to explore the possibility of it being the baby mentioned earlier in this song.)
"The Rose of Jericho," again, is a plant that may seem dead, yet can be revived. This may symbolize the endlessly regenerating nature of desire.
The last line, however, seems to finally express what is truly desired-- the ability to fulfill the desires of others, even if that means one's own desire is thereby unfulfilled: "The strength to let you go." It would be weak indeed to give in to one's own selfishness at the expense of the needs of another soul.
The song, in short, starts with the second line of the Serenity Prayer-- "the courage to change the things I can" and ends with the first: "the serenity to accept the things I cannot change." Except this time, it's never going to be "serene" once his love is gone, which she eventually she will be, no matter what. And for that, he's going to need the "strength" to continue to "fly further" toward the ever-retreating horizon of contentment.
In a way, this song is a more mature version of "The Impossible Dream" from "Man of La Mancha," and a more jaded version of Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn":
"Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal – yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!"
For Keats, having "further to fly" means always having a reason to fly, and isn't flying fun? For Simon, flying is exhausting, never reaching the goal is frustrating, and knowing that he will lose his love in the end no matter what is devastating.
He is "tired," the conversation goes "nowhere," and the whole thing might be insanity or a "morbid lie" of Fate. Yet, he flies... and hopes for, at the end, the strength to stop.
Musical Notes:
The flugelhorn here is played by Hugh Masekela, one of Africa's greatest jazz players. He had an instrumental horn hit in the US-- right around the time of Herb Alpert and Chuck Mangione-- called "Grazin' in the Grass" (1968), which went to #1 and went multi-platinum. Masekela later played on some Byrds cuts. He had left Africa in 1960, following a massacre of unarmed protestors. Years later, Masekela joined Simon onstage at his Graceland concert in Africa.
The trumpeter is Randy Brecker, with a long list of sessions with greats from Springsteen to Mingus. He is Michael's brother, they have recorded as a duo.
The notes that sound like a wood flute are Michael Brecker's EWI.
(There is another error in the liner notes. The guitar is not played by "Ringo Star" and this is not a misprint of the Beatles' drummer's name. It's actually an understandable misprint of the name "Rigo Star.")
The song was covered by folk songbird Holly Near.
Next song: She Moves On
Monday, March 26, 2012
Can't Run But
The song begins, uncharacteristically, with its chorus. The speaker seems frustrated with his progress, even acknowledging his limitations in this area: "I can’t run but/ I can walk much faster than this."
Then come three seemingly unrelated verses. The first is about the nuclear power plant disaster in Chernobyl, Ukraine, in April of 1986. It was one of the worst disasters in the history of such facilities, contaminating wide swaths of populated territory with toxic radiation. It was unequaled until the tsumani/earthquake-provoked nuclear catastrophe in Japan in 2011.
The verse summarizes the event's, well, fallout. The "rain" was "new" in nature due to the high levels of radioactivity, and everything from "trees" to "umbrellas" were used to shield the populace from it. Everything had to be analyzed for radioactive contamination, from the "soil" of what had been a Soviet breadbasket region, to the "food"-- now more "contemplated" than eagerly consumed-- to the "water" that had to be purified. Boiling water was supposed to free it of bacteria; if anything the radiation would have taken care of that, as radiation is used to kill, for example, cancer cells. Meanwhile, I doubt even boiling temperatures would affect uranium or plutonium radioactivity, given how this was itself spread by burning smoke.
The picture is one of overall incompetence, and the government's inept attempts to cover it up. The idea that umbrellas and boiling water would protect against nuclear fallout reeks of the same population-pacifying pablum as the films American schoolchildren used to watch, explaining to them that in the event of an atomic-bomb attack, they should "duck and cover" under their flimsy desks.
Next, the song turns to a description of the speaker's dream, possibly about his lover. It may have been brought on by drinking, given the mention of "bottles." (In the In the Blue Light version, the line "in the bottles and bones of the night" became "after the long goodnight." I feel this line is weaker and more cliche. Also, it says that the relationship was a desirable one, so why then afterward dream about pain?)
In the dream, he feels "a pain in [his] shoulder blade." His guesses? "...a pencil point? A love bite?" Both seem unlikely-- why would someone stab someone else with a sharpened pencil? And aren't "love bites" ("hickeys," in American slang) usually given higher, around the neck (and does that mean people lied about hickeys by saying a vampire had bitten them?) The two guesses seem to equate the pain of writing with the pain of love. And why the "shoulder blade"? Maybe his subconscious is telling him that he has been stabbed in the back. Perhaps he senses some infidelity or other betrayal. (Or maybe he fell asleep while writing and was jolted awake when he rolled over onto the pencil.)
Also in the dream, there is another couple: "A couple was rubbing against us/ Rubbing and doing that new dance." So first, we realize that the initial couple-- the speaker and his lover-- were dancing, in the dream. Then, this other couple is not accidentally brushing against them as they shimmy on the dance floor-- the word "rubbing" is used twice. In the dream imagery, this is to show that this couple is somehow connected with them.
My feeling is that they are them-- a manifestation of this same couple as they could be. They are doing a "new dance" and so are "hip" and in sync with the times. The man is somehow both formal and casual at once-- "wearing a jacket and jeans"-- elegant, yet relaxed (ostensibly a combination the speaker has not himself mastered). The woman is "laughing in advance," probably in happy anticipation of where the night would lead (ahem). He feels this other couple could be what they themselves ought to be.
Taken together, the two verses are images of frustration. In one, a country believes itself to be advanced and sophisticated, only to learn it is not, when it counts. In the next, a man dreams about his ideal relationship and realizes that his real one falls painfully short. Also in both, someone realizes he is being told something less than the full truth, and is being merely appeased instead of actually helped.
The last verse is as free-flowing as the "river" that forms its thin cohesion. The verse begins with the image of the river winding, then it getting "wound around a heart." Is the river somehow emotionally important to the speaker, that his heart is wrapped up in it? (In the In the Blue Light version, this verse is introduced by the words "The legend is," so perhaps the river/heart image comes from a folktale.)
The noose of the river tightens, but the heart is not strangled; instead, the river breaks-- its "waters part." The image of parting waters immediately calls to mind the parting of the Red Sea in the Exodus story of the Bible (although the river that turned back on itself to let the Israelites across was the Jordan, as told in The Book of Joshua).
However, the term "muddy waters" recalls something else: iconic bluesman McKinley "Muddy Waters" Morganfield. This is not an accident; the next image is of a "blues band" arriving at the banks of this river. (Performing a song with a "Muddy Waters part"?)
Last comes a dig at the music industry: "The music suffers/ The music business thrives." The idea is that the music was getting worse and worse, while the studio coffers overflowed more and more (this was before Napster, of course.) Now, the Muddy Waters story is a typical one of musicians suffering at the hands of rapacious studios, since the start of the recording industry. But--the implication is-- at least the music itself was worth stealing back then.
In the In the Blue Light version of the lyrics, however, the blues band has become a more au-courant "D.J." And, instead of a slap at the music industry, we get this review of this D.J.'s performance: "The sub-bass feels like an earthquake/ The top hand cuts like knives." Perhaps Simon wanted to seem more "with it," or perhaps taking shots at the music industry just felt like it took the song in a mean-spirited direction.
This last verse is a free-associative stream-of-consciousness. A river winds... it is wound around something... its waters are muddy... Muddy Waters played the blues... Muddy Waters is from Mississippi... the Mississippi is a river nicknamed "The Big Muddy"... the blues are played all along the river (there is a song titled "The Big Muddy," about the river)... the blues (the emotion, not the music) were made worse by the very industry that (like a river) carried the blues (the music) to the world. Compare this to the headline in the satirical Onion newspaper: "Affluent White Man Enjoys, Causes the Blues."
Why are things not better? Why, if you want to provide power for thousands, must you risk poisoning them with it? Why can't we be like that happy, dancing, laughing couple over there? Why does the music business succeed by destroying the very thing that sustains it?
By now, bemoans the speaker, I expect human progress to be slow. But slow is one thing-- I could even walk faster than this!
Musical Note:
On guitar is J.J. Cale, a bluesy performer from Oklahoma (not to be confused with the Velvet Underground's John Cale). He returns later in the album as well.
Cale's songs have been covered by Eric Clapton, Kansas, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Captain Beefheart, Carlos Santana, and Widespread Panic.
Next Song: The Coast
Then come three seemingly unrelated verses. The first is about the nuclear power plant disaster in Chernobyl, Ukraine, in April of 1986. It was one of the worst disasters in the history of such facilities, contaminating wide swaths of populated territory with toxic radiation. It was unequaled until the tsumani/earthquake-provoked nuclear catastrophe in Japan in 2011.
The verse summarizes the event's, well, fallout. The "rain" was "new" in nature due to the high levels of radioactivity, and everything from "trees" to "umbrellas" were used to shield the populace from it. Everything had to be analyzed for radioactive contamination, from the "soil" of what had been a Soviet breadbasket region, to the "food"-- now more "contemplated" than eagerly consumed-- to the "water" that had to be purified. Boiling water was supposed to free it of bacteria; if anything the radiation would have taken care of that, as radiation is used to kill, for example, cancer cells. Meanwhile, I doubt even boiling temperatures would affect uranium or plutonium radioactivity, given how this was itself spread by burning smoke.
The picture is one of overall incompetence, and the government's inept attempts to cover it up. The idea that umbrellas and boiling water would protect against nuclear fallout reeks of the same population-pacifying pablum as the films American schoolchildren used to watch, explaining to them that in the event of an atomic-bomb attack, they should "duck and cover" under their flimsy desks.
Next, the song turns to a description of the speaker's dream, possibly about his lover. It may have been brought on by drinking, given the mention of "bottles." (In the In the Blue Light version, the line "in the bottles and bones of the night" became "after the long goodnight." I feel this line is weaker and more cliche. Also, it says that the relationship was a desirable one, so why then afterward dream about pain?)
In the dream, he feels "a pain in [his] shoulder blade." His guesses? "...a pencil point? A love bite?" Both seem unlikely-- why would someone stab someone else with a sharpened pencil? And aren't "love bites" ("hickeys," in American slang) usually given higher, around the neck (and does that mean people lied about hickeys by saying a vampire had bitten them?) The two guesses seem to equate the pain of writing with the pain of love. And why the "shoulder blade"? Maybe his subconscious is telling him that he has been stabbed in the back. Perhaps he senses some infidelity or other betrayal. (Or maybe he fell asleep while writing and was jolted awake when he rolled over onto the pencil.)
Also in the dream, there is another couple: "A couple was rubbing against us/ Rubbing and doing that new dance." So first, we realize that the initial couple-- the speaker and his lover-- were dancing, in the dream. Then, this other couple is not accidentally brushing against them as they shimmy on the dance floor-- the word "rubbing" is used twice. In the dream imagery, this is to show that this couple is somehow connected with them.
My feeling is that they are them-- a manifestation of this same couple as they could be. They are doing a "new dance" and so are "hip" and in sync with the times. The man is somehow both formal and casual at once-- "wearing a jacket and jeans"-- elegant, yet relaxed (ostensibly a combination the speaker has not himself mastered). The woman is "laughing in advance," probably in happy anticipation of where the night would lead (ahem). He feels this other couple could be what they themselves ought to be.
Taken together, the two verses are images of frustration. In one, a country believes itself to be advanced and sophisticated, only to learn it is not, when it counts. In the next, a man dreams about his ideal relationship and realizes that his real one falls painfully short. Also in both, someone realizes he is being told something less than the full truth, and is being merely appeased instead of actually helped.
The last verse is as free-flowing as the "river" that forms its thin cohesion. The verse begins with the image of the river winding, then it getting "wound around a heart." Is the river somehow emotionally important to the speaker, that his heart is wrapped up in it? (In the In the Blue Light version, this verse is introduced by the words "The legend is," so perhaps the river/heart image comes from a folktale.)
The noose of the river tightens, but the heart is not strangled; instead, the river breaks-- its "waters part." The image of parting waters immediately calls to mind the parting of the Red Sea in the Exodus story of the Bible (although the river that turned back on itself to let the Israelites across was the Jordan, as told in The Book of Joshua).
However, the term "muddy waters" recalls something else: iconic bluesman McKinley "Muddy Waters" Morganfield. This is not an accident; the next image is of a "blues band" arriving at the banks of this river. (Performing a song with a "Muddy Waters part"?)
Last comes a dig at the music industry: "The music suffers/ The music business thrives." The idea is that the music was getting worse and worse, while the studio coffers overflowed more and more (this was before Napster, of course.) Now, the Muddy Waters story is a typical one of musicians suffering at the hands of rapacious studios, since the start of the recording industry. But--the implication is-- at least the music itself was worth stealing back then.
In the In the Blue Light version of the lyrics, however, the blues band has become a more au-courant "D.J." And, instead of a slap at the music industry, we get this review of this D.J.'s performance: "The sub-bass feels like an earthquake/ The top hand cuts like knives." Perhaps Simon wanted to seem more "with it," or perhaps taking shots at the music industry just felt like it took the song in a mean-spirited direction.
This last verse is a free-associative stream-of-consciousness. A river winds... it is wound around something... its waters are muddy... Muddy Waters played the blues... Muddy Waters is from Mississippi... the Mississippi is a river nicknamed "The Big Muddy"... the blues are played all along the river (there is a song titled "The Big Muddy," about the river)... the blues (the emotion, not the music) were made worse by the very industry that (like a river) carried the blues (the music) to the world. Compare this to the headline in the satirical Onion newspaper: "Affluent White Man Enjoys, Causes the Blues."
Why are things not better? Why, if you want to provide power for thousands, must you risk poisoning them with it? Why can't we be like that happy, dancing, laughing couple over there? Why does the music business succeed by destroying the very thing that sustains it?
By now, bemoans the speaker, I expect human progress to be slow. But slow is one thing-- I could even walk faster than this!
Musical Note:
On guitar is J.J. Cale, a bluesy performer from Oklahoma (not to be confused with the Velvet Underground's John Cale). He returns later in the album as well.
Cale's songs have been covered by Eric Clapton, Kansas, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Captain Beefheart, Carlos Santana, and Widespread Panic.
Next Song: The Coast
Monday, July 19, 2010
El Condor Pasa
[Note to readers: I know I missed last week's post, but I have a good excuse. His name is Joe, he was born in July 15, and he is sleeping in my left arm.]
Simon has already drawn from native folk sources for his material, as he did with "Scarborough Fair." This time, he presages his Rhythm of the Saints work by decades with a Peruvian folk tune, replete with authentic wood flutes from the Andes.
The song's title means "The Condor Passes," the condor being a large vulture-like bird native to the Andes and Rockies. It soars, huge wings outspread, barely flapping, riding on air currents.
Gravity, as much as it gives to us, is considered the enemy of humanity. For as long as we have seen birds, we have tried to fly like them. Babies love being tossed in the air, children ride swings as high as they can, and we adults do everything from high diving and BASE jumping to parasailing, skydiving, and hang-gilding... all in the attempt to fly. Even our greatest superhero's most super superpower is to make people point skyward at his soaring form, crying: "It's a bird! It's a plane!"
Simon gives that yearning-- to be a bird-- a voice, here. He'd "rather be a sparrow." He'd rather "sail away, like a swan/ That's here and gone."
The song is about longing to fly like a bird, a "sparrow" (perhaps not as destitute a one as in "Sparrow") or a "swan." The lyrics are a series of comparisons, with the flying birds winning out over those creatures bound by gravity, like snails... or humans. Similarly, natural settings like "forests" win out over urban ones like a "street."
It interesting that he chose a "sparrow," since his song about that very bird showed how vulnerable and ignored it was. Perhaps this strengthens his point-- anyone could wish to be an eagle (or a condor) rather than stay a human. But they might prefer to stay human and earthbound if the other option was to be a mere sparrow. Not him. He wants to fly so much, he'll even be this fragile bird.
After all, "a man" might as well be a "snail." He's so "tied up to the ground" that he "gives the world its saddest sound."
Than comes the last line, which is a half a comparison: "I'd rather feel the earth beneath my feet." Rather than what? Does this continue the thought of the previous line, so that "earth" underfoot is better than the asphalt of a "street"?
Or is it a refutation of all the soaring imagery that came before? Would the speaker rather "feel the earth beneath [his] feet" than not? Would he walk forever rather than fly?
The idea of preferring the woods to the city fits somewhat with the idea of preferring flying to walking. The benefit of flying is, aside from the convenience, freedom to wander, explore, and simply-- as the Mamas and Papas encourage-- "Go where you wanna go." Wandering in the un-peopled woods is about as close to that isolation and roadless-ness as most of us will be able to get.
The answer may come from the repeated refrain: "If I could, I surely would." But he can't. Since all of these bird scenarios are impossible, wouldn't it just be better to accept one's situation, and not continue to pine away and make "the saddest sound" over what can never be? Maybe some predictability is, ultimately, better than complete, bird-like freedom.
The condor glides overhead, inspiring awe in the earthbound viewer below. It swoops... circles... and soars. But then it passes.
The speaker next lets us know that he'd rather even be a tyrant than a victim-- a "hammer," rather than a "nail." Compare this to the imagery of hammers used to symbolize fascism in Pink Floyd's movie The Wall (even though the word "fascism," which derives from the symbol of the "fasces," should be symbolized by another tool, the ax; look up "fasces" and you'll see why.).
But a true drifter wants no attachments at all, which would include power over-- and responsibility for-- others, as much as it includes being beholden to no one. He wants to be neither hammer nor nail. He doesn't want to be a tool in anyone's toolbox! We must conclude that the line is only really there to rhyme with "snail."
So why didn't Simon go back and change the opposite of "sparrow" to something other than "snail"? Perhaps he wanted to keep the alliteration with "sparrow," but dismissed other one-syllable, small, land-bound forest animals as being even worse in their imagery or rhyme-possibilities: "snake," "squirrel," "sloth." Maybe what's here is fine. We could have had: "I'd rather be a sparrow than a skunk."
Overall, the song is a lovely and haunting rumination on the limitations of the human form. Here we are, with the best brain-- and the knowledge that we would truly appreciate flight if we could have it-- and we can't even fly up into a tree like a simple sparrow. Let alone a soaring condor.
MUSICAL NOTE:
While Simon is largely credited with bringing "world music" into the mainstream of American pop culture with Graceland, this song reminds us that musicians have long been doing so. Peter Paul and Mary, Joan Baez, Pete Seeger, and Harry Belafonte were just some of the folk musicians of the 1960s who worked non-American, non-English songs into their sets. Desi Arnaz was bringing Cuban music into suburban living rooms on the Lucy show as early as the 1950s, and Latin dances were part of Xavier Cugat's swing music even before that.
The story of this song is long, but here is a short version: The melody began as a traditional Andean folk tune in Peru. It was adapted and included in a longer, theatrical piece (called a "zarzuella") along with other such melodies by one Daniel Alomia Robles.
When Simon heard the Peruvian wood-flute ensemble Los Incas playing the melody in Paris (with the arrangement of their leader, Jorge Milchberg) he asked to write words for it; Simon toured with Los Incas, who perform the backup on the Bridge version of the track. He even produced their first US album. Milchberg's later band, Urubamba, accompanies Simon for this track on Live Rhymin'. They also provide backup on his solo song, "Duncan."
And anyone who thinks Simon was only interested in "world music" during his Graceland period need only listen to this and the next track to know that he has been exploring this music for much, much longer.
IMPACT:
The song reached #18 on the US charts. But it went to #1 all over Europe-- Spain, Belgium, the Netherlands, West Germany, Austria,and Switzerland-- as well as Australia. It was covered by, of all people, crooner Perry Como.
Next song: Cecilia
Simon has already drawn from native folk sources for his material, as he did with "Scarborough Fair." This time, he presages his Rhythm of the Saints work by decades with a Peruvian folk tune, replete with authentic wood flutes from the Andes.
The song's title means "The Condor Passes," the condor being a large vulture-like bird native to the Andes and Rockies. It soars, huge wings outspread, barely flapping, riding on air currents.
Gravity, as much as it gives to us, is considered the enemy of humanity. For as long as we have seen birds, we have tried to fly like them. Babies love being tossed in the air, children ride swings as high as they can, and we adults do everything from high diving and BASE jumping to parasailing, skydiving, and hang-gilding... all in the attempt to fly. Even our greatest superhero's most super superpower is to make people point skyward at his soaring form, crying: "It's a bird! It's a plane!"
Simon gives that yearning-- to be a bird-- a voice, here. He'd "rather be a sparrow." He'd rather "sail away, like a swan/ That's here and gone."
The song is about longing to fly like a bird, a "sparrow" (perhaps not as destitute a one as in "Sparrow") or a "swan." The lyrics are a series of comparisons, with the flying birds winning out over those creatures bound by gravity, like snails... or humans. Similarly, natural settings like "forests" win out over urban ones like a "street."
It interesting that he chose a "sparrow," since his song about that very bird showed how vulnerable and ignored it was. Perhaps this strengthens his point-- anyone could wish to be an eagle (or a condor) rather than stay a human. But they might prefer to stay human and earthbound if the other option was to be a mere sparrow. Not him. He wants to fly so much, he'll even be this fragile bird.
After all, "a man" might as well be a "snail." He's so "tied up to the ground" that he "gives the world its saddest sound."
Than comes the last line, which is a half a comparison: "I'd rather feel the earth beneath my feet." Rather than what? Does this continue the thought of the previous line, so that "earth" underfoot is better than the asphalt of a "street"?
Or is it a refutation of all the soaring imagery that came before? Would the speaker rather "feel the earth beneath [his] feet" than not? Would he walk forever rather than fly?
The idea of preferring the woods to the city fits somewhat with the idea of preferring flying to walking. The benefit of flying is, aside from the convenience, freedom to wander, explore, and simply-- as the Mamas and Papas encourage-- "Go where you wanna go." Wandering in the un-peopled woods is about as close to that isolation and roadless-ness as most of us will be able to get.
The answer may come from the repeated refrain: "If I could, I surely would." But he can't. Since all of these bird scenarios are impossible, wouldn't it just be better to accept one's situation, and not continue to pine away and make "the saddest sound" over what can never be? Maybe some predictability is, ultimately, better than complete, bird-like freedom.
The condor glides overhead, inspiring awe in the earthbound viewer below. It swoops... circles... and soars. But then it passes.
The speaker next lets us know that he'd rather even be a tyrant than a victim-- a "hammer," rather than a "nail." Compare this to the imagery of hammers used to symbolize fascism in Pink Floyd's movie The Wall (even though the word "fascism," which derives from the symbol of the "fasces," should be symbolized by another tool, the ax; look up "fasces" and you'll see why.).
But a true drifter wants no attachments at all, which would include power over-- and responsibility for-- others, as much as it includes being beholden to no one. He wants to be neither hammer nor nail. He doesn't want to be a tool in anyone's toolbox! We must conclude that the line is only really there to rhyme with "snail."
So why didn't Simon go back and change the opposite of "sparrow" to something other than "snail"? Perhaps he wanted to keep the alliteration with "sparrow," but dismissed other one-syllable, small, land-bound forest animals as being even worse in their imagery or rhyme-possibilities: "snake," "squirrel," "sloth." Maybe what's here is fine. We could have had: "I'd rather be a sparrow than a skunk."
Overall, the song is a lovely and haunting rumination on the limitations of the human form. Here we are, with the best brain-- and the knowledge that we would truly appreciate flight if we could have it-- and we can't even fly up into a tree like a simple sparrow. Let alone a soaring condor.
MUSICAL NOTE:
While Simon is largely credited with bringing "world music" into the mainstream of American pop culture with Graceland, this song reminds us that musicians have long been doing so. Peter Paul and Mary, Joan Baez, Pete Seeger, and Harry Belafonte were just some of the folk musicians of the 1960s who worked non-American, non-English songs into their sets. Desi Arnaz was bringing Cuban music into suburban living rooms on the Lucy show as early as the 1950s, and Latin dances were part of Xavier Cugat's swing music even before that.
The story of this song is long, but here is a short version: The melody began as a traditional Andean folk tune in Peru. It was adapted and included in a longer, theatrical piece (called a "zarzuella") along with other such melodies by one Daniel Alomia Robles.
When Simon heard the Peruvian wood-flute ensemble Los Incas playing the melody in Paris (with the arrangement of their leader, Jorge Milchberg) he asked to write words for it; Simon toured with Los Incas, who perform the backup on the Bridge version of the track. He even produced their first US album. Milchberg's later band, Urubamba, accompanies Simon for this track on Live Rhymin'. They also provide backup on his solo song, "Duncan."
And anyone who thinks Simon was only interested in "world music" during his Graceland period need only listen to this and the next track to know that he has been exploring this music for much, much longer.
IMPACT:
The song reached #18 on the US charts. But it went to #1 all over Europe-- Spain, Belgium, the Netherlands, West Germany, Austria,and Switzerland-- as well as Australia. It was covered by, of all people, crooner Perry Como.
Next song: Cecilia
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