Paul Simon: The Bard of Corona

It’s not hyperbole to say that the music of Paul Simon has helped form my emotional landscape. His lyrics, tunes, and especially the imagery in his songs, have increased my powers of observation and deepened my sense of appreciation for the magic moments of everyday life since my teens. His music has given me memories I wouldn’t have had otherwise, and the museum of my mind is a richer, more interesting place because of the road trips and private moments I’ve spent nestled inside those songs.

There are so many great songs in the world, and our singer-songwriters are arguably the storytellers we most universally embrace across cultural and generational lines. They are gifted human beings who channel truth and divinity and touch us profoundly. These are the players who perform for society the cathartic and ancient function of theater on a much more easily accessible, daily basis. These are the conjurers among us who have written and recorded songs that have the power to immediately transport us back to  certain time periods, milestones, and relationships in our lives.

Although I associate Paul Simon with my family–driving the four of us in the car bopping away to “Me and Julio” and “Kodachrome”, and not believing that “Stranded in a Limousine” was a real song when I heard my sister singing the opening lyrics in her room–his music has also been a deeply private experience for a solid forty years. One of my fondest images of my true self from my late teens and early twenties was that of a girl on a north or southbound Amtrak train, crunched up in her seat, wearing a Walkman, listening to lines like: “And as I watch the drops of rain, weave their weary paths and die,” “Let us be lovers we’ll marry our fortunes together,” “Kathy I’m lost, I said, though I knew she was sleeping,” and “Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike” as if they were the truest phrases ever played.

In February when I heard that Paul Simon was embarking on his final “Homeward Bound Tour”, and that he would be playing with Bonnie Raitt and James Taylor (who ties for second place in my emotionally formative singer-songwriter category–along with Jimmy Buffett, Billy Joel, Crobsy, Stills and Nash–you get the idea) in London’s Hyde Park in June, I knew I had to go. I bought the concert tickets months before the plane tickets. I already had it in mind to go to London in the Summer of 2018 because Hamlet was playing at the Globe, and the allure of a Paul Simon concert sealed the deal. I should add that while I am very sentimental about music, I’m not much of a concert goer. I had never seen Jimmy Buffett, Paul Simon or JT in concert. In fact, most of the 20-ish rock/popular music concerts I’ve seen in my life took place before I was 20 years old.

I can easily say the concert in Hyde Park was THE BEST concert in my life. The venue, the company, the weather all played big roles, but perhaps the most haunting was the timing. The politico-cultural moment. It was Sunday, July 15, 2018, and two days earlier all of London had been taken over by Trump protesters, including the flying of the infamous “Trump Baby Balloon” over the city. It was a weird time to be an American abroad. Trump’s visit and his behavior was the number one topic of conversation wherever we went. As soon as anyone found out we were American, they wanted to know what we thought.

I stood at the concert in awe as one Great Song after another played through my soul. I swayed from fond recollection, to involuntary squeezing of my eyes, to downright weeping and back again, and it occurred to me that these three American icons in their 70’s were examples of some of the many things that Make America Great. The cultural contributions of these three compassionate, talented, articulate, educated artists are staggering. Yes, Rock Stars get superhuman quantities of adoration and remuneration. But just think what they give us. The soundtracks of our lives; the musical road maps that GPS us directly to our deepest longings, joys and heartaches. We have so very much to thank these artists for. And that night, during their time on the stage, each mega-star showed their own humility and gratitude for having been blessed in their careers, and having had the chance to work with such talented musicians through the years.

After the first few tunes Simon told us that these were written as “rhythm tunes” for dancing. This made me think about the relationship between rhythm and verse, and reminded me of conversations we had in class this spring while unpacking iambic pentameter. It’s the rhyming and the rhythm that makes songs (and Shakespeare! Ha ha) so easy to memorize. As I gazed at the image of Paul Simon on the giant screen, guitar in hand, the word “bard” came to mind. Not a stretch, since I was in London, I’m obsessed with Shakespeare, and I would be seeing Hamlet in two days. A bard is a poet, an epic storyteller, usually thought of as a traveling musical entertainer. (“There Goes) Rhymin’ Simon” is definitely a poet and storyteller of first order. An American who respects and understands words: how to combine them into truth and meaning that touch us deeply and live forever. Someone who has a unique gift for painting musical pictures of “How the heart approaches what it yearns.”

Why does the combination of the simplest words, “I’m sitting in the railway station, got a ticket for my destination,” pull my heart up to my throat and bring a profound, poignant smile to the corners of my eyes? What is it in a song that cuts straight to the heart and summons immediate tears? Do words take on musicality when strung together a certain way, or do we need the musicians’ strategically timed humming and strumming to draw out our emotions? Shakespeare spoke to the role of music in the life of the heart:

Now, divine air! Now is his soul

ravished. Is it not strange that sheeps’ guts should

hale souls out of men’s bodies?

                                                                                                     (Much Ado About Nothing 2.3.60)

As if reading my mind, one of my companions at the concert noted that “Bridge Over Troubled Water“ was “one tenth the age of Hamlet.” 418 divided by 48 equals a little less than 1/9: even a little older. I wonder if it will live as long. Something tells me it could.

This Saturday marks the final (scheduled–one can dream!) concert of the tour. Another outdoor concert, at Flushing Meadows Corona Park, in Queens. For a while I considered the concept of gilding the lily, but of course I’m going, and I absolutely cannot wait to cry my eyes out.

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