Simon has dealt with the subject of weariness before. The song "American Tune," for instance, ends: "I'm trying to get some rest." Here, however, is a whole song on the matter.
The speaker seems to be homeless, at least at present: "Ain’t got no place to stay/ But any old place will be okay." So to whom is he singing, "Good night/ Oh, my love?" Why can't he stay with her, if he is so desperate? Evidently, he is speaking to her across some distance, by phone or in his mind,
Knowing that the character in the film singing the song is a travelling musician helps. This information is related in the next verse: "I’ve sure been on this road... You don’t see my face in Rolling Stone." (Meaning the music magazine, of course.)
Again, though, if he is with a tour, surely some arrangements have been made for his accommodations. It could be that his sense of homelessness is more metaphorical.
Also, this cannot be the first "long, long day"; this fellow has spent in his 14 years on the road. However, this particular day seems to have been particularly taxing.
The next verse-- more a bridge, really-- is in paulsimon.com's version of the song, but not in the film itself. The film version goes:
"Slow motion/Half a dollar bill/Jukebox in the corner/Shooting to kill."
On the website and in the Lyrics book, however, we see these words interspersed with what seems to be a potential woman's vocal (which I have in italics; the rest is in the film version):
"When I see him standing there (Slow motion)
I said, “Hey, there’s a guy who needs a laugh”
That’s what I said to myself (Half a dollar bill)
What the hell, we’re both alone
And I’m just standing here
Jukebox in the corner
Shooting to kill"
This version implies that, even though the singer is in "love," he is so desperate for companionship that he is willing to cheat tonight.
As this material is not in the film, however, I am not sure what to make of it. Going back to the film's version, which is, again-- "Slow motion/ Half a dollar bill/ Jukebox in the corner/ Shooting to kill"-- the sense is much more abstract, and it seems the jukebox is what is shooting to kill. It might be that, to a musician who hasn't made it, seeing others' songs on a jukebox is just another painful reminder of his lack of success. Either that, or a specific song it is playing proves heart-wrenching.
The phrase "half a dollar bill" is interesting as well. The usual phrasing is "a half-dollar," meaning either 50 cents or a 50-cent piece. But "half a... bill" implies a bill ripped in half. This might be a play on the saying "Another day, another dollar," implying "Today was only worth half a dollar." Another meaning could be, "I feel about a worthless as half of a dollar bill."
The last verse reiterates the loneliness that is part of the weariness the speaker feels. At last, he is so spent, this songwriter admits that he is out of words and apologizes for it: "I hate to abuse an old cliché."
The day has been exhausting, both physically and emotionally, and the best that can be said about it is that it is over.
IMPACT:
Not the most well-known song in Simon's catalog, he nevertheless sang it on his appearance on The Muppet Show, alongside his better-known hits like "Scarborough Fair," "50 Ways," and "El Condor Pasa." (Both the film and Muppet Show performances are on YouTube.)
Next Song: Soft Parachutes
Showing posts with label homesickness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label homesickness. Show all posts
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
God Bless the Absentee
Most people probably see the life of a travelling musician much the way the speaker of the song "Money for Nothing" does: "That's the way you do it/ You play the gee-tar on the MTV/ Money for nothin', chicks for free."
As we have already seen, the life of a travelling musician may be anything but glamorous. I recall seeing one folkie in college. A guy came out, set up a stool and a mic', put some water on the stool, came back with a guitar and tuned it, and left the stage. Five minutes later, the same guy came out, picked up the guitar, and started to play and sing. This guy was his own roadie-- glamorous, indeed! Like the guys Dire Straits sing about who have to "install microwave ovens," the speaker considers himself a "working man."
This is the level of the game our speaker plays. In earlier songs on this soundtrack, Jonah discusses the toll it takes on him. Here, he widens his scope a bit: "I have a wife and family, but they don’t see much of me."
The line "I play the ace of spades" can be taken several ways. It might be a reference to "Ace in the Hole"; one imagines many games of poker are played on tour! Another meaning could be that he must always play his highest card, his best material, as his he still making his name. Yet another, more unlikely, idea is that he plays the role of the ace, the leader of the group, but this is a role he puts on.
Then speaking of his family, he asks for a blessing for himself, "God bless the absentee." On the surface, this may seem selfish. After all, shouldn't his family be the one he is asking God to bless, having to make their way without him? Ah, but of course God is watching over them. He is the one who has to remind God-- "Hey, I need some blessing, too! It's hard out here!" (This is the third song on the soundtrack to mention "God," plus one that mentions "Jesus.")
The next metaphor for what he does is surgery: "Music is my knife." In what way? "It cuts away my sorrow." Yes, but doesn't it also, in a way, cause it? After all, if his sorrow is missing his family, the music is what takes him away from them in the first place. If he gave up touring, he could see them every night. Perhaps that is not his only source of sorrow, however.
Now, if his heart would be "released" from the rest of his body, it would need the Absentee's Blessing. A heart with no body-- "pure" emotion without that which to feel about-- is not present in a new, truer context as it would hope, but "absent" from its real home. That heart would need God's special attention, with no other support system.
The bridge may seem to be about his "woman," but all the sentences start with "I." He is the true subject of the song; without his wife, bed, and pillow, he feels alone. Even if it was his choice to go on tour.
The next few lines are about his "son," whom he says "do[es]n’t need me yet." Why? "His bones are soft." This would imply a newborn, and one could argue that all a newborn needs is a source of milk, a clean diaper, and a nice crib.
But is this child a newborn? Not in the movie, and not here: "He flies a silver airplane/ He wears a golden cross." This is presumably a toy airplane, and one might even guess the kind of gift bought by a hurried, harried parent at an airport on the way home, having forgotten to buy one at the other city. And the son is old enough to wear a necklace, something one certainly does not put on an infant or toddler. Perhaps our speaker is in denial about how old his child really is and how much he needs a present father figure.
The last verse seems like a cop-out, blaming societal changes for his own guilt. The comments about how the country is changing reveal that he has not changed while everything around him has-- and maybe he is just noticing now (for instance, his newborn is now zooming around the living room narrating the flights of toy airplanes).
Changing the subject and externalizing his "sorrow" proves useless, however. He sees in the metaphors available to a traveler-- "highways" and "airports"-- what he is avoiding at home: conflict. Why else would he look at something usually used as a metaphor for freedom and spontaneity-- the open road-- and see "litigation"? Why imagine something as sterile and efficiency-minded as an airport "disagreeing"?
Maybe his store of sympathy has run out at home. Maybe when he calls home to gripe about something that happened at a gig, his wife replies that her single parenting is hardly the life of Riley, either... and if he hates it so much out there, he could come home and wash a dish or two.
Home is warm and cozy but stifling and stultifying; the road is thrilling and full of possibility and opportunity but lonely. Perhaps our conflicted absentee is truly in need of a blessing after all.
Next song: Long, Long Day
As we have already seen, the life of a travelling musician may be anything but glamorous. I recall seeing one folkie in college. A guy came out, set up a stool and a mic', put some water on the stool, came back with a guitar and tuned it, and left the stage. Five minutes later, the same guy came out, picked up the guitar, and started to play and sing. This guy was his own roadie-- glamorous, indeed! Like the guys Dire Straits sing about who have to "install microwave ovens," the speaker considers himself a "working man."
This is the level of the game our speaker plays. In earlier songs on this soundtrack, Jonah discusses the toll it takes on him. Here, he widens his scope a bit: "I have a wife and family, but they don’t see much of me."
The line "I play the ace of spades" can be taken several ways. It might be a reference to "Ace in the Hole"; one imagines many games of poker are played on tour! Another meaning could be that he must always play his highest card, his best material, as his he still making his name. Yet another, more unlikely, idea is that he plays the role of the ace, the leader of the group, but this is a role he puts on.
Then speaking of his family, he asks for a blessing for himself, "God bless the absentee." On the surface, this may seem selfish. After all, shouldn't his family be the one he is asking God to bless, having to make their way without him? Ah, but of course God is watching over them. He is the one who has to remind God-- "Hey, I need some blessing, too! It's hard out here!" (This is the third song on the soundtrack to mention "God," plus one that mentions "Jesus.")
The next metaphor for what he does is surgery: "Music is my knife." In what way? "It cuts away my sorrow." Yes, but doesn't it also, in a way, cause it? After all, if his sorrow is missing his family, the music is what takes him away from them in the first place. If he gave up touring, he could see them every night. Perhaps that is not his only source of sorrow, however.
Now, if his heart would be "released" from the rest of his body, it would need the Absentee's Blessing. A heart with no body-- "pure" emotion without that which to feel about-- is not present in a new, truer context as it would hope, but "absent" from its real home. That heart would need God's special attention, with no other support system.
The bridge may seem to be about his "woman," but all the sentences start with "I." He is the true subject of the song; without his wife, bed, and pillow, he feels alone. Even if it was his choice to go on tour.
The next few lines are about his "son," whom he says "do[es]n’t need me yet." Why? "His bones are soft." This would imply a newborn, and one could argue that all a newborn needs is a source of milk, a clean diaper, and a nice crib.
But is this child a newborn? Not in the movie, and not here: "He flies a silver airplane/ He wears a golden cross." This is presumably a toy airplane, and one might even guess the kind of gift bought by a hurried, harried parent at an airport on the way home, having forgotten to buy one at the other city. And the son is old enough to wear a necklace, something one certainly does not put on an infant or toddler. Perhaps our speaker is in denial about how old his child really is and how much he needs a present father figure.
The last verse seems like a cop-out, blaming societal changes for his own guilt. The comments about how the country is changing reveal that he has not changed while everything around him has-- and maybe he is just noticing now (for instance, his newborn is now zooming around the living room narrating the flights of toy airplanes).
Changing the subject and externalizing his "sorrow" proves useless, however. He sees in the metaphors available to a traveler-- "highways" and "airports"-- what he is avoiding at home: conflict. Why else would he look at something usually used as a metaphor for freedom and spontaneity-- the open road-- and see "litigation"? Why imagine something as sterile and efficiency-minded as an airport "disagreeing"?
Maybe his store of sympathy has run out at home. Maybe when he calls home to gripe about something that happened at a gig, his wife replies that her single parenting is hardly the life of Riley, either... and if he hates it so much out there, he could come home and wash a dish or two.
Home is warm and cozy but stifling and stultifying; the road is thrilling and full of possibility and opportunity but lonely. Perhaps our conflicted absentee is truly in need of a blessing after all.
Next song: Long, Long Day
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Homeward Bound
Many of Simon's songs are enigmatic and elliptical, but not this one. It's about a bad case of homesickness, and Simon can't say it more plainly: "I wish I was homeward bound." (This is not to say that no one can say it more plainly; in the Beach Boys song "Sloop John B," they sing, even more simply: "I wanna go home.")
The song's straightforwardness does not mean it is not artistic. Like Springsteen and Harry Chapin, Simon is a keen observer of detail, using concrete images to evoke the crushing monotony of life on the road: "Every day's an endless stream/ of cigarettes and magazines... And each town looks the same to me,/ the movies and the factories." (A very good, very similar song, is "The Road," by Danny O'Keefe, popularized by Jackson Browne.)
The speaker, if not Simon himself, is someone in the exact same situation. He likens an endlessly touring musician to an itinerant lover, calling his gigs "one-night stands." The irony is that he moves from place to place, singing the same song over and over... about what? About going home! Why, what's there? His actual "love," who "lies waiting, silently, for [him]."
(The fact that his love waits "silently" is interesting, considering Simon's stated opinions of the dangers of silence, as in "Sounds of Silence." Here, it is probably best interpreted as "uncomplainingly.")
This is the core Catch-22 of the life of performers-- to make their living, they must travel... but the reason they make their living is to support their loved ones... whom they never see, because they are travelling. (Pierce Pettis' excellent song "Envelopes of Light" addresses this same tension.) Going back to the image of lovers, these "one-night stands"-- even if they involve no actual sex with groupies-- feel like a form of infidelity. He is sharing, through his songs, his deepest thoughts and dreams... with "strangers."
Aside from his lover, two other things are at "home." It is "where [his] thought's escaping." This colloquial grammar gives two meanings to this line. One is that home is a place where his thought can "escape," or roam freely (as in the last entry, "Cloudy": "my thoughts are scattered... they echo and they swell"). The other, more likely, interpretation is that home is where his thoughts are escaping to.
The other thing that home provides is a place "where [his] music's playing." But wait... he is on the road to play his songs: "Tonight I'll sing my songs again." Why would his music be playing at home?
Ah, but his he really "playing" on the road, or just "playing" at it? The rest of the line is: "I'll play the game and pretend." His performances on the road are perfunctory and forced, it seems, while at home, his music practically plays itself; the line is not "Home, where I play my music" or "where my music is played," but, "Home, where my music's playing."
The phrase might also mean where his "music's playing" in the sense that his favorite music is playing, either the literal music he enjoys hearing (as opposed to making)... or, metaphorically, where the sounds of his family's lives and voices are more like music to him than the stilted, forced music he plays on the road.
Even deeper, home is where his own internal music is playing, where he "sings his own song," as it were, and does not simply function (as he does on the road) as a walking jukebox. Singing, say, an old doo-wop number at home might end up being "[his] music playing"-- his own emotional state being revealed in melody-- more than his singing a song he actually wrote, but without any genuine emotion attached to it.
The usual grammar allows for such interpretations. Things don't just "escape," they escape from or to somewhere... and music doesn't "play," children and puppies play, and music is played. But at this magical place called "home," such considerations are suspended. Thoughts can simply "escape," and music can "play" like a kitten.
But he is not home. He is on the road. And while he is out there, performing the role of happy performer, he feels his lack of sincerity affects the songs themselves. He sang to Kathy that he'd been "writing songs [he] can't believe," and now that he is out performing them he says: "my words come back to me in shade of mediocrity, like emptiness in harmony." Harmony, which involves more than one voice, should feel more full, but it does not.
French author Jean Giradoux famously quipped: "The key to success is sincerity. Once you can fake that, you've got it made." Well, our performer can no longer fake it (we will discuss the issue further in the song "Fakin' It"). He is "all pretended out," and he wants to come home to a place of authenticity... of real, not fake, sincerity. As Simon later sings, in "Keep the Customer Satisfied": "Gee, but it's great to be back home/ Home is where I wanna be/ I've been on the road so long, my friend."
One need not be a travelling performer to feel this way. Those in business who work long hours, teachers who tuck their children in and then grade papers and plan the next day's lessons, doctors and clergy forever on call, soldiers and salespeople and truckers and athletes who are away for months at a time... many can relate to the feelings to disconnectedness Simon relates in "Homeward Bound." They perform the same tasks-- which they perhaps did once enjoy-- again and again to support the loved ones they rarely see. When they'd rather just be home.
No doubt this is why "Homeward Bound" is one of Simon's most popular compositions. Its world-weariness and homesickness are easily understood and appreciated. Its message that home is where "love lies" is at least as old as the lyric: "Be it ever so humble/ There's no place like home."
One last note: Simon describes a rail depot as being an appropriate performance space for "a poet and a one-man band." That phrase evokes Simon himself incredibly well, encompassing his songwriting and musicianship both. I'm surprised no one has yet used it for the title of a biography of Simon; perhaps he is saving it for his own memoir.
IMPACT:
As noted, "Homeward Bound" is one of Simon's signature works; no compilation of his output is complete without it, certainly every collection of Simon & Garfunkels' work includes it, and many budding guitarists learn to play it. They performed it on The Smothers Brothers show in the late 1960s... and The Today Show in 2003.
The song's straightforwardness does not mean it is not artistic. Like Springsteen and Harry Chapin, Simon is a keen observer of detail, using concrete images to evoke the crushing monotony of life on the road: "Every day's an endless stream/ of cigarettes and magazines... And each town looks the same to me,/ the movies and the factories." (A very good, very similar song, is "The Road," by Danny O'Keefe, popularized by Jackson Browne.)
The speaker, if not Simon himself, is someone in the exact same situation. He likens an endlessly touring musician to an itinerant lover, calling his gigs "one-night stands." The irony is that he moves from place to place, singing the same song over and over... about what? About going home! Why, what's there? His actual "love," who "lies waiting, silently, for [him]."
(The fact that his love waits "silently" is interesting, considering Simon's stated opinions of the dangers of silence, as in "Sounds of Silence." Here, it is probably best interpreted as "uncomplainingly.")
This is the core Catch-22 of the life of performers-- to make their living, they must travel... but the reason they make their living is to support their loved ones... whom they never see, because they are travelling. (Pierce Pettis' excellent song "Envelopes of Light" addresses this same tension.) Going back to the image of lovers, these "one-night stands"-- even if they involve no actual sex with groupies-- feel like a form of infidelity. He is sharing, through his songs, his deepest thoughts and dreams... with "strangers."
Aside from his lover, two other things are at "home." It is "where [his] thought's escaping." This colloquial grammar gives two meanings to this line. One is that home is a place where his thought can "escape," or roam freely (as in the last entry, "Cloudy": "my thoughts are scattered... they echo and they swell"). The other, more likely, interpretation is that home is where his thoughts are escaping to.
The other thing that home provides is a place "where [his] music's playing." But wait... he is on the road to play his songs: "Tonight I'll sing my songs again." Why would his music be playing at home?
Ah, but his he really "playing" on the road, or just "playing" at it? The rest of the line is: "I'll play the game and pretend." His performances on the road are perfunctory and forced, it seems, while at home, his music practically plays itself; the line is not "Home, where I play my music" or "where my music is played," but, "Home, where my music's playing."
The phrase might also mean where his "music's playing" in the sense that his favorite music is playing, either the literal music he enjoys hearing (as opposed to making)... or, metaphorically, where the sounds of his family's lives and voices are more like music to him than the stilted, forced music he plays on the road.
Even deeper, home is where his own internal music is playing, where he "sings his own song," as it were, and does not simply function (as he does on the road) as a walking jukebox. Singing, say, an old doo-wop number at home might end up being "[his] music playing"-- his own emotional state being revealed in melody-- more than his singing a song he actually wrote, but without any genuine emotion attached to it.
The usual grammar allows for such interpretations. Things don't just "escape," they escape from or to somewhere... and music doesn't "play," children and puppies play, and music is played. But at this magical place called "home," such considerations are suspended. Thoughts can simply "escape," and music can "play" like a kitten.
But he is not home. He is on the road. And while he is out there, performing the role of happy performer, he feels his lack of sincerity affects the songs themselves. He sang to Kathy that he'd been "writing songs [he] can't believe," and now that he is out performing them he says: "my words come back to me in shade of mediocrity, like emptiness in harmony." Harmony, which involves more than one voice, should feel more full, but it does not.
French author Jean Giradoux famously quipped: "The key to success is sincerity. Once you can fake that, you've got it made." Well, our performer can no longer fake it (we will discuss the issue further in the song "Fakin' It"). He is "all pretended out," and he wants to come home to a place of authenticity... of real, not fake, sincerity. As Simon later sings, in "Keep the Customer Satisfied": "Gee, but it's great to be back home/ Home is where I wanna be/ I've been on the road so long, my friend."
One need not be a travelling performer to feel this way. Those in business who work long hours, teachers who tuck their children in and then grade papers and plan the next day's lessons, doctors and clergy forever on call, soldiers and salespeople and truckers and athletes who are away for months at a time... many can relate to the feelings to disconnectedness Simon relates in "Homeward Bound." They perform the same tasks-- which they perhaps did once enjoy-- again and again to support the loved ones they rarely see. When they'd rather just be home.
No doubt this is why "Homeward Bound" is one of Simon's most popular compositions. Its world-weariness and homesickness are easily understood and appreciated. Its message that home is where "love lies" is at least as old as the lyric: "Be it ever so humble/ There's no place like home."
One last note: Simon describes a rail depot as being an appropriate performance space for "a poet and a one-man band." That phrase evokes Simon himself incredibly well, encompassing his songwriting and musicianship both. I'm surprised no one has yet used it for the title of a biography of Simon; perhaps he is saving it for his own memoir.
IMPACT:
As noted, "Homeward Bound" is one of Simon's signature works; no compilation of his output is complete without it, certainly every collection of Simon & Garfunkels' work includes it, and many budding guitarists learn to play it. They performed it on The Smothers Brothers show in the late 1960s... and The Today Show in 2003.
Simon also has been on Saturday Night Live many times. One of his most memorable appearances came in 1976, as musical guest alongside George Harrison; they performed this song and also Harrison's "Here Comes the Sun." Their version of "Homeward" was included in a 1990 compilation released as a fundraiser for Romanian orphans tiled Nobody's Child.
The British duo Chad & Jeremy, whose folk-based sound may be considered "soft rock," covered the song on their 1966 album Distant Shores.
There even is a UK-based Simon and Garfunkel tribute act that calls itself "Homeward Bound." For the curious, they are on YouTube, but I do not vouch for their skills.
Next song: The Big Bright Green Pleasure Machine
The British duo Chad & Jeremy, whose folk-based sound may be considered "soft rock," covered the song on their 1966 album Distant Shores.
There even is a UK-based Simon and Garfunkel tribute act that calls itself "Homeward Bound." For the curious, they are on YouTube, but I do not vouch for their skills.
Next song: The Big Bright Green Pleasure Machine
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