The last track gives us the title of the album The Rhythm of the Saints. The story I heard of the title's source comes from the days of the American slave trade. The slaves continued, in the New World, to pray on drums to their usual deities, as they had in Africa. When questioned about this practice, they lied to their "masters" that they were praying with their rhythms to the Christian saints.
The song begins with what was an afterthought-line of "The Coast": "If I have weaknesses/ Don’t let them blind me." It's a plea to be free of deception. Yes, I know I have faults, the speaker says, but I hope I do not therefore miss something important while I am distracted by them.
Here, the thought is continued, "...or camouflage all I am wary of." These weaknesses could also make him miss the warning of something dangerous. Say he knows he should be "wary of" financial come-ons. Yet, he has a weakness for sob stories. While he might not be taken in by someone grinning while selling the Brooklyn Bridge, he might try to help out a person posing as a wronged Third World prince who sends him an e-mail of woe.
The weakness he describes seems to be an over-involvement in whatever emotion he is experiencing at the moment. He doesn't just laugh and enjoy himself, he "could be sailing on seizures of laughter," which sounds both out-of-control and almost violent. He doesn't get over break-ups easily, either, but finds himself slowly, painfully "crawling out from under the heel of love." He hears no answer to his prayer for greater awareness of his surroundings.
It seems he prays to Olodumare, a gender-less, incorporeal Yoruba deity who is the ruler of heaven, the creator of energy, and the source of morality, who also allows for the interaction between creatures and forces we in the West call "The Butterfly Effect."
Since the speaker believes that Olodumare is "smiling," he answers his own question. Do our speaker's prayers remain unanswered? No, they have been answered, and in the affirmative.
Then comes this repeated chant: "Reach in the darkness/ A reach in the dark." All faith is, after a fashion, an attempt to grasp something that we can't see in a space that is impenetrable to human senses.
Also a reach in the darkness is life itself. If Heaven is "dark" to our senses, then so is tomorrow. Not every "enemy," "obstacle," or blade is visible. Somehow, we must sense their presence before we cut ourselves and "glide away" from danger before it attacks.
The speaker realizes the enormity of the task. We must "dominate" even what it is "impossible" to.
Further, we may have thought that it was "impossible" to, for instance, lose our jobs, contract a fatal illness, or lose a limb in an accident-- and yet, here it is, shockingly possible after all. And yet, we must forge ahead.
Another weakness our speaker feels he has is that he is not popular. He feels that he is "always a stranger," and worse, "when strange isn’t fashionable" (So not, say, at Studio 54, where it was).
And what is? "Fashion is rich people waving at the door." Whether they are waving at their own door or the speaker's is immaterial-- he can no more enter their rich home than they would enter his poor one.
Also, fashion is "a dealer in drugs or in passion/ Lies of a nature we’ve heard before." What's popular? Being lied to. "Tell me sweet little lies," coax Fleetwood Mac; "Lie to me/ I promise I'll believe," pleads Sheryl Crow.
This time, the prayer is directed to "Babalu-aye." He is Olodumare's representative on Earth, and has the power over the Earth and physical things, including possessions but also the body, health and disease. Because of this association with illness, he is seen as a disciplinarian... but also a healer, even if he is depicted as disabled himself.
The image of this god of "spinning on his crutches" should not imply constant spinning, but more like "he spun on his heel." The god turns to leave, as if to say, "Oh, is that all this was about?" tossing the reply over his shoulder as he hobbles over to his next petitioner.
So the prayer is: "I never feel like I fit in!" And the reply this time is not just a smile but a verbal answer: “Leave if you want." You don't like it here? Well, who's making you stay? You don't fit in anywhere you have been? OK, so try somewhere you haven't been!
Another "reach in the darkness," to travel somewhere unfamiliar, where even the razors and knives are new.
This song forms an interesting companion with "Spirit Voices." In that song, the spirits were eager to interact; here, they are less so, yet still helpful.
The rhythm of the "saints" seems very much like the rhythm of a heartbeat. The same blood that pumps out of the heart is pumped back in, then out again. It helped to voice his concerns aloud, but he held the answers within all along.
Perhaps the "darkness" is not a deep cave, or the night sky, or anywhere external. It's dark inside a person, too.
Musical Note:
This song was sampled on a song called "Reach Out" by an act calling itself Eligh. I can only assume that is an imaginative spelling of the name Eli.
Next song: Thelma
Showing posts with label alienation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alienation. Show all posts
Monday, May 21, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
All Around the World or The Myth of Fingerprints
The thing people know about fingerprints is that each person's is unique. This truth is the basis for much crime-solving and now, with the advent of tiny scanners, security and crime prevention.
The main character in this song, however, the "former talk-show host," dismisses this idea as a "myth." As he says, "I've seen them all/ And... they're all the same."
Meaning that the idea of people being unique is a myth. The host is not bragging that he has literally seen every fingerprint of every person-- not even the FBI's experts have done that. Rather, in his line of work, he has met enough people of all walks of life-- from celebrities to those of us who will never be-- to know that people are truly more alike than they are different.
The opening line, "over the mountain, down in the valley," is likely not a throw-away line by Simon, but probably a reference to Hollywood, which lies in a valley... near the mountain the famous HOLLYWOOD sign is on.
The second verse shifts the scene dramatically to "Out in the Indian Ocean somewhere," where, on some island, lies a "former Army post." We can guess that this is a relic of the Viet Nam War, but might also date back to WWII.
In any case, the host explains that this is one of the results of the myth of individuality. If we did not separate ourselves into factions, insisting upon the reality of imagined (or over-emphasized) differences, he posits, there would be no more wars. And so no need of Army posts-- they would all become "former" ones.
The last verse returns us to the talk-show host's living room couch. This pernicious myth, he concludes, doesn't only foster international conflict. It also has more a personal impact. It causes us to "live alone." We can never be truly united and truly live together, he sighs, if we continue to declare that we are as unique as our fingerprints.
As if the jump from a "talk-show host" to an "army post" wasn't enormous enough, Simon elaborates that the "myth" is pervasive throughout time and space. For time, he talks about a day, from sun-up to a sunset (either "weary" or "bloody" depending on whether we are talking about a TV show or war). He evokes the concept "since the dawn of time" by picking a thing that has been on Earth for eons-- the "watermelon."
And while he acknowledges that some reformers have asked if the myth can ever be shattered by an alternative social construct ("Somebody said, 'What's a better thing to do?'"), he admits that this is unlikely, as the problem is so pervasive. It is both interpersonal and global: "It's not just me, and it's not just you/ This is all around the world."
And so not just South Africa. The myth lead to apartheid, to be sure, but the issues of discrimination and segregation do not by any means end with the borders in which this abhorrent practice dwelt.
As many problems as the myth causes, from individual alienation to civil-rights violation to international conflagration, the myth is too appealing for anyone to want to dispense with it. (To be fair, social experiments in which millions of people were treated exactly the same-- Mao's China, for instance-- have not necessarily been successful, either.)
In a sense, this song is Simon's response to John Lennon's "Imagine." In that song, Lennon explains what if would take for humanity to "live as one." Simon responds that this goal will remain imaginary as long as we buy into the "myth" that each of us is unique.
There is no "humanity," all the with the same ancestry and DNA, each of us says. There are only us "humans" and our own snowflake-unique "fingerprints."
(OK, fine... my personal guess? I think the "former talk-show host" is Phil Donahue, but I have no proof; the character may be entirely imaginary. The whole idea of using such a figure to deliver the message of the song might simply have been Simon's attempt to find someone who would have conversed with the widest range of people.)
Musical Note:
The backing band for this track is by the very talented and wide-ranging act Los Lobos.
Sadly, there is some contention over the degree of their contribution to the track. Los Lobos is credited with playing and harmonizing, but not co-authorship. They claim that Simon did not credit them properly for coming up with the song and outright "stole" it. The album's notes credit Simon solely.
While I, of course, have no idea who is right, it seems dubious that Simon would share credit with so many others on this album-- five co-writers, on five of the 11 tracks-- and not them. Simon also points out that the first he had heard of this accusation was six months after the record had been released.
At least Los Lobos can be "comforted" by the knowledge that this track was not a hit.
IMPACT:
The song did not chart, but its title was taken for a movie. The Myth of Fingerprints is a 1997 release about a dysfunctional family on a Thanksgiving weekend. (The movie was not a hit either.)
Next Song: Changing Opinion
The main character in this song, however, the "former talk-show host," dismisses this idea as a "myth." As he says, "I've seen them all/ And... they're all the same."
Meaning that the idea of people being unique is a myth. The host is not bragging that he has literally seen every fingerprint of every person-- not even the FBI's experts have done that. Rather, in his line of work, he has met enough people of all walks of life-- from celebrities to those of us who will never be-- to know that people are truly more alike than they are different.
The opening line, "over the mountain, down in the valley," is likely not a throw-away line by Simon, but probably a reference to Hollywood, which lies in a valley... near the mountain the famous HOLLYWOOD sign is on.
The second verse shifts the scene dramatically to "Out in the Indian Ocean somewhere," where, on some island, lies a "former Army post." We can guess that this is a relic of the Viet Nam War, but might also date back to WWII.
In any case, the host explains that this is one of the results of the myth of individuality. If we did not separate ourselves into factions, insisting upon the reality of imagined (or over-emphasized) differences, he posits, there would be no more wars. And so no need of Army posts-- they would all become "former" ones.
The last verse returns us to the talk-show host's living room couch. This pernicious myth, he concludes, doesn't only foster international conflict. It also has more a personal impact. It causes us to "live alone." We can never be truly united and truly live together, he sighs, if we continue to declare that we are as unique as our fingerprints.
As if the jump from a "talk-show host" to an "army post" wasn't enormous enough, Simon elaborates that the "myth" is pervasive throughout time and space. For time, he talks about a day, from sun-up to a sunset (either "weary" or "bloody" depending on whether we are talking about a TV show or war). He evokes the concept "since the dawn of time" by picking a thing that has been on Earth for eons-- the "watermelon."
And while he acknowledges that some reformers have asked if the myth can ever be shattered by an alternative social construct ("Somebody said, 'What's a better thing to do?'"), he admits that this is unlikely, as the problem is so pervasive. It is both interpersonal and global: "It's not just me, and it's not just you/ This is all around the world."
And so not just South Africa. The myth lead to apartheid, to be sure, but the issues of discrimination and segregation do not by any means end with the borders in which this abhorrent practice dwelt.
As many problems as the myth causes, from individual alienation to civil-rights violation to international conflagration, the myth is too appealing for anyone to want to dispense with it. (To be fair, social experiments in which millions of people were treated exactly the same-- Mao's China, for instance-- have not necessarily been successful, either.)
In a sense, this song is Simon's response to John Lennon's "Imagine." In that song, Lennon explains what if would take for humanity to "live as one." Simon responds that this goal will remain imaginary as long as we buy into the "myth" that each of us is unique.
There is no "humanity," all the with the same ancestry and DNA, each of us says. There are only us "humans" and our own snowflake-unique "fingerprints."
(OK, fine... my personal guess? I think the "former talk-show host" is Phil Donahue, but I have no proof; the character may be entirely imaginary. The whole idea of using such a figure to deliver the message of the song might simply have been Simon's attempt to find someone who would have conversed with the widest range of people.)
Musical Note:
The backing band for this track is by the very talented and wide-ranging act Los Lobos.
Sadly, there is some contention over the degree of their contribution to the track. Los Lobos is credited with playing and harmonizing, but not co-authorship. They claim that Simon did not credit them properly for coming up with the song and outright "stole" it. The album's notes credit Simon solely.
While I, of course, have no idea who is right, it seems dubious that Simon would share credit with so many others on this album-- five co-writers, on five of the 11 tracks-- and not them. Simon also points out that the first he had heard of this accusation was six months after the record had been released.
At least Los Lobos can be "comforted" by the knowledge that this track was not a hit.
IMPACT:
The song did not chart, but its title was taken for a movie. The Myth of Fingerprints is a 1997 release about a dysfunctional family on a Thanksgiving weekend. (The movie was not a hit either.)
Next Song: Changing Opinion
Monday, January 30, 2012
You Can Call Me Al
A priest, a minister, and a rabbi walk into a bar. The bartender looks over and says, "What is this, a joke?"
"Call Me Al" is the song that put Simon back on the map-- all over the globe. And yet it is not only one of the sunniest, but one of the funniest songs in his entire catalog.
It starts off like a hundred other songs, from Fats Domino's "I'm Walking" to Huey Lewis' "Do You Believe in Love"... to "The Street Where You Live" from My Fair Lady. It could also be the set-up for a joke: "A man walks down the street..." (Probably the most common song opener is: "Well, I woke up this morning...")
The song then continues with a question the man asks himself about his physique: "Why am I soft in the middle?" The question contains the answer; "soft in the middle" is a phrase that might appear in the ad for a snack food. Then there is a pun on the word "hard" in its dual meanings of "not soft" and "not easy."
A "photo opportunity" is a staged setting in which photographers are invited to come take pictures of a celebrity, often of a politician or candidate, making a speech, opening a mall or kissing babies. And then another pun: "shot" means both "chance" and "photograph." "I want a shot at redemption," refers to the idea that such a redemption, actually a private spiritual matter, now takes place at photo opportunities, through public apologies and grand gestures meant to assure the public that a new leaf has been turned over. This is to avoid ending up as a "a cartoon/ In a cartoon graveyard,” presumably a political cartoon showing that his career is dead.
The next word, "bonedigger" can either be a metaphor for the kind of journalist that digs up old scandals and finds skeletons in closets of celebrities... or a kenning for the "dogs" in the next line (a kenning is a kind of metaphor found in such poetry as Beowulf, in which the sea is called a "whale-road").
Yet, it does not seem that the man is actually famous. He lives a building superintended by, or at least located past beyond, a man who is even softer in the middle, who does not have pastries to thank but alcohol ("Mr. Beerbelly") and also has a whole pack of noisy, pushy dogs.
"You know, I don’t find this stuff/ Amusing anymore." This can be a continuation of his comments his alcohol-loving neighbor, or a "this stuff" can be the kinds of shenanigans he feels he has put up with too many of already in life.
The chorus seems to be a conversation not involving the "man" at all. The song started with a narrator, who now seems to turn to the listener and draw us into a closer relationship: "If you’ll be my bodyguard/ I can be your long-lost pal." This role-playing is indicative-- the speaker seeks protection, and in turn offers friendship. One can't offer protection in return, if one already feels vulnerable.
Then the speaker reveals more-- he is talking to a woman, and he suggests they take on pet names: "I can call you Betty/ You can call me Al." According to Simon, the names come from a mistake the French composer Pierre Boulez made at a party, calling Paul "Al" and and his then-wife Peggy "Betty." So even this line is an in-joke.
The next verse kicks off with another pun, this time on the word pair "short" and "long." (Simon's website is again incorrect. The line is "whoa, my nights are so long," while the site has it as "woe.") The man (which could be the same one or not) now has a problem, a "short little span of attention" but "long" nights to fill.
"Where’s my wife and family?" It's odd that he doesn't know, even if he is divorced. If they had in fact run off or been taken away by surprise, he would have contacted the police! So a better interpretation is neither "Where is the family I have" nor "Where is the family I once had" but "Where is the family I should have by now?"
And what if he never finds love? What if he should "die" before it happens? And worse, he has no one to turn to for guidance, as his "role model is gone." Panicked, he grabs the first opportunity at any sort of relationship or connection, with no standards or thought for consequences: "He ducked back down the alley/ With some... girl." Something that happens too often with politicians and others, one might add.
Well, the consequences happen anyway, even to the non-famous: "There were incidents and accidents... hints and allegations." His reputation, whatever it was, is ruined. (The phrase "Hints and Allegations" has since become the title of a poetry collection, a novel, and a Collective Soul album.)
The final verse takes the man away from familiar streets and local alleys. It sets him down "in a strange world." There is the Old World, or Europe... there is the New World, or the Western Hemisphere (which is old, too, but not to Europeans) and then there is the "developing world"-- mainly Africa and southern Asia-- which used to be called "The Third World" until that expression was determined to be demeaning. ("Maybe it's his first time around" could be a reference to reincarnation, in that he is a new soul, one with no past lives and so no experience.)
This time, the man is entirely out of his element-- "He doesn't speak the language/ He is a foreign man." Wait, where's the pun? In the second line: "He holds no currency," which means that he has no local form of money... but this is also an expression that means he "has no importance" here, no weight or influence.
The man is not surrounded by the concerns of notoriety or self-fulfillment that he was at home. No, he is "surrounded by the sound" of this new-yet-older place, with its "cattle" instead of cars, "orphanages" instead of families, and "angels in the architecture" instead of corporate logos or gargoyles.
His response? To be received in grace-land, actually. His head starts "spinning." Then he has an epiphany, a religious awakening: "He says, 'Amen!' and 'Hallelujah!'"
The word "scatterlings" also appears in the song "Scatterlings of Africa," by South African singer-songwriter Johnny Clegg. The album Third World Child came out the year after Graceland did, and the song hit England in 1987, then was used in the 1988 American movie Rain Man. It is possible that Clegg picked up the word from Simon, or that they both took it from a third source, or the local dialect. Most likely, the word means "rootless people, exiled from their land." Clegg uses it to mean all of humanity, which began in Africa and scattered from there.
Back to our speaker, who is a foreign man, yes... but so is every one else! Here, he is just another one of the "scatterlings," not like in his home country where everyone has to live under the twin pretenses of stability and upward mobility. He finally comes to a place where no one has a place, and so everyone does. Even him.
There is a wonderful song by Dar Williams called "What Do You Hear in These Sounds?" about therapy. In it, her realization feels like this: "The wall came down/ And there, they stood before me/ With their stumbling and their mumbling/ Just like me."
The secret is that there is no secret. The epiphany, what he has found, is that everyone is lost. Everyone is "soft in the middle" and vulnerable. Everyone is "short of attention" that they can pay, and that is paid to them.
The last verse can be seen as Simon's version of "Amazing Grace"-- A sweet "sound" brings salvation and inner peace to a lost wretch. As for Simon himself, he had forever been searching for the origins of the music he loved as a child-- early rock, doo-wop, and gospel-- and he seems to have found it. Amen and Hallelujah indeed.
IMPACT:
This upbeat song remains one of Simon's most popular, a quarter-century on. It is used as a fanfare for everyone from athletes named Al to once-VP-candidate Al Gore.
The musicians are from his South African ensemble, made of up members of several local bands. The famous bass solo is by Bakithi Kumalo, first played forward then backward.
Also, Adrian Belew sits in on guitar synthesizer, Randy Brecker plays one of the driving trumpets, and jazz flutist Morris Goldberg has a solo on penny whistle.
It went to #23 in the US charts and #11 in Canada, but all the way #6 in New Zealand, #4 in the UK, #2 in Australia and also #2 in Ireland, where they know a well-played penny whistle when they hear one. The song has been covered by a few acts, but none whose names I recognize.
The seemingly offhand line "hints and allegations" has become something of a catch-phrase. It is used in the title of an album by Collective Soul, as the title of two books of poems-- one each by William M. Kunstler and Amanda J. Bradley-- and a book by Kimberly Dascenzo. Even more books use the phrase "Incidents and Accidents" in their titles.
Next Song: Under African Skies
"Call Me Al" is the song that put Simon back on the map-- all over the globe. And yet it is not only one of the sunniest, but one of the funniest songs in his entire catalog.
It starts off like a hundred other songs, from Fats Domino's "I'm Walking" to Huey Lewis' "Do You Believe in Love"... to "The Street Where You Live" from My Fair Lady. It could also be the set-up for a joke: "A man walks down the street..." (Probably the most common song opener is: "Well, I woke up this morning...")
The song then continues with a question the man asks himself about his physique: "Why am I soft in the middle?" The question contains the answer; "soft in the middle" is a phrase that might appear in the ad for a snack food. Then there is a pun on the word "hard" in its dual meanings of "not soft" and "not easy."
A "photo opportunity" is a staged setting in which photographers are invited to come take pictures of a celebrity, often of a politician or candidate, making a speech, opening a mall or kissing babies. And then another pun: "shot" means both "chance" and "photograph." "I want a shot at redemption," refers to the idea that such a redemption, actually a private spiritual matter, now takes place at photo opportunities, through public apologies and grand gestures meant to assure the public that a new leaf has been turned over. This is to avoid ending up as a "a cartoon/ In a cartoon graveyard,” presumably a political cartoon showing that his career is dead.
The next word, "bonedigger" can either be a metaphor for the kind of journalist that digs up old scandals and finds skeletons in closets of celebrities... or a kenning for the "dogs" in the next line (a kenning is a kind of metaphor found in such poetry as Beowulf, in which the sea is called a "whale-road").
Yet, it does not seem that the man is actually famous. He lives a building superintended by, or at least located past beyond, a man who is even softer in the middle, who does not have pastries to thank but alcohol ("Mr. Beerbelly") and also has a whole pack of noisy, pushy dogs.
"You know, I don’t find this stuff/ Amusing anymore." This can be a continuation of his comments his alcohol-loving neighbor, or a "this stuff" can be the kinds of shenanigans he feels he has put up with too many of already in life.
The chorus seems to be a conversation not involving the "man" at all. The song started with a narrator, who now seems to turn to the listener and draw us into a closer relationship: "If you’ll be my bodyguard/ I can be your long-lost pal." This role-playing is indicative-- the speaker seeks protection, and in turn offers friendship. One can't offer protection in return, if one already feels vulnerable.
Then the speaker reveals more-- he is talking to a woman, and he suggests they take on pet names: "I can call you Betty/ You can call me Al." According to Simon, the names come from a mistake the French composer Pierre Boulez made at a party, calling Paul "Al" and and his then-wife Peggy "Betty." So even this line is an in-joke.
The next verse kicks off with another pun, this time on the word pair "short" and "long." (Simon's website is again incorrect. The line is "whoa, my nights are so long," while the site has it as "woe.") The man (which could be the same one or not) now has a problem, a "short little span of attention" but "long" nights to fill.
"Where’s my wife and family?" It's odd that he doesn't know, even if he is divorced. If they had in fact run off or been taken away by surprise, he would have contacted the police! So a better interpretation is neither "Where is the family I have" nor "Where is the family I once had" but "Where is the family I should have by now?"
And what if he never finds love? What if he should "die" before it happens? And worse, he has no one to turn to for guidance, as his "role model is gone." Panicked, he grabs the first opportunity at any sort of relationship or connection, with no standards or thought for consequences: "He ducked back down the alley/ With some... girl." Something that happens too often with politicians and others, one might add.
Well, the consequences happen anyway, even to the non-famous: "There were incidents and accidents... hints and allegations." His reputation, whatever it was, is ruined. (The phrase "Hints and Allegations" has since become the title of a poetry collection, a novel, and a Collective Soul album.)
The final verse takes the man away from familiar streets and local alleys. It sets him down "in a strange world." There is the Old World, or Europe... there is the New World, or the Western Hemisphere (which is old, too, but not to Europeans) and then there is the "developing world"-- mainly Africa and southern Asia-- which used to be called "The Third World" until that expression was determined to be demeaning. ("Maybe it's his first time around" could be a reference to reincarnation, in that he is a new soul, one with no past lives and so no experience.)
This time, the man is entirely out of his element-- "He doesn't speak the language/ He is a foreign man." Wait, where's the pun? In the second line: "He holds no currency," which means that he has no local form of money... but this is also an expression that means he "has no importance" here, no weight or influence.
The man is not surrounded by the concerns of notoriety or self-fulfillment that he was at home. No, he is "surrounded by the sound" of this new-yet-older place, with its "cattle" instead of cars, "orphanages" instead of families, and "angels in the architecture" instead of corporate logos or gargoyles.
His response? To be received in grace-land, actually. His head starts "spinning." Then he has an epiphany, a religious awakening: "He says, 'Amen!' and 'Hallelujah!'"
The word "scatterlings" also appears in the song "Scatterlings of Africa," by South African singer-songwriter Johnny Clegg. The album Third World Child came out the year after Graceland did, and the song hit England in 1987, then was used in the 1988 American movie Rain Man. It is possible that Clegg picked up the word from Simon, or that they both took it from a third source, or the local dialect. Most likely, the word means "rootless people, exiled from their land." Clegg uses it to mean all of humanity, which began in Africa and scattered from there.
Back to our speaker, who is a foreign man, yes... but so is every one else! Here, he is just another one of the "scatterlings," not like in his home country where everyone has to live under the twin pretenses of stability and upward mobility. He finally comes to a place where no one has a place, and so everyone does. Even him.
There is a wonderful song by Dar Williams called "What Do You Hear in These Sounds?" about therapy. In it, her realization feels like this: "The wall came down/ And there, they stood before me/ With their stumbling and their mumbling/ Just like me."
The secret is that there is no secret. The epiphany, what he has found, is that everyone is lost. Everyone is "soft in the middle" and vulnerable. Everyone is "short of attention" that they can pay, and that is paid to them.
The last verse can be seen as Simon's version of "Amazing Grace"-- A sweet "sound" brings salvation and inner peace to a lost wretch. As for Simon himself, he had forever been searching for the origins of the music he loved as a child-- early rock, doo-wop, and gospel-- and he seems to have found it. Amen and Hallelujah indeed.
IMPACT:
This upbeat song remains one of Simon's most popular, a quarter-century on. It is used as a fanfare for everyone from athletes named Al to once-VP-candidate Al Gore.
The musicians are from his South African ensemble, made of up members of several local bands. The famous bass solo is by Bakithi Kumalo, first played forward then backward.
Also, Adrian Belew sits in on guitar synthesizer, Randy Brecker plays one of the driving trumpets, and jazz flutist Morris Goldberg has a solo on penny whistle.
It went to #23 in the US charts and #11 in Canada, but all the way #6 in New Zealand, #4 in the UK, #2 in Australia and also #2 in Ireland, where they know a well-played penny whistle when they hear one. The song has been covered by a few acts, but none whose names I recognize.
The seemingly offhand line "hints and allegations" has become something of a catch-phrase. It is used in the title of an album by Collective Soul, as the title of two books of poems-- one each by William M. Kunstler and Amanda J. Bradley-- and a book by Kimberly Dascenzo. Even more books use the phrase "Incidents and Accidents" in their titles.
Next Song: Under African Skies
Friday, May 27, 2011
Silent Eyes
Paul Simon, most people know, is Jewish. In the song "Hearts and Bones," he states this outright calling himself and is recent ex-wife Carrie Fisher "one and one-half wandering Jews."
While he discusses religion in general at various points through his songs, his earliest religious recordings are Christian in nature (he and Garfunkel were singing on a Christian radio show in England around the time of their first official album), and there are references to Christianity, and other faiths, throughout his repertoire, from "Old" to his recent "Getting Ready for Christmas Day."
And while these other faiths do include Judaism, this is one of his most openly and outwardly Jewish songs. It is about Jerusalem, Judaism's most sacred city and the capital-- ancient, modern, eternal-- of Israel.
The last line in the song, "what was done," does not seem to refer to any particular event, or news item, regarding Jerusalem, at the time of the song's release (1975). In fact, the most recent major news about Jerusalem was (from a Jewish and Israeli perspective) the best news the city had received in centuries-- that its most sacred section, The Old City, with The Western Wall-- was once again in Jewish hands (as of the 1967 Six Day War). The reunification itself was such a historic milestone that it is celebrated annually in Israel with its own holiday.
So the profoundly mournful tone of the piece must refer to Jerusalem's millennia of suffering. According to the Jewish periodical Moment Magazine, "During its long history, Jerusalem has been destroyed twice, besieged 23 times, attacked 52 times, and captured and recaptured 44 times."
The line "bed of stone" refers to a particular material called Jerusalem stone, a local grade of limestone used to build everything from The Western Wall to modern office buildings and homes. It has a reflective quality, and in many lighting conditions, the city does seem to glow yellow, as referenced in an Israeli songwriter's beloved song "Jerusalem of Gold."
It is an ongoing source of worry, in the Jewish community, that Israelis themselves see Jerusalem as a proud, thriving, and even glowing city while American Jews see it much as Simon does-- a city shrouded in mourning. American Jews are raised with stories of Jerusalem's fall at the hands of the Babylonians and Romans, and we see media coverage of various wars and terror attacks today, and assume that the city is a battle zone and always has been. Slightly fewer than half of American Jews have been to Israel-- the last number I saw was 41%-- so the kind of personal familiarity with the city that would belie this image is lacking as well.
Turning back to the song itself, the speaker of the song seems helpless and helplessly detached. He "watches" in "silence." In other words, not only can he not help Jerusalem, but he can't put himself in a position to do so. In fact-- no one can: "No one will comfort her/ Jerusalem weeps alone."
Nevertheless, he feels that he should feel an attachment: "She calls my name." The city "burns like a flame"; it is not actually afire (as it has been during various battles); it burns "like" a flame, not "with" one. Instead, it is undergoing an intense emotion, as in the Sting song "I Burn for You." This "burning" is linked to the "calling," they are connected by the word "and."
So here is the city, yearning and begging for his attachment. The choir surges, then subsides. Has the connection been made? Maybe not... he still watches with "silent eyes."
Only now, his eyes are "burning" like the city. He has caught the fire. He feels the desire for connection welling within him, and he even starts to move toward the city.
But as he pushes on through the "desert," he only gets "halfway to Jerusalem." He can see the city, but he can't get all the way there, which would mean to speak for her. The "desert"--the empty space between himself and the city, is too intense (the word "burning" might also apply here), and he cannot complete his journey. He can see the city's "sorrow," he can even share that sorrow... but he still cannot speak words of comfort or defense to mitigate that sorrow.
We have instead, for most of the song, silence: "Silent eyes," "watching," "no one will comfort." Then the city "weeps" and "calls." And only gets silence in response. Movement, yes-- but not a completed one, only a "halfway" one.
This state cannot last, he concludes. God will judge him for not completing the journey. In the end, God will force him to speak-- to defend himself as if in court ("called as witnesses") --and explain why he did not speak to console or uphold Jerusalem.
The song phrases that idea differently. He-- and in fact "we... all"-- will have to "speak what was done." This is more profound, in that "we" what will have to say... is nothing. Because nothing was done. Nothing was even said. We stood there and watched Jerusalem "weep."
You know that thing parents say when children cry over, say, not getting ice cream: "I'll give you something to cry about"? Well, this is a similar situation. God's point? "You want to say nothing? I'll give you the chance to say nothing. I'm going to ask you what you did when Jerusalem wept. Then-- then!-- you will really be saying nothing."
On a larger scale, the speaker implies, we must all answer for what we did not do to stop suffering in general, in Jerusalem or during the Holocaust or at any time or place. We see the devastation wreaked by war and nature, we hear the "weeping," but we only watch with "silent eyes."
And if we say nothing, then when we are asked to speak for ourselves, we will have nothing to say.
The theme of "silence" has been part of Simon's lyrics since "Sound of Silence." The inability to connect on an interpersonal level runs through songs like "Dangling Conversation," "Most Peculiar Man," "Sparrow," "Bleeker Street," and many others. Here, Simon explores what happens when that detachment is writ large, on the stage of world events and history. Or rather, what doesn't happen.
IMPACT: The song appears in the soundtrack of the Warren Beatty movie Shampoo. "Have a Good Time" was also supposed to appear in that movie, but did not. "Feelin' Groovy" also makes a very brief, but recognizable, appearance.
The song was sampled by Access Immortal for a track titled "Authentic Made."
Next Song: Late in the Evening
While he discusses religion in general at various points through his songs, his earliest religious recordings are Christian in nature (he and Garfunkel were singing on a Christian radio show in England around the time of their first official album), and there are references to Christianity, and other faiths, throughout his repertoire, from "Old" to his recent "Getting Ready for Christmas Day."
And while these other faiths do include Judaism, this is one of his most openly and outwardly Jewish songs. It is about Jerusalem, Judaism's most sacred city and the capital-- ancient, modern, eternal-- of Israel.
The last line in the song, "what was done," does not seem to refer to any particular event, or news item, regarding Jerusalem, at the time of the song's release (1975). In fact, the most recent major news about Jerusalem was (from a Jewish and Israeli perspective) the best news the city had received in centuries-- that its most sacred section, The Old City, with The Western Wall-- was once again in Jewish hands (as of the 1967 Six Day War). The reunification itself was such a historic milestone that it is celebrated annually in Israel with its own holiday.
So the profoundly mournful tone of the piece must refer to Jerusalem's millennia of suffering. According to the Jewish periodical Moment Magazine, "During its long history, Jerusalem has been destroyed twice, besieged 23 times, attacked 52 times, and captured and recaptured 44 times."
The line "bed of stone" refers to a particular material called Jerusalem stone, a local grade of limestone used to build everything from The Western Wall to modern office buildings and homes. It has a reflective quality, and in many lighting conditions, the city does seem to glow yellow, as referenced in an Israeli songwriter's beloved song "Jerusalem of Gold."
It is an ongoing source of worry, in the Jewish community, that Israelis themselves see Jerusalem as a proud, thriving, and even glowing city while American Jews see it much as Simon does-- a city shrouded in mourning. American Jews are raised with stories of Jerusalem's fall at the hands of the Babylonians and Romans, and we see media coverage of various wars and terror attacks today, and assume that the city is a battle zone and always has been. Slightly fewer than half of American Jews have been to Israel-- the last number I saw was 41%-- so the kind of personal familiarity with the city that would belie this image is lacking as well.
Turning back to the song itself, the speaker of the song seems helpless and helplessly detached. He "watches" in "silence." In other words, not only can he not help Jerusalem, but he can't put himself in a position to do so. In fact-- no one can: "No one will comfort her/ Jerusalem weeps alone."
Nevertheless, he feels that he should feel an attachment: "She calls my name." The city "burns like a flame"; it is not actually afire (as it has been during various battles); it burns "like" a flame, not "with" one. Instead, it is undergoing an intense emotion, as in the Sting song "I Burn for You." This "burning" is linked to the "calling," they are connected by the word "and."
So here is the city, yearning and begging for his attachment. The choir surges, then subsides. Has the connection been made? Maybe not... he still watches with "silent eyes."
Only now, his eyes are "burning" like the city. He has caught the fire. He feels the desire for connection welling within him, and he even starts to move toward the city.
But as he pushes on through the "desert," he only gets "halfway to Jerusalem." He can see the city, but he can't get all the way there, which would mean to speak for her. The "desert"--the empty space between himself and the city, is too intense (the word "burning" might also apply here), and he cannot complete his journey. He can see the city's "sorrow," he can even share that sorrow... but he still cannot speak words of comfort or defense to mitigate that sorrow.
We have instead, for most of the song, silence: "Silent eyes," "watching," "no one will comfort." Then the city "weeps" and "calls." And only gets silence in response. Movement, yes-- but not a completed one, only a "halfway" one.
This state cannot last, he concludes. God will judge him for not completing the journey. In the end, God will force him to speak-- to defend himself as if in court ("called as witnesses") --and explain why he did not speak to console or uphold Jerusalem.
The song phrases that idea differently. He-- and in fact "we... all"-- will have to "speak what was done." This is more profound, in that "we" what will have to say... is nothing. Because nothing was done. Nothing was even said. We stood there and watched Jerusalem "weep."
You know that thing parents say when children cry over, say, not getting ice cream: "I'll give you something to cry about"? Well, this is a similar situation. God's point? "You want to say nothing? I'll give you the chance to say nothing. I'm going to ask you what you did when Jerusalem wept. Then-- then!-- you will really be saying nothing."
On a larger scale, the speaker implies, we must all answer for what we did not do to stop suffering in general, in Jerusalem or during the Holocaust or at any time or place. We see the devastation wreaked by war and nature, we hear the "weeping," but we only watch with "silent eyes."
And if we say nothing, then when we are asked to speak for ourselves, we will have nothing to say.
The theme of "silence" has been part of Simon's lyrics since "Sound of Silence." The inability to connect on an interpersonal level runs through songs like "Dangling Conversation," "Most Peculiar Man," "Sparrow," "Bleeker Street," and many others. Here, Simon explores what happens when that detachment is writ large, on the stage of world events and history. Or rather, what doesn't happen.
IMPACT: The song appears in the soundtrack of the Warren Beatty movie Shampoo. "Have a Good Time" was also supposed to appear in that movie, but did not. "Feelin' Groovy" also makes a very brief, but recognizable, appearance.
The song was sampled by Access Immortal for a track titled "Authentic Made."
Next Song: Late in the Evening
Monday, February 21, 2011
One Man's Ceiling is Another Man's Floor
"I don't want to get involved." Not an uncommon reaction, seeing as how the cliche that seems to follow those who do get involved is, "No good deed goes unpunished."
Here, the speaker lives in an apartment building where there have been "some strange goings-on." Notably, some violence. The first evidence is an actual bloody nose, the result of which is some "clothes" stained with the same "purple" blood.
But what is the real problem, here-- how is the speaker affected? Is he concerned for the fate of the injured party? Does he want to see justice done to the assailant? Not really-- he just wants the "rules" to be adhered to... and someone to mop the blood that is "messing up the lobby floor."
He realizes that there are humans, and human emotion, involved-- "There's been some hard feelings here/ About some words that were said." But, ultimately, he just wants the fight stopped so that there is quiet, as he can hear through the "ceiling" and "floor."
As he said, this was not an isolated incident, but part of a pattern. The elevator operator either quit or was fired. Then there was more noise, a "racket," perhaps caused by an argument. And then a "fall," which possibly hurt someone. Again, he does not want to get involved, at least past the point of asking-- again-- for a little quiet, please.
"It's just apartment house sense/ It's like apartment rents." In what way? Consideration for one's neighbors comes with the territory, just like paying rent. Everyone must pay what they owe to the landlord. Likewise what they owe to their fellow tenants, which is some tranquility.
So much for what goes on inside the building. What happens outside is just as troubling: "There's an alley in the back of my building/ Where some people congregate in shame." Over what? Possibly some sort of gambling, like numbers or craps, which would keep people "congregating" there. A user would buy drugs and then leave, and a dealer would likely not want a crowd around. Prostitutes might congregate, but not in "shame"-- they tend to flaunt more than hide-- and their clients would pick them up and, again, leave.
The song then ends on a chilling note. Our speaker, who has assiduously kept himself apart from his building-mates, thinks he hears someone "call [his] name." He is known, even unto his identity.
He is involved. Simply by living there and trying to enforce the minimal standards of propriety. Now, someone wants to talk with him. Perhaps to borrow money, perhaps to teach him a lesson about meddling, which he has done to such a minimal degree. Even if he runs now, he has to go home at some point.
As distant as he tried to make himself from the "mess" of his fellow tenants' lives, he is involved. He is a member of the community, whether he likes it or not.
Compare this with another loner of Simon's who also lives in a communal dwelling-- the "Most Peculiar Man." He is completely uninvolved: "He lived all alone... within a house/ within himself." Yet, once he died, he was revealed to be part of a community despite his efforts at solitude. His neighbors had an opinion or two of him, and he had a brother, and now there is an obituary in the public newspaper.
Other of Simon's songs along this theme are "Richard Cory," about the ironic solitude of fame, and "I Am a Rock," about withdrawal from social contact after a harsh breakup. Even "Sound of Silence" is about a lost society of loners who ignore each other, and the most vulnerable among them, at their own peril.
Simon has been pegged "Mr. Alienation" for even addressing the issue of isolation, for even saying, "I am an island." This is unfair, because the conclusion he keeps reaching is that, as Donne wrote, "No man is an island."
Simon agrees that the other side of your floor is someone else's ceiling. There is no point to pretending you are not invloved, he insists. If you are human, you simply are.
Musical Note:
The descending, and low, piano notes that open the song were sampled by a British rap duo performing as Biss N Eso. Their track is called "Up Jumped the Boogie."
Simon included this track with a 1940's-esque jazz remix on his In the Blue Light album; it's the only song therein to which no changes were made to the lyrics, just the arrangement.
Next Song: American Tune
Here, the speaker lives in an apartment building where there have been "some strange goings-on." Notably, some violence. The first evidence is an actual bloody nose, the result of which is some "clothes" stained with the same "purple" blood.
But what is the real problem, here-- how is the speaker affected? Is he concerned for the fate of the injured party? Does he want to see justice done to the assailant? Not really-- he just wants the "rules" to be adhered to... and someone to mop the blood that is "messing up the lobby floor."
He realizes that there are humans, and human emotion, involved-- "There's been some hard feelings here/ About some words that were said." But, ultimately, he just wants the fight stopped so that there is quiet, as he can hear through the "ceiling" and "floor."
As he said, this was not an isolated incident, but part of a pattern. The elevator operator either quit or was fired. Then there was more noise, a "racket," perhaps caused by an argument. And then a "fall," which possibly hurt someone. Again, he does not want to get involved, at least past the point of asking-- again-- for a little quiet, please.
"It's just apartment house sense/ It's like apartment rents." In what way? Consideration for one's neighbors comes with the territory, just like paying rent. Everyone must pay what they owe to the landlord. Likewise what they owe to their fellow tenants, which is some tranquility.
So much for what goes on inside the building. What happens outside is just as troubling: "There's an alley in the back of my building/ Where some people congregate in shame." Over what? Possibly some sort of gambling, like numbers or craps, which would keep people "congregating" there. A user would buy drugs and then leave, and a dealer would likely not want a crowd around. Prostitutes might congregate, but not in "shame"-- they tend to flaunt more than hide-- and their clients would pick them up and, again, leave.
The song then ends on a chilling note. Our speaker, who has assiduously kept himself apart from his building-mates, thinks he hears someone "call [his] name." He is known, even unto his identity.
He is involved. Simply by living there and trying to enforce the minimal standards of propriety. Now, someone wants to talk with him. Perhaps to borrow money, perhaps to teach him a lesson about meddling, which he has done to such a minimal degree. Even if he runs now, he has to go home at some point.
As distant as he tried to make himself from the "mess" of his fellow tenants' lives, he is involved. He is a member of the community, whether he likes it or not.
Compare this with another loner of Simon's who also lives in a communal dwelling-- the "Most Peculiar Man." He is completely uninvolved: "He lived all alone... within a house/ within himself." Yet, once he died, he was revealed to be part of a community despite his efforts at solitude. His neighbors had an opinion or two of him, and he had a brother, and now there is an obituary in the public newspaper.
Other of Simon's songs along this theme are "Richard Cory," about the ironic solitude of fame, and "I Am a Rock," about withdrawal from social contact after a harsh breakup. Even "Sound of Silence" is about a lost society of loners who ignore each other, and the most vulnerable among them, at their own peril.
Simon has been pegged "Mr. Alienation" for even addressing the issue of isolation, for even saying, "I am an island." This is unfair, because the conclusion he keeps reaching is that, as Donne wrote, "No man is an island."
Simon agrees that the other side of your floor is someone else's ceiling. There is no point to pretending you are not invloved, he insists. If you are human, you simply are.
Musical Note:
The descending, and low, piano notes that open the song were sampled by a British rap duo performing as Biss N Eso. Their track is called "Up Jumped the Boogie."
Simon included this track with a 1940's-esque jazz remix on his In the Blue Light album; it's the only song therein to which no changes were made to the lyrics, just the arrangement.
Next Song: American Tune
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
I Am a Rock
"No man is an island," says John Donne. "I am an island," replies Paul Simon, several hundred years later and an ocean away.
But two years earlier than our album came out, Peter and Gordon sang "Please lock me away/ And don't allow the day/ Here inside/ Where I hide/ With my loneliness" in their song "A World Without Love." The attraction of retreating to a solitary hideaway once one is burned by love is neither new nor exclusive to Simon.
Taking Simon's song in the context of his others, however, we might see this as a sequel to "Kathy's Song." There, Simon sings of "gazing" through a "window" at "drops of rain," thinking of a faraway love. Here, scorned by (and therefore, scorning) love altogether, he looks not outward but downward, and sees only his immediate surroundings: "Gazing from my window, to the streets below." And instead of "weary" raindrops, he sees "a silent shroud of snow."
In "Bleeker Street," the "shroud," remember, was a "fog" that hid God from His people. Here, the shroud of snow is simply "silent." It serves to dampen and hush the world (like a layer of music-studio soundproofing foam?). Listen to the the f, s, and sh alliterations of the line, like footfalls (the four ds of the opening line?) muffled in powdery snow.
The song may also be an attempt to understand the syndrome of the Most Peculiar Man, who "lived all alone, within a house... within himself." That Man could well have written this song. Why did he remove himself from the world? Well... "friendship causes pain," and having "loved" means having "cried." So to Hell with all of it. (And what if the speaker in "Kathy's Song," and "I Am a Rock" are both the Most Peculiar Man, before and after a break-up. We do know that one person wrote all three songs!)
There is an interesting use, or non-use, of rhyme. Each verse starts with three unrhymed lines, followed by two rhymed lines, and then the two unrhymed lines that form the chorus: "day/December/alone," then "below/snow," and then "rock/island." The next verses rhyme "pain/disdain," "died/cried," and (more of an internal rhyme) "room/womb." The lines before and after these rhymes do not rhyme, forming a jagged barrier-- like barbed wire or a point-tipped fence-- around the sad, angry rhymes.
The major imagery of "I Am a Rock" is that of Medieval castles: In "a fortress deep and mighty... I am shielded in my armor." Perhaps the "books" the speaker is using as a "wall" against the world are of this era? (If so, they would be a poor choice; most of the famous ones are romances. The disenchanted works of the Beats or the existential novels of mid-20th Century Europe would have been wiser selections to inculcate a sullen solitude. For instance, "No Exit," Sartre's play that famously ends: "Hell is other people.")
"She is soft, she is warm" is the line in "Wednesday Morning." "Soft and warm" also is the rain in "Kathy's Song." In "I Am a Rock," there is no softness, only "walls... fortress[es]... armor." There is no warmth, only "winter... December... snow."
The images are of inertia, a lack of movement: "snow... sleeping/slumber... womb," and the title image. The other images are of barriers, especially the castle/armor images (as well as a moat of snow, and the water around an "island."). Paradoxically, both the isolating barriers of no-longer-alive ("shroud") and not-yet-alive ("womb") are brought to use. The result is complete alone-ness: "None may penetrate... I touch no one and no one touches me."
The word "deep" comes up twice in the first two verses. This December is "deep" (as in "the depths of winter"), and his metaphorical fortress is "deep." The word has many meanings. Another is "profound," and many have taken reclusion as an indication of "deep study" or "deep thoughts." And certainly, the speaker would like to think of himself as a Michel de Montaigne-like figure, holed up in solitary scholarship amid towers of books.
But more likely, he is bound up in deep sadness. By pushing away the world, the speaker hopes to stave off sorrow: "friendship causes pain... [but] a rock feels no pain."
It is odd indeed to end this album with a song about a person who retreats inward and rejects the world as only a source of suffering. A person who has never heard the warning prophet of "Sound of Silence"... who has not read the cautionary tale of Richard Corey in the volumes of "poetry" in his room.
The love songs on this album, however, are break-up songs. In "Leaves That Are Green": "I held her close, but she faded in the night." In "Somewhere They Can't Find Me," a robber tears himself away from his lover to flee the law. And in "April Come She Will," a woman arrives, then leaves, then dies. Even "Blessed" is, in a way, about breaking up with God.
In interviews, Simon has said that this is one of his two least favorite of his own songs (the other will be revealed when we arrive at it). Perhaps the severity of the isolation imagery is too harsh. Perhaps it simply makes no sense to create a character who so purposefully isolates himself after all the warnings, all album long, about the effects-- from societal breakdown to suicide-- of such a self-imposed hermit-state.
We can only hope for this depressed, disheartened character's sake that he takes his own "womb" imagery to heart-- that his solitary confinement is temporary, and that he emerges from it with a sense of birth and life and a connection with the world. To remain in exile within society would be, to borrow a phrase, most peculiar.
IMPACT: This is the only song the duo sang during their appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show, January 30, 1966.
Concluding thoughts on this album:
Many albums take their titles from the titles of one of the hits on the album itself. This is Simon's major practice, in fact. But here, the album title is a variation on the song title, and so gets its own meaning. Each of the songs presented reflects one of the many kinds of silence there are (just as a painter will explain that there are many shades of black).
Each song is about one of the sounds of silence... the silences of: unheard words, an unresponsive deity, a distant or fleeing lover, isolation due to privilege or poverty (there is even "Anji," an instrumental, or wordless song).
On this album, Simon explores the various tones of quietness, and may conclude: Yes, either noise or nothingness, taken to extremes, leads to chaos. But also, there is-- as the author of Ecclesiastes might put it-- a time for sound, and a time for silence.
Next song: "Scarborough Fair"
But two years earlier than our album came out, Peter and Gordon sang "Please lock me away/ And don't allow the day/ Here inside/ Where I hide/ With my loneliness" in their song "A World Without Love." The attraction of retreating to a solitary hideaway once one is burned by love is neither new nor exclusive to Simon.
Taking Simon's song in the context of his others, however, we might see this as a sequel to "Kathy's Song." There, Simon sings of "gazing" through a "window" at "drops of rain," thinking of a faraway love. Here, scorned by (and therefore, scorning) love altogether, he looks not outward but downward, and sees only his immediate surroundings: "Gazing from my window, to the streets below." And instead of "weary" raindrops, he sees "a silent shroud of snow."
In "Bleeker Street," the "shroud," remember, was a "fog" that hid God from His people. Here, the shroud of snow is simply "silent." It serves to dampen and hush the world (like a layer of music-studio soundproofing foam?). Listen to the the f, s, and sh alliterations of the line, like footfalls (the four ds of the opening line?) muffled in powdery snow.
The song may also be an attempt to understand the syndrome of the Most Peculiar Man, who "lived all alone, within a house... within himself." That Man could well have written this song. Why did he remove himself from the world? Well... "friendship causes pain," and having "loved" means having "cried." So to Hell with all of it. (And what if the speaker in "Kathy's Song," and "I Am a Rock" are both the Most Peculiar Man, before and after a break-up. We do know that one person wrote all three songs!)
There is an interesting use, or non-use, of rhyme. Each verse starts with three unrhymed lines, followed by two rhymed lines, and then the two unrhymed lines that form the chorus: "day/December/alone," then "below/snow," and then "rock/island." The next verses rhyme "pain/disdain," "died/cried," and (more of an internal rhyme) "room/womb." The lines before and after these rhymes do not rhyme, forming a jagged barrier-- like barbed wire or a point-tipped fence-- around the sad, angry rhymes.
The major imagery of "I Am a Rock" is that of Medieval castles: In "a fortress deep and mighty... I am shielded in my armor." Perhaps the "books" the speaker is using as a "wall" against the world are of this era? (If so, they would be a poor choice; most of the famous ones are romances. The disenchanted works of the Beats or the existential novels of mid-20th Century Europe would have been wiser selections to inculcate a sullen solitude. For instance, "No Exit," Sartre's play that famously ends: "Hell is other people.")
"She is soft, she is warm" is the line in "Wednesday Morning." "Soft and warm" also is the rain in "Kathy's Song." In "I Am a Rock," there is no softness, only "walls... fortress[es]... armor." There is no warmth, only "winter... December... snow."
The images are of inertia, a lack of movement: "snow... sleeping/slumber... womb," and the title image. The other images are of barriers, especially the castle/armor images (as well as a moat of snow, and the water around an "island."). Paradoxically, both the isolating barriers of no-longer-alive ("shroud") and not-yet-alive ("womb") are brought to use. The result is complete alone-ness: "None may penetrate... I touch no one and no one touches me."
The word "deep" comes up twice in the first two verses. This December is "deep" (as in "the depths of winter"), and his metaphorical fortress is "deep." The word has many meanings. Another is "profound," and many have taken reclusion as an indication of "deep study" or "deep thoughts." And certainly, the speaker would like to think of himself as a Michel de Montaigne-like figure, holed up in solitary scholarship amid towers of books.
But more likely, he is bound up in deep sadness. By pushing away the world, the speaker hopes to stave off sorrow: "friendship causes pain... [but] a rock feels no pain."
It is odd indeed to end this album with a song about a person who retreats inward and rejects the world as only a source of suffering. A person who has never heard the warning prophet of "Sound of Silence"... who has not read the cautionary tale of Richard Corey in the volumes of "poetry" in his room.
The love songs on this album, however, are break-up songs. In "Leaves That Are Green": "I held her close, but she faded in the night." In "Somewhere They Can't Find Me," a robber tears himself away from his lover to flee the law. And in "April Come She Will," a woman arrives, then leaves, then dies. Even "Blessed" is, in a way, about breaking up with God.
In interviews, Simon has said that this is one of his two least favorite of his own songs (the other will be revealed when we arrive at it). Perhaps the severity of the isolation imagery is too harsh. Perhaps it simply makes no sense to create a character who so purposefully isolates himself after all the warnings, all album long, about the effects-- from societal breakdown to suicide-- of such a self-imposed hermit-state.
We can only hope for this depressed, disheartened character's sake that he takes his own "womb" imagery to heart-- that his solitary confinement is temporary, and that he emerges from it with a sense of birth and life and a connection with the world. To remain in exile within society would be, to borrow a phrase, most peculiar.
IMPACT: This is the only song the duo sang during their appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show, January 30, 1966.
Concluding thoughts on this album:
Many albums take their titles from the titles of one of the hits on the album itself. This is Simon's major practice, in fact. But here, the album title is a variation on the song title, and so gets its own meaning. Each of the songs presented reflects one of the many kinds of silence there are (just as a painter will explain that there are many shades of black).
Each song is about one of the sounds of silence... the silences of: unheard words, an unresponsive deity, a distant or fleeing lover, isolation due to privilege or poverty (there is even "Anji," an instrumental, or wordless song).
On this album, Simon explores the various tones of quietness, and may conclude: Yes, either noise or nothingness, taken to extremes, leads to chaos. But also, there is-- as the author of Ecclesiastes might put it-- a time for sound, and a time for silence.
Next song: "Scarborough Fair"
Friday, December 4, 2009
A Most Peculiar Man
A second suicidal song on the same album. This one differs from the last, "Richard Cory," in that the subject here was neither rich nor renowned. We learn that the deceased had a "tiny room" and that his chief trait was his hermit-like nature: "He lived all alone--Within a house, within a room, within himself." In fact, he is the polar opposite of Cory on both the fame and fortune spectrums; we never even learn his name.
The recluse's isolation was complete: "He had no friends... he has a brother somewhere." What was the cause of this isolation? "He seldom spoke." The assessment of this behavior by the community was brutal: "He wasn't friendly, and he didn't care, and he wasn't like them."
His isolation thus became self-reinforcing. The man offered little of himself, which led people to think of himself as aloof. Therefore, he was deemed uncaring, and therefore strange and unapproachable.
Normal people, it seems, participate in the community. We know Mrs. Riordon's name, probably because she introduced herself to us-- she was "friendly." She cared enough about the man to know that he was her neighbor and to find out who his next of kin was. And she knew enough about him to give him the title that substitutes for his unknown name: "She said he was a most peculiar man."
She also had the good fortune, being his upstairs neighbor and all, not to light a fire over the man's gas-filled apartment. No doubt, the fumes leaked up into her room, and she luckily smelled them before making tea or lighting a cigarette. In fact, we can presume that without these fumes, the man's body might have gone unnoticed for days, even weeks.
Such cases exist, and all too frequently, now that electronic systems can automatically collect Social Security or disability checks and pay out rent and utility bills. Without some indicator, such as weeks' worth of newspapers at the door or foul odors coming into the apartment hallway, isolated people are routinely found long after they have passed on.
When I entered college, I was informed that someone in my dormitory had died there the year before. He had a heart murmur and died in bed. It was three days before he was found. Now, Will had been an enormously popular fellow-- a talented musician, a witty raconteur, and clever with the cables and wires of communications technology. He was a leader in the dorm and well-loved. After his death, the dorm held a memorial fundraiser that endured at least until I graduated, five years after he had died, even after all who had known him had themselves graduated.
But on a college campus, one can go a day or two without seeing someone. And so, for three days, everyone passed by his room, not knowing he lay dead inside. Until people started asking, "Have you seen Will? Did he go out of town or something? I haven't seen him in days." His popularity ensured that he had only been missed for three days... and not more.
In the case of the Peculiar Man, however, the death was recent, only "last Saturday." So we are hearing about it less than a week after it happened, which means the body was found that day, or at the latest, a few days after.
Like all unnatural deaths, there had to be opportunity, method, and motive. The first two were readily available; the man had nothing else to do, and he had a gas stove or radiator. As for his motive, since he "seldom spoke," we can only guess. But we are certainly willing to: "He went to sleep... so he'd never wake up to his silent world and his tiny room."
Musically, the song has been lovely to this point. In fact, the simple, nonchalant, back-and-forth melody, punctuated by occasional filigrees, is one of Simon's prettiest.
But now, the voices become loud, perhaps angry. The lacy fingerwork crescendos to a strident strumming. A man has died-- why is there no anguish? Someone should be upset, at least! How could this have happened? Whose fault is it?
This pique subsides suddenly with the news that the brother "should be notified soon." Oh, fine. It's his problem now. Very well, then.
And then, the community's eulogy: "What a shame that he's dead. But, wasn't he a most peculiar man." Tsk, tsk. Well, what can be expected? He kept to himself, after all.
Up to now, Simon has continued to explore the theme of isolation in "Bleecker Street," "The Sound of Silence," "Wednesday Morning, 3AM," "Blessed," and even "Kathy's Song." And Simon acknowledges that isolation can even lead to death, as in "Sparrow" and "He Was My Brother."
But in "Richard Cory" and "Most Peculiar Man," we see another consequence of isolation: suicide. Death, yes, but at one's own hand. These were people who did not necessarily want to feel lonely. Richard Cory was known, but trapped in his status, unable to make connections because there was no one else in his situation. He owned "one half of this old town," and since the other half was not owned by one other person, he had no peers. (Compared this to, say, Tiger Woods befriending Michael Jordan years ago, who, while not in his sport, shares his ethnicity and superstar-athlete status. I write this while Mr. Woods' first scandal is still unravelling, and a column appeared suggesting that he consult with Mr. Jordan on how to handle such a situation. Obviously, we do not expect Mr. Woods to end his own life at this point.).
And the Peculiar Man? Who knows why he enclosed himself in a shell of silence? Well, we might ask the speaker of "Somewhere They Can't Find Me," who is on the lam, or the speaker of "I Am a Rock," who is heartbroken. It may even be the effect of a mental illness like agoraphobia, as explored in the movie Columbus Circle, about a woman who has not left her apartment in 20 years.There are many reasons a person might shut him- or herself off from the world.
Perhaps he was simply sick or disabled and unable to move easily. My late grandfather died at 100 and hadn't left his house in five or more years, but he was tended by my grandmother and visited often by his children, grandchildren, community-appointed social workers and clergy.
Ultimately, why is the man seen as "peculiar"? Because he does not extend himself to the community. He wasn't "like" his neighbors, in that they did do so. But we do not know if anyone, Mrs. Riordan included, ever tried to draw the man from his isolation-- engage him in conversation, invite him to a community event, offer to run errands for him. At some point, the neighbors simply labelled him "peculiar," and went on their way.
Simon's implication is not that the man imposed his own isolation and refused entreaties, however. It seems that he was simply shy and unforthcoming-- perhaps he was new to the building, perhaps all of his neighbors were-- leading to his neighbors' shrugs and sighs, leading in turn to the man's eventual total alone-ness, which the neighbors reflexively blamed on the man himself.
And they should not have. They should have tried harder. Now that the man is dead, we see (too late) that he did not in fact want to be alone. They should have noticed the signs earlier, and taken his introversion not as a sign of rejection of them (as they self-centeredly no doubt did) or haughtiness, but as a sign of self-doubt and lack of confidence.
Simon indicts their indifference, but then wonders if he is expecting too much. Perhaps he is.
Sharon Begely writes in "Newsweek," December 2009: "How much babies gesture, smile, make eye contact, and babble affects how adults respond to them, including responses that shape how verbal a child will be, how emotionally secure she will feel, and thus what kind of adult relationships she will have."
Or, as the Beatles would say: "The love you take is equal to the love you make." Perhaps it was not the man's fault that he was peculiarly introverted. But it may be just as unavoidable, or at least as much "human nature," that society dubbed his introversion "peculiar."
Next song: April Come She Will
The recluse's isolation was complete: "He had no friends... he has a brother somewhere." What was the cause of this isolation? "He seldom spoke." The assessment of this behavior by the community was brutal: "He wasn't friendly, and he didn't care, and he wasn't like them."
His isolation thus became self-reinforcing. The man offered little of himself, which led people to think of himself as aloof. Therefore, he was deemed uncaring, and therefore strange and unapproachable.
Normal people, it seems, participate in the community. We know Mrs. Riordon's name, probably because she introduced herself to us-- she was "friendly." She cared enough about the man to know that he was her neighbor and to find out who his next of kin was. And she knew enough about him to give him the title that substitutes for his unknown name: "She said he was a most peculiar man."
She also had the good fortune, being his upstairs neighbor and all, not to light a fire over the man's gas-filled apartment. No doubt, the fumes leaked up into her room, and she luckily smelled them before making tea or lighting a cigarette. In fact, we can presume that without these fumes, the man's body might have gone unnoticed for days, even weeks.
Such cases exist, and all too frequently, now that electronic systems can automatically collect Social Security or disability checks and pay out rent and utility bills. Without some indicator, such as weeks' worth of newspapers at the door or foul odors coming into the apartment hallway, isolated people are routinely found long after they have passed on.
When I entered college, I was informed that someone in my dormitory had died there the year before. He had a heart murmur and died in bed. It was three days before he was found. Now, Will had been an enormously popular fellow-- a talented musician, a witty raconteur, and clever with the cables and wires of communications technology. He was a leader in the dorm and well-loved. After his death, the dorm held a memorial fundraiser that endured at least until I graduated, five years after he had died, even after all who had known him had themselves graduated.
But on a college campus, one can go a day or two without seeing someone. And so, for three days, everyone passed by his room, not knowing he lay dead inside. Until people started asking, "Have you seen Will? Did he go out of town or something? I haven't seen him in days." His popularity ensured that he had only been missed for three days... and not more.
In the case of the Peculiar Man, however, the death was recent, only "last Saturday." So we are hearing about it less than a week after it happened, which means the body was found that day, or at the latest, a few days after.
Like all unnatural deaths, there had to be opportunity, method, and motive. The first two were readily available; the man had nothing else to do, and he had a gas stove or radiator. As for his motive, since he "seldom spoke," we can only guess. But we are certainly willing to: "He went to sleep... so he'd never wake up to his silent world and his tiny room."
Musically, the song has been lovely to this point. In fact, the simple, nonchalant, back-and-forth melody, punctuated by occasional filigrees, is one of Simon's prettiest.
But now, the voices become loud, perhaps angry. The lacy fingerwork crescendos to a strident strumming. A man has died-- why is there no anguish? Someone should be upset, at least! How could this have happened? Whose fault is it?
This pique subsides suddenly with the news that the brother "should be notified soon." Oh, fine. It's his problem now. Very well, then.
And then, the community's eulogy: "What a shame that he's dead. But, wasn't he a most peculiar man." Tsk, tsk. Well, what can be expected? He kept to himself, after all.
Up to now, Simon has continued to explore the theme of isolation in "Bleecker Street," "The Sound of Silence," "Wednesday Morning, 3AM," "Blessed," and even "Kathy's Song." And Simon acknowledges that isolation can even lead to death, as in "Sparrow" and "He Was My Brother."
But in "Richard Cory" and "Most Peculiar Man," we see another consequence of isolation: suicide. Death, yes, but at one's own hand. These were people who did not necessarily want to feel lonely. Richard Cory was known, but trapped in his status, unable to make connections because there was no one else in his situation. He owned "one half of this old town," and since the other half was not owned by one other person, he had no peers. (Compared this to, say, Tiger Woods befriending Michael Jordan years ago, who, while not in his sport, shares his ethnicity and superstar-athlete status. I write this while Mr. Woods' first scandal is still unravelling, and a column appeared suggesting that he consult with Mr. Jordan on how to handle such a situation. Obviously, we do not expect Mr. Woods to end his own life at this point.).
And the Peculiar Man? Who knows why he enclosed himself in a shell of silence? Well, we might ask the speaker of "Somewhere They Can't Find Me," who is on the lam, or the speaker of "I Am a Rock," who is heartbroken. It may even be the effect of a mental illness like agoraphobia, as explored in the movie Columbus Circle, about a woman who has not left her apartment in 20 years.There are many reasons a person might shut him- or herself off from the world.
Perhaps he was simply sick or disabled and unable to move easily. My late grandfather died at 100 and hadn't left his house in five or more years, but he was tended by my grandmother and visited often by his children, grandchildren, community-appointed social workers and clergy.
Ultimately, why is the man seen as "peculiar"? Because he does not extend himself to the community. He wasn't "like" his neighbors, in that they did do so. But we do not know if anyone, Mrs. Riordan included, ever tried to draw the man from his isolation-- engage him in conversation, invite him to a community event, offer to run errands for him. At some point, the neighbors simply labelled him "peculiar," and went on their way.
Simon's implication is not that the man imposed his own isolation and refused entreaties, however. It seems that he was simply shy and unforthcoming-- perhaps he was new to the building, perhaps all of his neighbors were-- leading to his neighbors' shrugs and sighs, leading in turn to the man's eventual total alone-ness, which the neighbors reflexively blamed on the man himself.
And they should not have. They should have tried harder. Now that the man is dead, we see (too late) that he did not in fact want to be alone. They should have noticed the signs earlier, and taken his introversion not as a sign of rejection of them (as they self-centeredly no doubt did) or haughtiness, but as a sign of self-doubt and lack of confidence.
Simon indicts their indifference, but then wonders if he is expecting too much. Perhaps he is.
Sharon Begely writes in "Newsweek," December 2009: "How much babies gesture, smile, make eye contact, and babble affects how adults respond to them, including responses that shape how verbal a child will be, how emotionally secure she will feel, and thus what kind of adult relationships she will have."
Or, as the Beatles would say: "The love you take is equal to the love you make." Perhaps it was not the man's fault that he was peculiarly introverted. But it may be just as unavoidable, or at least as much "human nature," that society dubbed his introversion "peculiar."
Next song: April Come She Will
Friday, November 27, 2009
Richard Cory
Already, Simon has updated the words of Jesus, in "Blessed." Now he turns for source material to the poem "Richard Corey" (the original spells the name "-ey," Simon's version does not). The poem is four verses by E.A. Robinson (readily available online; just search the poem's name with any search engine) about a wealthy man who inexplicably commits suicide.
One may compare Simon's updated version to the original line-by-line at one's leisure. In fact, this might be a useful exercise for a poetry class. The instructor may then ask the students to update the original poem again for the new millennium, or to choose another classic poem to update.
Here, we will focus on the overall characters in the poems rather than the structure of the poems.
The major difference between Richard Corey and Richard Cory is in their demeanor. Mr. Corey is "a gentleman... "[who] was always human when he talked"... "and admirably schooled in every grace." The poem does not say he shared his wealth charitably, however.
His literary descendant, Mr. Cory, does give to "charity" along with having "the common touch" --but he also is a playboy who attends opulent galas, bribes politicians, is rumored to host debauched "parties," and is hounded by paparazzi.
Regardless, there is little difference between the reaction of the speaker in one version and the other. In Robinson's: "We went without the meat and cursed the bread... wish[ed] that we were in his place." And in Simon's: "I curse my poverty/ And I wish that I could be/ Richard Cory."
But, as the Beatles cautioned, "Money can't buy... love." For all of Mr. Corey/Cory's seemingly enviable lifestyle, he was depressed, and his life felt empty. In short, this life was substantial, but not substantive. Even giving to charity, the usual remedy suggested for the ennui of the idle rich, did not seem to give Mr. Cory a sense of fulfillment; both the poem and the song end with the same words, that Richard "put a bullet through his head."
Today, we might recognize the plight of these wealthy men as depression, or some other legitimate, non-discriminating mental illness, and suggest therapy and/or medication. But they are only fictional figments, meant to educate the reader that money cannot purchase happiness.
How many celebrities of all walks-- entertainment, politics, business-- have achieved the pinnacles of fame and finance they so earnestly sought, only to realize the barrenness of the landscape once they reached these peaks? Inevitably, they seem try to fill this emptiness with physical possessions and pleasures. And we all know the stories of these celebrities' subsequent declines, descents, even deaths.
And yet, we would each wear the T-shirt that says: "Ironically, I'm one of the people who could have handled winning the lottery." If it were me, the claim always is, I would not fall prey to those lurid temptations! I would pay my debts and support my family and community, but otherwise not change my lifestyle very much. I would certainly be happy enough not to feel like killing myself!
Simon's speaker agrees. His reaction to Mr. Cory's suicide is "wonder," but not examination. In fact, he immediately reasserts that he wishes that he could "be Richard Cory."
Simon frequently visits the subject of the individual on the margins, forgotten by society. But until now, this subject has been abject-- poor, homeless, abandoned. "Richard Cory" is Simon's recognition that the desperation of alienation can affect those at the top of society's ladder as well as those who have had the ill luck of walking underneath it.
In an interview, Simon tells the story of he and Garfunkel sitting and listening to the radio one evening. They are in a car parked on the street between their two childhood homes. The song "Sound of Silence" finishes coming through the speakers, and the d.j. comments that this is now the #1 song in America. Art turns to Paul and says, "I bet those guys are having the time of their life right now."
Simon has taken his own advice. He has never rested on his laurels. He has continued to challenge himself musically and artistically, attempting film and stage productions. And he has worked against oppression, started the Children's Health Fund, and been part of innumerable fundraisers over the years for dozens of worthwhile causes. While some of Simon's actions have been provocative and controversial, they have never been scandalous. For his work, he has been universally acclaimed and honored.
Richard Cory wishes he could be Paul Simon.
IMPACT:
The song was covered by Paul McCartney's post-Beatles band, Wings, on their live "Wings Over America" album. It was also covered by Van Morrison's early band, Them.
Next Song: A Most Peculiar Man
One may compare Simon's updated version to the original line-by-line at one's leisure. In fact, this might be a useful exercise for a poetry class. The instructor may then ask the students to update the original poem again for the new millennium, or to choose another classic poem to update.
Here, we will focus on the overall characters in the poems rather than the structure of the poems.
The major difference between Richard Corey and Richard Cory is in their demeanor. Mr. Corey is "a gentleman... "[who] was always human when he talked"... "and admirably schooled in every grace." The poem does not say he shared his wealth charitably, however.
His literary descendant, Mr. Cory, does give to "charity" along with having "the common touch" --but he also is a playboy who attends opulent galas, bribes politicians, is rumored to host debauched "parties," and is hounded by paparazzi.
Regardless, there is little difference between the reaction of the speaker in one version and the other. In Robinson's: "We went without the meat and cursed the bread... wish[ed] that we were in his place." And in Simon's: "I curse my poverty/ And I wish that I could be/ Richard Cory."
But, as the Beatles cautioned, "Money can't buy... love." For all of Mr. Corey/Cory's seemingly enviable lifestyle, he was depressed, and his life felt empty. In short, this life was substantial, but not substantive. Even giving to charity, the usual remedy suggested for the ennui of the idle rich, did not seem to give Mr. Cory a sense of fulfillment; both the poem and the song end with the same words, that Richard "put a bullet through his head."
Today, we might recognize the plight of these wealthy men as depression, or some other legitimate, non-discriminating mental illness, and suggest therapy and/or medication. But they are only fictional figments, meant to educate the reader that money cannot purchase happiness.
How many celebrities of all walks-- entertainment, politics, business-- have achieved the pinnacles of fame and finance they so earnestly sought, only to realize the barrenness of the landscape once they reached these peaks? Inevitably, they seem try to fill this emptiness with physical possessions and pleasures. And we all know the stories of these celebrities' subsequent declines, descents, even deaths.
And yet, we would each wear the T-shirt that says: "Ironically, I'm one of the people who could have handled winning the lottery." If it were me, the claim always is, I would not fall prey to those lurid temptations! I would pay my debts and support my family and community, but otherwise not change my lifestyle very much. I would certainly be happy enough not to feel like killing myself!
Simon's speaker agrees. His reaction to Mr. Cory's suicide is "wonder," but not examination. In fact, he immediately reasserts that he wishes that he could "be Richard Cory."
Simon frequently visits the subject of the individual on the margins, forgotten by society. But until now, this subject has been abject-- poor, homeless, abandoned. "Richard Cory" is Simon's recognition that the desperation of alienation can affect those at the top of society's ladder as well as those who have had the ill luck of walking underneath it.
In an interview, Simon tells the story of he and Garfunkel sitting and listening to the radio one evening. They are in a car parked on the street between their two childhood homes. The song "Sound of Silence" finishes coming through the speakers, and the d.j. comments that this is now the #1 song in America. Art turns to Paul and says, "I bet those guys are having the time of their life right now."
Simon has taken his own advice. He has never rested on his laurels. He has continued to challenge himself musically and artistically, attempting film and stage productions. And he has worked against oppression, started the Children's Health Fund, and been part of innumerable fundraisers over the years for dozens of worthwhile causes. While some of Simon's actions have been provocative and controversial, they have never been scandalous. For his work, he has been universally acclaimed and honored.
Richard Cory wishes he could be Paul Simon.
IMPACT:
The song was covered by Paul McCartney's post-Beatles band, Wings, on their live "Wings Over America" album. It was also covered by Van Morrison's early band, Them.
Next Song: A Most Peculiar Man
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