Wristband

On February 6, 2016, on Prairie Home Companion, Paul Simon debuted this song.

When someone gives the ticket-taker their tickets at concerts these days, they receive a wristband, a paper strip with a bit of tape to seal it to itself, as a bracelet. It serves as a ticket stub, allowing those who leave to return.

In this song, the hapless narrator is the performer. He "stepped outside the backstage door" into the alley or parking lot behind the theater, to "breathe some nicotine" (which is to say, smoke a cigarette) and check his phone for messages...

...when he heard an ominous "click." Yes, he had locked himself out of his own theater. Now, he resigns himself to walking around to the front to get back in.

Only, once there, he is confronted by a bouncer who will not let him in without, you guessed it, a wristband: "A wristband, my man... If you don't have a wristband/ You don't get through the door."

Now, the speaker's dander is up: "My heart beats like a fist/ When I meet some dude with an attitude/ Sayin' 'Hey, you can't do that, or this."

There is no grappling with him, physically, either: "The man was large, a well-dressed 6-foot-8." And he takes his job very seriously, "Like St. Peter, standing guard at the Pearly [Gate]."

Brawn being out of the question, the speaker opts for brains, and tries reason: "I don't need a wristband/ My band is on the bandstand." This is my show, sir-- kindly let me inside where I can perform it.

We imagine the situation is eventually resolved-- the performer had his phone on him because he was checking his messages, remember? He probably called someone inside to come let him in.

But we don't get to hear that part of the story. Instead, the speaker realizes that he is in a situation that others know all too well-- that of being shut out from access to the better aspects of life, all for want of a "wristband."

And so the song takes a turn: "The riots started slowly/ With the homeless and the lowly." And after the economically disadvantaged, came the rural dwellers in small towns: "It spread into the heartland/ Towns that never got a wristband."

Then it spread still further, to the poor teens: "Kids that can't afford a wristband/ Whose anger is a shorthand/ For... 'If you don't get a wristband, my man/ Then you don't get through the door,'" and, by the way, "You'll never get a wristband."

This irksome incident, or not being able to enter his own concert for lack of a wristband, was just the basic disenfranchisement of whole swaths of society writ small. But it takes someone with the compassion of a Paul Simon to make that connection.

Musical Note:
The rhythms here are flamenco ones. Simon had been listening to this music and incorporated an actual flamenco troupe, from Boston, for this and other tracks on the album. It was actually two years between the recording of these performers-- a dancers, rhythmic clappers, and a percussionist-- and the writing of this track.

One of the other tracks that used the flamenco troupe was "The Riverbank." That song and this one share the same clapping rhythm and the same bass line.

Speaking of clapping, an Italian musician who goes by Clap! Clap! also contributed to this track. His real name is Digi Alessio and his genre is electronic dance music.  He also contributed to "Werewolf" and "Street Angel."

Next Song: Horace and Pete.

One-Trick Pony

First, let us define the term "one-trick pony." It refers to a creature with one, and only one, talent. Superman has multiple powers, from flying to X-ray vision, while The Flash can only run fast. A vegetable steamer can steam various vegetables, while a rice cooker can only cook rice. You get the idea.

In this case, the "pony" in question is a performer. Simon likens a musician to a circus animal, performing the same trick over and over in various cities.

Yet, the focus on this one action has led to a remarkable result. Rather than die of boredom or burn out, the performer has reached a state of divine perfection and grace: "He moves like God's immaculate machine."

The first verse makes this clear. While "he does one trick only," when he does it, "You can feel the heat of his heart" (and let's pause to acknowledge that small marvel of assonance and alliteration). All of his concentration is focused on this one task, and he is truly enjoying the performance of it.

The second verse repeats this idea: "He’s just a one-trick pony, that’s all he is/ But he turns that trick with pride."

One would assume that there are two sides to this hyper-focused perfectionism-- that someone that good at one thing would be bad at everything else. How many concert pianists, for instance, are also famed for their investment portfolios? How many football players are asked for advice on home repair?

And yet that is not the case. Our speaker, the audience of the performance, is amazed that he himself is not as good at navigating the life he has, the life he has had every day to practice and perfect, as this performer is at his art: "He makes me think about/ All of these extra moves I make."

This creature does "one trick" and does it well... and then has all of its other needs attended to, so he doesn't have to be good at anything else! Meanwhile, our speaker needs a whole "bag of tricks" to get through an average day. So the situation is not fair on the other end, either.

This performer has been given the luxury to hone his craft to the point of nearly holy perfection, then being able to "relax in the weeds." 

Ironically, "in the weeds" is an idiom with two similar meanings-- hopelessly behind at work, or bogged down in minutiae (likely from a golfer searching for an errant ball while the game progresses without them)-- neither of which imply "relaxation." So the meaning for this song might stem from the idea of a pony in a pasture, working in a field or arena, then relaxing in the weeds where no one mows. Of course, this being about a rock performer, it might also refer to the kind of, ahem, "weed" that promotes relaxation.

(That was a long aside, which did take this post into the weeds...)

Meanwhile, those in the audience, who must do everything, don't get to be good at anything. And so they just wander around, "herky-jerky," doing everything partway and calling it good enough.

Additionally, once the trick is perfected, "that's all a pony needs." How many performers never replicate an early hit's success, yet are lionized and made financially comfortable forever after because of it? And yet the average person changes relationships and careers and homes constantly.

There is a mixture of reverence and resentment here. An appreciation for the wonder that is being seen, yet a jealousy at not having been given the time to achieve it oneself.

There is also some recognition that, no matter how long one would have practiced, one lacks the talent to do what one is witnessing. This acceptance is manifested by the religious imagery: "God," "immaculate," "testimony." Watching a God-given talent can be a somewhat religious experience. And there is a realization that there is a reason beyond rehearsals that allows this creature, and not others, to have some time "in the spotlight."

IMPACT: Simon's performance of the song was nominated for a Grammy. The song went to #40 on the US charts. In his biography, Paul Simon: A Life, Marc Eliot confuses this track's chart position with that of Late in the Evening, which did go to #6, not this track. Anyone can make a mistake, but someone should have realized that Late was not mentioned even though it was the standout hit from the soundtrack.

Next Song: How the Heart Approaches What It Yearns

Late in the Evening

[Note: The songs on the soundtrack of Simon's film, One Trick Pony, do explain characters and progress the plot as one might expect, but for the purposes of these analyses, they will each be treated on their own terms. While the plot of the movie is basically a "what if," as in "What if Simon had not hit it big or stayed big?" I will not speculate on the relevance of the songs to Simon's own life, or relate them to the character of Jonah Levin, whom Simon plays.]


Well, this is interesting. I have been listening to this song for decades and always assumed the second line, "Couldn't have been no more than one or two" meant "It couldn't have been past 1:00 or 2:00 a.m.," which would make the hour, well, late in the evening.

When I looked online for the lyrics, however, it seemed I was alone in that assessment, and that the words, most agree, are "I couldn't have been no more than one or two," as in years old. Which would be incredible poetic license, as current psychology has it that no one can remember events in their own life before the age of three, because the necessary memory structures have not set up in the brain until that point. Also, at that age, one would not necessarily have a "bed" yet, but still a crib.

So I looked at Simon's own site, which lists the lyric as only "Couldn't have been no more..." with neither "I" nor "It" to break the tie (yes, I put myself even with the rest of the intelligence on the Internet. This is less a boast than a swipe at the general quality of the information available online). His book of lyrics, titled simply Lyrics, also has just "Couldn't've." While I still believe my hearing of the lyric makes more sense, I have to side with Simon and the grammar he uses.

In my hearing, the first thing than happens is a teen is lying on his bed, then gets up to go cruising, then goes into a bar to play his guitar. It forms one relatively smooth series of events that could well take place in the span of one evening. Then there is a verse about meeting his, as we would say today, significant other, which could have also happened that night, perhaps at the mentioned "bar." So "the first thing I remember..." would not mean "...altogether, in my entire life" but simply "...about that night." Which was a significant night, worth remembering, because it's when he met his sweetheart. So that is what I was going to say here.

But now I can't. The grammar of the song has the phrase "couldn't have been" referring back to the "I" of "The first thing I remember." So.

So the song is, at first, about the speaker's first memory. He remembers his bed, a radio, and his mother laughing. It's the kind of sensory, piecemeal impression one would expect of one's earliest memory.

Then, his entire childhood is evidently a blur, because the "next thing" he remembers is walking through his neighborhood as a teen with his friends, again "late in the evening." The guys not in his "troop" are playing pool at bars and parlors, the young women are hanging out on the "stoops" of the apartment buildings (not likely houses, if there were pool parlors in the same stretch of sidewalk).

Oh, and when he was a baby, there was a "radio," and now there are "a cappella groups" busking on the street corners. Two memories, and both times the hour is late and there is "music seeping through."

OK, enough of other people making music and his being on the receiving end. Now it is our hero's turn. He has learned to play some "lead guitar" (in some concert versions, Simon changes this to "rhythm guitar"), and-- after partaking of some, um, herbal courage-- he starts "to play... and [blows] that room away."

All of his life, he has been absorbing the music seeping through. Now it is coming back out of him. Now he is replying, joining in the conversation he has been on the receiving end of since he was in his receiving blanket.

Next, we would expect another "next thing." Instead, we get another "first thing." This is because the meeting of the love of his life is a new beginning. Now empowered by his musical triumph, he has the confidence to actively pursue her as well: "I'm gonna get that girl no matter what I do."

And, shockingly enough, when did this meeting take place, and under what circumstances? "It was late in the evening, and all the music seeping through."

Music is not just a part of our speaker's life. It is the water he swims in. It has been part of his life since his earliest memories, it is the mode through which he reached adulthood, and it was the reason he was in the same place at the same time as the person he wanted to share his life with.


Musical Note: The firework-like Latinate horns were arranged by David Grusin. This is the same composer who worked on the soundtrack of The Graduate. There, he composed the instrumental music that represents the parents' generation, with Simon and Garfunkel's songs representing the youth.

It was nice of Simon to show the world that the guy who wrote the "old people" music on that soundtrack had something in him beside "The Singleman Family Foxtrot." And it's also interesting that both of Simon's movie soundtracks have Grusin contributing.

The rhythm is borrowed from one of Simon's all-time favorite tracks, Elvis' Mystery Train.

IMPACT: The song went to #6 in the US. The song as been sampled by at least two other acts.

Next Song: That's Why God Made the Movies