Shy

This is a throwback number, even as early in rock history as it falls. It would be home in the repertoires of the Andrews Sisters or Bing Crosby; one can imagine a Fred Astaire-style tap dance number to accompany it. The song even starts with syncopated snaps that recall tap dancing.

The lyrics mostly expand on the title, with the speaker explaining in various ways how, when he is in the presence of the object of his infatuation, he becomes tongue-tied: "I'm so shy when I'm with you/
Don't know what to say or do" and "When you come walking by/ All that I can do is sigh" and finally "I/ know I love you til I die/ I can't say it cause I'm shy."

He does regret this state of affairs-- "Gee, I wish I weren't shy"-- and does attempt to overcome his reticence. "Each night I look in my mirror," he explains, "And practice what I'm going to say to you." He gives himself pep talks: "I tell myself, 'Be confident.'" He sallies forth with brave intent:"I/ raise my hopes up to the sky."

Of course, once the moment presents itself: "I'm scared to death the minute that I'm with you." Oh, dear. Sigh, indeed.

Since we don't know of the woman's reaction, we have to assume there isn't one. She isn't flattered that he is overcome when he is with her. She isn't annoyed by timidity. It's possible that this is one of those cases in which the boy moans, accurately, "She doesn't even know I exist."

The song plays the idea for comic effect, and the tone is lighthearted. We can image it as a vaudeville number, with a sad-sack crooner mooning and batting his eyes over a hotsy-totsy flapper way out of his league. She flirts with the audience instead of him, inviting their hoots and wolf-whistles. At the end, she leaves the stage, bored. He smiles, sighs, shrugs broadly, and toddles after her, still mooning. Curtain.

Next song: Play Me a Sad Song

That's My Story

In an interview, Simon once explained how he discovered metaphor. He rushed in to tell his father about a song he had just heard, "See, she's an angel... but she lives on Earth!" The song, of course, was 1954's "Earth Angel" by The Penguins.

This 1958 song is like that one, but only in cadence and mood. In other words, it is a slow dance number, such as was heard at proms.

The song's title is somewhat misleading. The song does not follow a narrative or tell a story. Rather, it might be the response to a query like: "Why ya so glum, kid? What's yer story, eh?"

The "story" is one of the oldest, summed up in the song's line, "I can't tell you I love you." It's one thing to have a love that's unrequited, but this one is simply unspoken.

It all started, you see, "a month ago," or an eon in teen-time. It was a classic case of love at first sight: "That's when I saw you/ Your eyes were aglow/ And then I could see/ That you were for me." The crush is so innocent, it would not have ruffled a feather in the days of troubadors with their lutes.

The speaker dreams of her all night long, but then awakens to heartbreak, because he can't speak of his affections except in fantasy. He never says what's holding him back-- perhaps simple fear of rejection. There is no mention of a rival, for instance.

Metrically, the line quoted above is bravely asymmetrical. The verse goes:
"I go to sleep at night
And dream of you
I wish I could hold you tight
The whole night through
But when I'm awake
My heart could just break..."

And then we expect a line with maybe two or three metrical feet. Instead we get the jarring, almost stumbling "I can't tell you I love you," which throws off the rhythm entirely.

This effect mirrors his problem. He's fine right up until he thinks of actually expressing his feelings, and then he gets tongue-tied and trips over his own words.

As in the previous song, the next participants in the story are his "friends." They notice that he has become morose, "always moody and blue." But he can't tell them about his crush either. He wishes he could tell them, so they would know that he is "not to blame." But once again, he can't just spit it out.

The 1966 Beach Boys song "God Only Knows" supposed to be the first pop song with the name of The Deity in it. But here, the next verse starts: "O Lord above please hear my prayer/ Show me where she is and take me there."

In a way, Simon's invocation of the Almighty is more brave. Brian Wilson and company use the word in the sense of the cliched expression "God only knows," which one might say if asked what happened to his missing bike; it is the equivalent of "Who knows?" "I have no idea," or "Search me." Here, Simon speaker is actually offering, he says, "a prayer."

Part of the problem in this case, it seems, is that there is always someone else around, especially (we assume) at school. What the speaker prays for is "one moment alone" with the object of his affection. Then, he says, without the distractions of others, "we'll know we're in love."

How many of us can appreciate the pain the speaker is in, seeing her so closely, yet being kept apart by his own fears and the potential whispers of the schoolyard.

The speaker concludes-- in the same drawn-out speech pattern we later hear in the spoken bridge of "You Lost That Lovin' Feelin'"-- "That's my story." You and a lot of other people, pal.

Funny as it is to hear a poet like Simon admit to being at a loss for words, we all know it's easier to say on paper, and in dreams, what we simply can't bring ourselves to say aloud.

Next Song: Teenage Fool