Trail of Volcanoes

The Jonny Cash song "Ring of Fire" was not the first incident of that expression, It was initially used, as early as 1906, to describe the somewhat circular series of volcanoes that dot the shores which ring the Pacific Ocean.

A different trail of "volcanoes" is meant here, though.

The opening verse-- of just four-- refers to carrying one's guitar "down to the crossroads." In the lore of the blues, this is where one meets the Devil, to sell one's soul to him in exchange for talent and success in a Faustian bargain. This is how Robert's Johnson's seemingly miraculous mastery of the blues guitar in a mere three years was explained; Johnson died at 27, making him one of the earliest members of the grim "27 Club." 

The list of musical references to crossroads is as long as the Devil's tail, and includes the title of Eric Clapton's box set; every act from Cream to Rush to Lynyrd Skynyrd to Dylan has covered Robert Johnson's "Cross Road Blues."

Simon says he carried his guitar "down to the crossroads," but then, "over the sea." This is likely a reference to his first trip to England and the beginnings of his folk music career... but also to everywhere in the world he has toured and recorded, from South Africa to Brazil.

We know this because the next verse is global in its scope: "Now, those old roads/ Are a trail of volcanoes."

Except they do not erupt with lava. These are "explosions" of "refugees." A rundown of sources of refugees as of this 2023 writing: Syria and Afghanistan in the Middle East, Ukraine in Europe, South Sudan in Africa, Myanmar in Asia, and Venezuela in South America. Pretty much every continent.

But, in a larger sense, Simon says, aren't we all refugees? Wasn't he one, sort of, when he left his declining pop music career in the US for a folk music career "over the sea" to the UK? 

Lastly, he speaks of volcanoes, refugee crises, and his own life, saddled with two kinds of regret at once. One, that he did so much "damage" at all. And, two, that now there isn't enough time to sweep up the ashes, reassemble the scattered communities, or make "amends" for all the eruptions he has caused.

Maybe he was a refugee of a kind, but what kind of refugee crises did he cause? Whose lives did he uproot, whom did he make to flee in panic? And, realizing now that he may have done so, there is not even time enough left to apologize, repent, heal, or make reparations. After all, this year he will turn 82 in the fall. 

Next Song: The Sacred Harp

The Lord

In his first original song on the first Simon & Garfunkel album-- "Bleecker Street"-- Simon refers to the many Psalms that use the imagery of sheep-herding. The "fog," he wrote, "hides the Shepherd from his sheep."

But here, the sheep are abandoning the Shepherd: "Noon and night they leave the flock."

Simon has been writing religious songs, or at least songs that reference religion, all his career, but lately they have been appearing with more frequency.

"The Lord" starts with a reference to, we think, the "Great Migration." a demographic and geographic shift in US history (roughly 1910-70) involving the migration of Blacks from the rural South to the industrial North.

But he does not capitalize the term, so it is another kind of "great migration" that he means. And if it is a religious-- or anti-religious-- one it is not a migration toward somewhere like an Eden or Promised Land, necessarily. It could be to either soft, inviting "meadow grass" or uninviting "jagged rock."

This is what happens when you leave the flock. You gain free will, but the outcome becomes uncertain.

What happens if you stay? The outcome is certain, but you lose free will: "The Lord is my engineer... the earth I ride on." This can be the engineer who steers the train, the electrical engineer who wires the system... or the engineer in the music-studio control room (later, we have "The Lord is my record producer") who determines what the song ends up sounding like, since they control how the sound is recorded and manipulated.

"The Lord... is the path I slip and I slide on," Simon writes, referencing his earlier song "Slip-Slidin' Away." He likely means us to recall its final verse: "God only knows/ God makes His plan/ The information is unavailable to the mortal man/ We... believe we're gliding down the highway/ When in fact, we're slip-slidin' away." 

Yes, he has been wrestling with the free will/determinism issue for decades. 

In the next verse, he sings of astronomical things: comets, stars, night, moons, daylight, and sunset that "now turned the evening rose." Astronomy-- and its earlier form, astrology-- impress upon us that Nature/Fate is the clockmaker, and we are but cogs in the machine.

"The Lord is the face in the atmosphere," he tells us. God is the order and system in the seeming chaos, and the way we, well, interface with it. 

Then he turns to sociological phenomena: tribes, age, "celebrations," songs-- concluding, "the endless river flows." Even if we say, "it's not nature, it's nurture" is that not still a form of determinism? Whether God or society shapes our fate, the end is the same: our fate is shaped for us.

The chorus returns but a new one is added, and now plant imagery is introduced, and a new role for God. The Lord. we are told, is both the forest and the forest "ranger" (personally, I find this a rather forced rhyme with "stranger," but let's work with what we have). More plant imagery arrives soon...

But now we have The Lord as a philanthropist as well. He is a "meal for the... poor," and a "welcome door to the stranger" as well as the one who protects forests from pollution and fires. God takes care of those who cannot care for themselves-- and, in a snide jab at the rest of humanity-- who are also not cared for by those who can afford to do so. 

Aside from forests, we are now shown "flowers" and "seeds." "Tears and flowers/ Dry over time," and what seem important now is not, in the Grand Scheme. "Memory leaves us/ Melody and rhyme," and this has been shown to be true-- those with Alzheimer's, for instance, will remember songs when they have forgotten much else. So are melodies and rhymes but dried-up tears and flowers? 

The plants don't only die, though... they live anew in "seeds": "The seeds we gather/ from the gardener's [or should that be capital-G "Gardener's"] glove/ Live forever. So, songs made by humans are dried flowers in a scrapbook, but things made by God are eternal.

Then comes the last chorus of the song, which blames God for both plague and climate change, and quotes "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." In that hymn, God "loose[s] the fateful lightning/ of His terrible, swift sword." Here, the Lord is the sword! 

In the free will/fate debate, it seems that fate wins, because it is true whether you believe it or not, whether you try to subvert it or not. "The Lord is... a simple truth surviving."

Is... is that the simple truth?

Too soon to tell-- it's not really the last part of the song. The song picks up again after the album's third song... with no new text, ending again with the same verse. 

But then, the continues again after the sixth song. And this time, there is more, new text. And this time, the Lord is less threatening than plagues and natural disasters: "The Lord is a puff of smoke... my personal joke... my reflection." God now, is reduced to... one's thoughts of God. 

Then, at nearly the last second, a third possibility occurs to our thinker: Not us deciding what happens, or God doing so, but random chance! "Are we just trial and error/ One of a billion in the universe?" This thought, however, is waved away. 

And we are right back to "The Lord is my engineer... my record producer."

But now, that fate is at least personal: "The Lord is the music that I hear." This whole time, you have to wonder how such a successful person as Simon could say that everything in his life was predetermined. He's probably been wondering that, himself.

So this is what he lands on. He has, his whole life, followed the music he heard. It has led him around the world. But now he wonders what power presented him with that music, which seemed to materialize just as he was ready to, or needed to, hear it. "The Lord is the music that I hear."

Up to now, this repeated line has been "The Lord is the earth I ride on." Now, after the Lord's being referred to again as an "engineer" in the music studio sense just 5 lines before, we have: "The Lord is my engineer/ The Lord is the train I ride on." [emphasis mine]. So we do have the other meaning of "engineer" acknowledged-- and the idea now is that once we are aboard the train, the track is laid out for us, and we are not even driving.

Then one last image: "The Lord is the coast, and the coast is clear." Let's forgive the pun for now and recall that one of Simon's relatively recent song is titled "The Coast." It would take another post to fully compare the two songs, but here it's enough to note that in that song, the coast is only described as being "injured." Here, "the coast is clear."

And what is The Lord, in the end? "The path I slip and I slide on." We are on a path, and it will take us where it is going, and any effort on our part to wander off it will result in us slipping and sliding... so why not just submit? Get on the train, and enjoy the ride. 

Next Song: Love is Like a Braid

 

Proof of Love

This is a deeply spiritual song, even a religious one.

Even though "love" is in the title, this is not romantic love that is being spoken of, asked for "proof" of, but... love itself, as a concept.

"Does love exist?" the speaker asks of God. "Well, then... prove it!"

The first part of a song describes a journey. The speaker has no "guide," but sets out anyway. Oh, and it is late in the day-- or perhaps late in life-- so he wants to set out "before the bells of twilight peal" (those would be the "vespers," for those unfamiliar with Catholic timekeeping; the ones in the morning are "matins," as explained in the nursery rhyme "Frere Jacques.").

We're going to guess the "twilight" reference means speaker is older, as the first line is "Begin again-- no easy trick." So he has begun before, and now has to start all over.

At least the road is easy, a "spiral" downhill path (this could be a reference to "Spiral Highway," an obscure Simon song from his One-Trick Pony film that did not end up on the soundtrack).

But is the road easy? It reminds him of a coiled "serpent." Not only does he not have a "walking stick," he doesn't have any food! Just a "teaspoon of desire for [his] meal." Also, "the road is steep/ The air is thin." It seems less like he's on a hill than a mountain.

So, this is not an easy downhill path. This is more of a "it's all downhill from here" path. In fact the whole "town" is downhill, which implies that others face this same fate.

At this point, our speaker needs a shot of faith. So he prays, crying: "I trade my tears to ask The Lord for proof of love." He's not even sure he believes in God, or if there are only "stars" above him (a far cry from the prayer offered at the end of the song "Duncan"-- which also mentions "stars" and "The Lord," which Simon has begun playing again in concert; in fact, a new recording of it is included on the deluxe version of this very album).

To his own prayer, he says, "Amen." Or it may be others in the town who testify to his prayer.

Then... he seems to receive an answer to his prayer! Only, it does not come from Heaven above but from "inside [his] skin." It is a response of consolation. "Your days won't end with night," it reassures, "Let your body heal its pain."

Another clue. This "road" is the road to recovery, perhaps from an illness or injury. That explains "begin again." In physical therapy, a person may have to re-learn skills mastered as a child, like speaking or walking.

What does the voice recommend as treatment? An injection of Nature, first: "Feel the sun/ Drink the rain." Next, a large dose of faith: "bathe beneath a waterfall of light."

This time, he tearfully prays for proof of love to know "what my dreams are made of" (The original line for Shakespeare's The Tempest is "we are such stuff as dreams are made on.") He wants to know that his dreams are made of something substantial and good, not flimsy and false. If there is love, he can dare to hope.

He has kept walking downward, meantime, and now he can see "the valley below." It is, he sees, "an ocean of debris." Not the answer he was banking on.

OK, time for another prayer. No tears this time. At long last-- does love exist? "Love is all I seek!" he says, and says again. Now, he is out of tears, and out of "words." So he turns to "music" to express himself.

He is exhausted with walking and worry. Spent, he lays down by a "white oak tree." He has had it. He asked for proof of love, and got a treacherous road that led him to a valley full of rubble. He was supposed to find nourishing sunshine and rain, and only has hunger and "pain" and not even enough "air"!

He as much as dares death to come-- "No deadly nightshade, belladonna, dare lay a leaf on me." Nightshade is a poisonous plant; its Latin name is "atropa belladonna."

But the night is "silent." It is "still as prayer." And it's not "dark," either. In fact, "Darkness fills with light/ Love on Earth is everywhere." Beautiful.

But let's unpack it anyway. If he wanted to get underway before "twilight," and that implies that he was old or, as we learn later, near death, if due to not age but ailment... what does "darkness" mean? It means, well, death.

One prayer was answered by a sense of calm, the promise that his days would not end with night, and that he would bathe in a waterfall of light. If this is his death, then that promise comes true. His days don't end with "night" but with "light," and if the light fills the world, it is certainly enough to bathe in.

There is an alternate interpretation I would like to offer, though. It is foreshadowed by the reference to "bells of twilight." It's possible that this song is not just religious-- it's possible to read it so that it is about religion itself.

Some clues: A man is coming down a mountain. He doesn't have his usual "stick" with him. He is talking to God on the way. There is a reference to a "serpent." When he gets to the bottom, the valley, he finds disaster.

Might this be about... Moses? Walking down the mountainside of Sinai? And then coming to the bottom to find a pit of idolatry. (Moses turns his stick, or staff, into a serpent more than once.)

The next clue: "Silent night." Or should we say, "Silent Night." Simon already recorded that carol, so he knows it well, and it's about the birth of Jesus. A "tree" is a common metaphor for the Cross, too. So Moses asks for proof of love, and gets it, in Jesus.

I'm not saying this is what Simon means to say. But it is possible to read this interpretation into the song.

More likely, the song is about someone dying peacefully after suffering from cancer or a stroke or something, after there had been some initial hope of recovery.

We get some information as to the symptoms. Likely there was some blindness involved, requiring a "guide" or "stick" to help him find his way; now, he is supposed to be able to walk without that. He can see again, but has been spending much time in bed, gazing upward at what he hoped was more than just "stars." Also, he has trouble breathing ("the air is thin"), and at the end had trouble speaking ("words desert me").

He decides to try natural remedies ("drink the rain"), like a sunlamp ("a waterfall of light") and to "let [his] body heal" itself. He doesn't want toxic chemotherapy, or some poison that will kill him quicker ("no deadly nightshade"). But all he gets is sicker ("an ocean of debris"). Then he dies, and in death finds peace, and light, and love.

What is our the proof, then, of love? Of all things, it may be death. Dying is terrible-- painful, frightening. It takes you apart, piece by piece. But then you get to die.

And rest. In peace.

(NOTE: It would be interesting to contrast this song with Simon's similarly named "Proof," which contained the repeated lines: "Faith is an island in the setting sun/ Proof is the bottom line for everyone.")


Next Song: The Riverbank

Stranger to Stranger

The title track to this album is a love song, and a lovely one, at that. Simon married singer-songwriter Edie Brickell in 1992, so this song comes nearly 25 years into their marriage.

He asks if they would fall in love again if they met now: "If we met for the first time/ Could you imagine us falling in love again?" The language echoes his song "Old Friends": "Can you imagine us, years from today/ Sharing a park bench?"

(Side note: in that song, he muses, "How terribly strange to be 70." The year this album was released, Simon was 74.)

This song continues: "Words and melody... fall from the summer trees," he says, "So the old story goes." I have never heard the story of songs falling from trees... if any of my readers have, I hope they share that story with me.

Why is this here? Perhaps he means to say that he and his wife pair as well as words and melody, and as naturally as leaves falling from trees.

In any case, how wonderful and amazing that, after two decades and more, he still awaits her very "walk[ing] across his doorway." He is "jittery" with "joy," even. She is like a drug to him: "I cannot be held accountable for the things I do or say," when she is near.

He finds their relationship an "easy harmony," and it must be something when two such great singers actually do harmonize. And when there is a problem, the "old-time remedies" still work.

And oh, problems do happen. Some can be compared to repetitive-stress injuries: "Most of the time/ It's just hard working/ The same piece of clay / Day after day." The "clay" represents the banality of life... or, seeing as how Adam was made of clay, the banality of people.

Other problems lie not within the relationship, but its individual members: "Certain melodies tear your heart apart/ Reconstruction is a lonesome art." Some losses, like the death of a parent or a career downturn, affect one of them more than the other.

What else? "All the carnage." Again, this could refer to death or illness, but also fighting and saying hurtful things, separations and silences-- psychological damage. But these things are discreet and definable.

Others are more effusive and evasive: "All the useless detours." A couple could spend five years in a house neither likes, because each thinks the other one likes it. A couple could take years to decide to get married, or divorced, and just be living in a limbo of inertia.

But despite all these thing, he still believes: "Love endures." The song ends with Simon repeating "I love you" over and over in waltz time, then: "Words and melody/ Easy harmony." When they are in tune, what a beautiful song.

"I love to watch you walk across my doorway," he tells her-- still crazy about her, after all these years.


Musical Note:
This is one of the four songs Simon spiced with flamenco on this album; the others are "The Riverbank," "The Werewolf" and "Wristband." In this, some of the rhythms are actually recordings of the dancer's steps.

Some of the guitar was done by Cameroons native Vincent Nguini, who has been with Simon since Rhythm of the Saints.

Next Song: In a Parade

Only One You

Sometimes, the formula works.

This is another "list" song. The speaker lists things that there are many of, then contrasts that with the fact that there is "only one" of his beloved.

The imagery is entirely taken from nature. The first verse lists water-related things-- "waves" and "shells." The second verse moves to the forest and mentions "birds," "leaves," and "hills." The third names objects given as tokens of affection-- "pearls" and "roses." The chorus gives us "mile after mile of prairie/ Drop after drop of rain."

Each verse ends with "But only one you." This message is emphasized by the last lines in the chorus: "But if I searched for another you/ I'd go searching in vain" (which is what rhymes with "rain").

Musically, the song is another Everly-esque melody, but given a flamenco-lite strumming accompaniment.

For all the formulaic elements, however, the song is quite effective. Given the other songs that were popular at the time, there is no real reason this should not have been a hit.

Perhaps because of its predictable structure and natural imagery, the song has a timeless feel. If it had been covered by, say, Peter Paul & Mary or by Joan Baez, the listener would have to be entirely forgiven for thinking the author had been some Robin Hood-era bard from York, and not a modern teenager from New York.

And wouldn't it be a great hoodwink for some Renaissance-Faire performer to play this piece on a lute... and then tell everyone it was written by Paul Simon in the late 1950s.

This song presages works like "Sparrow" and "Scarborough Fair," which made up a decent percentage of Simon & Garfunkel's recordings. Perhaps Simon thought this number too simplistic for his duo work.

But with a slower tempo and a vocal by Garfunkel, this could have been a hit... or at least a concert favorite at the level of "April Come She Will," or "El Condor Pasa."

I'd be curious to hear a report from a coffee-house singer who presented this song as a traditional folk number as to the audience's reaction, both before and after the revelation of its actual source.

It's discoveries like this and "Forever and After" that make exploring Simon's early work so rewarding.

Next Song: Haven't You Hurt Me Enough?

Everything About It Is a Love Song

This song moves backward and forward in time. It is about the inevitability of regret, which itself is an aspect of memory, of looking backward through time. Since we can't actually go back in time, all we can do is promise to try to not make that mistake again in the future.

But we will make some mistakes, either that one again or a brand new one. And so we know now that we will, in the future, regret some of what we do now. Regret is inevitable.

The song starts, however, with another of Simon's musings about the difficulties of songwriting. As early as "Kathy's Song," he spoke of "words that tear and strain to rhyme." Here, we see the problem complicated further by the additional dimension of music: "Locked in a struggle for the right combination/ Of words in a melody line."

But, once we have heard the song once through, this is not about songwriting at all, but living. The melody is time-- once defined, it proceeds along in its pattern. What changes, what the artist is more in control of, is the wording. The "melody line" is set; what he is looking for is the "right combination/ of words" for it.

The song is mostly set, if it has a place, in Simon's own head, "[his] imagination." Specifically, along the riverbank," a combination of land and water, like solid words and flowing melody. He also imagines combinations in the sky, with "golden clouds" intermingling with "sunshine." As he is "locked in a struggle" of words versus music, maybe he imagines the ease with which land and water, sun and cloud, simply get along, and wonders if he can do the same with word and music.

Then comes the first mention of (imagined) time travel, married with regret: "If I ever get back to the 20th Century... With its catalog of regrets." He knows there were things that should not have been done but were, and vice versa. His plan, should this occur?

Repentance. It is too late to ask forgiveness, evidently, from some of the people he wronged. So, he says, he will have to "think about God/ And wait for the hour of my rescue."

But what about the future? It will be much the same, inevitably: "We don't mean to mess things up, but mess them up we do."

And then there is an image of younger lovers at at birthday party. "Make a wish and close your eyes/ Surprise." This is, of course, the source of the title of the entire album.

But what is the "surprise"? Well, everything! The next second is, in fact, entirely unpredictable. There could be an earthquake or a phone call or a car crash or a new baby (like the one on the album cover) that was complete unexpected, but changes everything. So "make a wish," and plan, but don't expect it to come true in the way you though it might or should. Every next moment, there could be a "peek-a-boo."

If the opening of the song was about the struggle to assert control over one's life, by now that idea has been somewhat abandoned as, at least, impractical, and at most, foolhardy.

Nevertheless, life must be lived, and so Simon continues to write. Even though he knows he has lived most of his life already-- "Early December... Frost creeping over the pond"-- he continues to create: "I shoot a thought into the future... through my lifetime and beyond."

(But who or what is "brown as a sparrow"? Grammatically, it refers to the speaker: "Brown as a sparrow... I shoot..." I am not sure why he would be "brown," especially in the winter. It may refer to the other meaning of "brown," as in "in a brown study." Or it may refer to the "frost," which is usually thought of as white, but when still thin and clear, would be the color of the muddy water of the pond it covers. Overall, the verse recalls "Hazy Shade of Winter" in its imagery.)

Earlier, Simon imagines going back in time. Now, he imagines going further forward than his own death, to his reincarnation. "Resurrection" means "coming back alive as yourself," while here he means "reincarnation," coming back as, he shrugs, "a tree or a crow/ or.... dust."

In "That's Where I Belong," Simon says he belongs "on a dirt road." Here, he says if comes back, you can "find [him] on the ancient road." Where will he be? "In the song, when the wires are hushed." We assume he means the electrical and telephone wires along the road. Such wires hum, but Simon says that noise would block the sound of the song that would otherwise be audible-- the sound of nature, the sound of, well, lack of wires. Interesting that he feels that this is where his self-song lies, given that this album is is exploration of electronic sounds! But we know that Simon's true love is acoustic music; maybe he is reassuring us, and himself, of that fact.

"Hurry on and remember me," Simon urges. Don't wait for him, just move forward and claim your own future (Is this line to his children? His audience?). He will "remember you," too, as you leave him behind. But is it more important to go forward than to go together.

Now, Simon returns briefly to the "golden clouds" of the earlier verse... only to rush upward, "above" them to outer space. This place was once though empty but now, we know, it pulsates with dark energy and other radiation: "the darkness vibrates." And what does every astronaut see? "The Earth is blue."

The poet Archibald MacLeish, seeing photographs of Earth from space, remarked that our home is "whole and round and beautiful and small." Simon sees things musically, and says, "Everything about it is a love song."

This song starts off about the "struggle" of words and music, then continues about the struggle between life and our attempts to shape it. Almost immediately, Simon realizes that Nature has no such struggle. Nature doesn't worry about the words fitting the music. It just... sings. And by the end, Simon knows that this is where the music is. It's in the hush of the man-made, binding wires. It's in everything that is there without us having put it there.

But what about regret? Well, how can there be any, when everything was always... a surprise?

Musical Note:
On electric guitar is experimental jazz-guitar master Bill Frisell. His music integrates everything from folk and country to classical and world sounds. He is a virtuoso at finding new sounds in his instrument, wielding technology with a craftsman's touch.

Next Song: Outrageous

Hurricane Eye

This is actually a very "political" song. It is about, mostly, environmentalism and civil rights, and the people who ignore these issues... at their own peril.

The first four lines make fun of the whole idea of "history" as a definitive thing-- it is, at base, a story with an author, with all of the bias that implies: "Tell us all a story/ About how it used to be/ Make it up and then write it down/ Just like history."

Simon fixes on a particular story, "Goldilocks and the Three Bears," which, he posits, is about "Nature in the crosshairs."After all, didn't a human invade and disrupt a perfectly happy animals' abode in that tale? In this reading, Goldilocks might as well have, in Joni Mitchell's image, "paved Paradise and put up a parking lot."

But how did humans come to be outsiders in Nature? After all, "we all ascended/ From the deep green sea," according to evolutionary theory. Citing Goldilocks' desire for a perfect balance in porridge temperature-- "not too hot/ Not too cold"-- as a guideline, "Where it’s just right and you have sunlight," then, Simon explains, "we’re home/ Finally home."  In other words, when the chemistry is optimal and a source of energy is available, life can blossom.

But what if we are "home" in the sense of "at the height of evolution" but are "home in the land of the homeless," and not everyone has a literal home? Then we have reached a physical peak, but fallen short of a moral one.

The song continues in this social justice vein, with one person voicing concern over the state of society-- "Oh, what are we going to do?"-- and the other not accepting this "we" at all: "I never did a thing to you." Why do I have to help fix this injustice-- I didn't cause it!

The next line is a cautionary one "Time peaceful as a hurricane eye." A hurricane's eye is peaceful, but it is only the calm before the rest of the storm arrives after the first edge. It is, as they say, a false sense of security. You have to help fix this injustice because, even if you did not cause it, you are still affected by it!

The next verse seems to be about the oppression of the Native Americans. "A history of whispers" is fair enough; most history lessons are about the Western expansion of the Whites, not about the Reds they swept aside. This "White cloud," came in, followed by the "black crow," the carrion eater. Again, the image of the Western "Crucifix" conflicts with that of the Native "arrow," only it was the Natives crucified this time. All that's left are "a shadow of a horse" and "faces painted black in sorrow and remorse." The Natives feel sorrow, and the Europeans the remorse. We know this is about the Natives, again, because it is "the oldest silence," before the other American slaveries and discriminations.

Then Simon offers this bit of passive-resistance advice: "When speech becomes a crime/ Silence leads the spirit/ Over the bridge of time." This applies to the silence of all martyrs, from before the Holocaust up through the age of AIDS. How do we know that a mass death happened? Well, where are all those people? Where are the children they would have birthed, the works they would have created? Silent. It is simply the absence of these people that creates the memory of their loss. It creates a vacuum that our very nature abhors.

"Over the bridge of time," Simon repeats, "I’m walking with my family/ And the road begins to climb." It is supposed to get easier, but instead the incline becomes steeper. This is a possible reference to advancing age; the road is the same, but it feels steeper.  

"And then it’s, oh, Lord, how we going to pray/ With crazy angel voices/ All night/ Until it’s a new day." It is unclear, from the word "with," whether these voices are their own resembling those of "angels," or those of angels praying alongside their own. But it hardly matters. After such a steep climb, how can one find the energy... to pray for the energy for the next day's hike? And what does this "new day" look like? Well, it's "peaceful as a hurricane." Not the eye, mind you!

OK, so we have all of these problems. Well then, let's do something! Oh, so  "you want to be leader?/ You want to change the game?" Counter-intuitively, Simon advises: "Turn your back on money/ Walk away from fame." This is certainly the approach followed by everyone from Buddha, Moses, and Jesus to Gandhi, King, and Schweitzer. 

"You want to be a missionary?/ You got that missionary zeal?" Don't start a church, Simon says, but join the Peace Corps: "Let a stranger change your life/ How’s that make you feel?" 

And "You want to be a writer/ But you don’t know how or when?" Well, Simon is one of the best writers we have, so yes, we'd like his advice! "Find a quiet place/ Use a humble pen." The advice in any case is the same-- be "humble." Seek to learn, not to teach... to be of service, not to be served.

With "you want to talk, talk, talk about it/ The ocean and the atmosphere," Simon returns to the environment. "Well, I’ve been away for a long time/ And it looks like a mess around here." This could refer to Simon's long hiatus between albums, or his long hiatus from political songwriting. In either case, its does not seem to him that things have substantially improved, environmentally, since the beginning of that movement.

"And I’ll be away for a long time," probably means "...once I'm dead." Knowing this, Simon feels obliged to sum up his life's learning and pass it on: "So here’s how the story goes." We lean forward to listen...

...and hear a nursery rhyme! "There was an old woman/ Who lived in a shoe." But his version is different: "She was baking a cinnamon pie." Well, pies figure in many nursery rhymes, from "Little Jack Horner" to "Sing a Song of Sixpence" to "Simple Simon."

The rhyme now ends: "She fell asleep in a washing machine/ Woke up in a hurricane eye." Few places are as agitated as the inside of a washing machine. In fact, the pole with angled fins inside the top-loading kind is called an "agitator." When our old woman woke, though, there was calm. Or, at least, calm where she was. 

The song as a whole is about the activists' mission: to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. Throughout, we have characters who think they live in a world of calm. Well, their world might be calm, but the whole world is not! We have "nature in the crosshairs." Homelessness. Genocide and forced expulsions. 

There is a hurricane of trouble out there! And we should know this, even if it we live in the eye. If for no other reason than that the hurricane moves... and we could at any moment find ourselves not in calm but in 75-mile-an-hour winds.

Next Song: Quiet

Senorita with a Necklace of Tears

There is no "senorita." This song, in other words, is not about an unmarried woman whose native language is Spanish. Rather, Simon tells us in the course of the song that, "If [he] could play all the memories/ In the neck of this guitar/ [He]'d write a song called/ 'Senorita with a Necklace of Tears.'"

See, if that were possible, he would write a song with that title. Which, since he cannot do that, he has not.

Except... he has. We know this, because you are reading about it right now.

Which implies that, indeed, he could play all of the memories in the neck of his guitar. The neck, of course, is where the notes are determined. The neck hand has to get into position (usually a split second) before the hand on the body of the guitar can strum it. So the neck, in a sense, is where the songs are stored before they are played for the listener. If a song is like a story, the neck-hand remembers it and the body-hand tells it.

But let's back up to the beginning of the song. Simon starts with a metaphor that he immediately abandons, about a "wisdom tooth."

Then he finds a much more fertile image-- that of being "born again." But his response to his friend's claim of being "born again," how a Christian describes having "found his Savior's grace," is to interpret it in terms of the Eastern concept of reincarnation. Aren't we all, in that paradigm, endlessly being reborn anyway? "I was born before my father/ And my children before me," Simon rejoinders, "We are born and born again/ Like the waves of the sea."

Then Simon introduces a two-tier system of approval: What is this concept's longevity, its staying power?  And does he want this system to remain in place, going forward? In the case of reincarnation, he concludes: "That's the way it's always been/ And that's how I want it to be."

Next up for evaluation is "news" of a species of "frog in South America/ Whose venom is a cure" and is "the antidote for pain." This elixir is said to be "more powerful than morphine/ And soothing as the rain." Simon adds a third tier, the present, to his approvals process. The frog-cure passes muster: "That's the way it's always been/ That's the way I like it/ And that's how I want it to be." It has always been true that the cures for diseases come from natural, but overlooked, places. It's a good object lesson to care for the Earth and take nothing for granted.

Then Simon evaluates various personality types: the sycophant and the stoic, those who choose to be ignorant and those who keep everyone else ignorant. Although all of these could be described negatively-- and may even be self-destructive-- once again, Simon says (twice!) that this reality meets with his approval; it was, is, and shall be.

Now we arrive at the verse about the guitar, its neck, and a seemingly absent senorita. I believe I have, in fact, located her.

It has been remarked by many that the shape of string instruments-- the violin, cello, and guitar especially-- resemble the "hourglass" figure of a woman; BB King even calls his guitar "Lucille." And the guitar as we know it today has its origins in Spain. So if a guitar is a woman, it is a "senorita."

Further, the fret-board of a guitar is called the "neck," as Simon states. Many of these fret-boards have small dots along their lengths. Small dots along a neck look like, what else, a necklace. And if these dots are shiny and opalescent (many are made of mother-of-pearl), they may, perhaps, resemble tears.

It is arguable that the "Senorita with the Necklace of Tears" is Simon's guitar: "If I could play all the memories/ In the neck of this guitar/ I'd write a song called/ 'Senorita with a Necklace of Tears.'," Simon writes. And the song would be about the guitar, and the tearful "memories" it knows, having helped him compose so many sad and regretful songs over the years; "Every tear" in her necklace, he explains, represents "a sin [he]'d committed/ Oh, these many years."

Of other people, their religions, and personalities, Simon is accepting. Also, of nature and science and those matters. Of himself, however, and his failings and sins, well, "That's who I was/ That's the way it's always been."

But he pointedly does not posit that this is the way he likes it, or wants it to be! He realizes he has caused many people pain-- pain which they wear like a necklace, on display, hanging on necks and weighing on their chests.

Then Simon assesses two more personality types. Some are unsatisfied, and are defined by "what they lack."  Some are remorseless; they "open a door/ Walk away and never look back."

Still, Simon refuses to "judge" others, only himself. He is very remorseful of "what [he] was" in the past. As for the present, he says, "I know who I am."

And for the future? "Lord knows who I will be." The future is unknown... and unknowable! Is this a reason to fear?

No, Simon asserts, it is a reason to hope! If anything can happen, then that must include good things. Is the future uncertain? Good! Then he has time to apologize, and to improve. "That's the way it's always been/ That's the way I like it/ And that's how I want it to be."

Next Song: Love

El Condor Pasa

[Note to readers: I know I missed last week's post, but I have a good excuse. His name is Joe, he was born in July 15, and he is sleeping in my left arm.]

Simon has already drawn from native folk sources for his material, as he did with "Scarborough Fair." This time, he presages his Rhythm of the Saints work by decades with a Peruvian folk tune, replete with authentic wood flutes from the Andes.

The song's title means "The Condor Passes," the condor being a large vulture-like bird native to the Andes and Rockies. It soars, huge wings outspread, barely flapping, riding on air currents.

Gravity, as much as it gives to us, is considered the enemy of humanity. For as long as we have seen birds, we have tried to fly like them. Babies love being tossed in the air, children ride swings as high as they can, and we adults do everything from high diving and BASE jumping to parasailing, skydiving, and hang-gilding... all in the attempt to fly. Even our greatest superhero's most super superpower is to make people point skyward at his soaring form, crying: "It's a bird! It's a plane!"

Simon gives that yearning-- to be a bird-- a voice, here. He'd "rather be a sparrow." He'd rather "sail away, like a swan/ That's here and gone."

The song is about longing to fly like a bird, a "sparrow" (perhaps not as destitute a one as in "Sparrow") or a "swan." The lyrics are a series of comparisons, with the flying birds winning out over those creatures bound by gravity, like snails... or humans. Similarly, natural settings like "forests" win out over urban ones like a "street."

It interesting that he chose a "sparrow," since his song about that very bird showed how vulnerable and ignored it was. Perhaps this strengthens his point-- anyone could wish to be an eagle (or a condor) rather than stay a human. But they might prefer to stay human and earthbound if the other option was to be a mere sparrow. Not him. He wants to fly so much, he'll even be this fragile bird.

After all, "a man" might as well be a "snail." He's so "tied up to the ground" that he "gives the world its saddest sound."

Than comes the last line, which is a half a comparison: "I'd rather feel the earth beneath my feet." Rather than what? Does this continue the thought of the previous line, so that "earth" underfoot is better than the asphalt of a "street"?

Or is it a refutation of all the soaring imagery that came before? Would the speaker rather "feel the earth beneath [his] feet" than not? Would he walk forever rather than fly?

The idea of preferring the woods to the city fits somewhat with the idea of preferring flying to walking. The benefit of flying is, aside from the convenience, freedom to wander, explore, and simply-- as the Mamas and Papas encourage-- "Go where you wanna go." Wandering in the un-peopled woods is about as close to that isolation and roadless-ness as most of us will be able to get.

The answer may come from the repeated refrain: "If I could, I surely would." But he can't. Since all of these bird scenarios are impossible, wouldn't it just be better to accept one's situation, and not continue to pine away and make "the saddest sound" over what can never be? Maybe some predictability is, ultimately, better than complete, bird-like freedom.

The condor glides overhead, inspiring awe in the earthbound viewer below. It swoops... circles... and soars. But then it passes.

The speaker next lets us know that he'd rather even be a tyrant than a victim-- a "hammer," rather than a "nail." Compare this to the imagery of hammers used to symbolize fascism in Pink Floyd's movie The Wall (even though the word "fascism," which derives from the symbol of the "fasces," should be symbolized by another tool, the ax; look up "fasces" and you'll see why.).

But a true drifter wants no attachments at all, which would include power over-- and responsibility for-- others, as much as it includes being beholden to no one. He wants to be neither hammer nor nail. He doesn't want to be a tool in anyone's toolbox! We must conclude that the line is only really there to rhyme with "snail."

So why didn't Simon go back and change the opposite of "sparrow" to something other than "snail"? Perhaps he wanted to keep the alliteration with "sparrow," but dismissed other one-syllable, small, land-bound forest animals as being even worse in their imagery or rhyme-possibilities: "snake," "squirrel," "sloth." Maybe what's here is fine. We could have had: "I'd rather be a sparrow than a skunk."

Overall, the song is a lovely and haunting rumination on the limitations of the human form. Here we are, with the best brain-- and the knowledge that we would truly appreciate flight if we could have it-- and we can't even fly up into a tree like a simple sparrow. Let alone a soaring condor.


MUSICAL NOTE:
While Simon is largely credited with bringing "world music" into the mainstream of American pop culture with Graceland, this song reminds us that musicians have long been doing so. Peter Paul and Mary, Joan Baez, Pete Seeger, and Harry Belafonte were just some of the folk musicians of the 1960s who worked non-American, non-English songs into their sets. Desi Arnaz was bringing Cuban music into suburban living rooms on the Lucy show as early as the 1950s, and Latin dances were part of Xavier Cugat's swing music even before that.

The story of this song is long, but here is a short version: The melody began as a traditional Andean folk tune in Peru. It was adapted and included in a longer, theatrical piece (called a "zarzuella") along with other such melodies by one Daniel Alomia Robles.

When Simon heard the Peruvian wood-flute ensemble Los Incas playing the melody in Paris (with the arrangement of their leader, Jorge Milchberg) he asked to write words for it; Simon toured with Los Incas, who perform the backup on the Bridge version of the track. He even produced their first US album. Milchberg's later band, Urubamba, accompanies Simon for this track on Live Rhymin'. They also provide backup on his solo song, "Duncan."

And anyone who thinks Simon was only interested in "world music" during his Graceland period need only listen to this and the next track to know that he has been exploring this music for much, much longer.

IMPACT:
The song reached #18 on the US charts. But it went to #1 all over Europe-- Spain,  Belgium, the Netherlands, West Germany, Austria,and Switzerland-- as well as Australia. It was covered by, of all people, crooner Perry Como.


Next song: Cecilia