Shining Like A National Guitar

Shining Like A National Guitar: Paul Simon and the Power of Good Art

Why write concert reviews? I never understood. After all, unless they're pulling a Barbra and doing a week-long stint at the Garden, the act you're reviewing is only in town for one night, and by the time your review's out, they've already hung up their costumes, piled their props into a UHaul, and left on that midnight train for Georgia or what have you. Last night, midway through the greatest concert of my life, I got it. The reviews aren't so much a resource for potential ticket buyers as they are an attempt to pin down a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Only by committing such ephemeral moments to language can we convince ourselves, and others, that they actually happened. I could certainly use such confirmation; the two hours I spent in the presence of the inimitable Paul Simon still give off a strange sheen of the otherworldly; I've gotta write about this night to convince myself it isn't a dream, but a dream come true.

A bit of backstory; in my mind, Paul Simon is nothing less than our greatest living American singer/songwriter. I'll take arguments for Billy Joel and Carole King, but good luck changing my mind--from the moment Paul said he was walking out to look for America, I'd made up my mind to walk right alongside him. What makes his music both timely and ageless is his gutsy approach to pop culture convention; he submits to it and subverts it all at once. His songs are set in the traditional chorus-verse-chorus mold, peppered with irresistible guitar hooks and awash in hippie harmonies. But beneath the Billboard-friendly surface thrums a compressed lyrical power that'd make Hemingway blush. He can squeeze a whole world into a couplet, breathe it into being with his trademark Chet Baker-meets-Bob Dylan baritone, and send the final product straight into our souls, That's how he makes songs about loss of innocence ("Kodachrome"), existential ennui ("The Sound of Silence"), infidelity ("Cecilia"), middle age ("You Can Call Me Al") and even displaced immigrants ("Rene and Georgette Magritte...") not just listenable, but lovable as well. Armed with a set of strings and a sharply tuned intellect, he's not just a skilled songwriter, but an aural oracle for the post-Beatles age, documenting subtle but striking shifts in culture and politics and the human heart with the gentle, precise touch of a good poet. The indelible musical moments we owe to the guy are too numerous to mention: the sparse picking of strings in the opening measures of "Silence", the glib glee of the "Mrs. Robinson" verses, the soaring, cathartic chorus of "Bridge Over Trouble Water"...who can top Simon and Garfunkel?

Naturally, Simon himself.

His post-breakup work has been nothing short of awesome, in the truest sense of the word. In the late 80s and early 90s, the singer, galvanized by a recent trip to Soweto, combined rockabilly sensibilities with African choral tradition to create Graceland and The Obvious Child, easily two of the best albums from their respective decades. Graceland is particularly monolithic; it's a sonically sumptuous full-course meal of an album, filled with radical new ideas, but also blessed with a sturdy pop-music backbone. Experimental but accessible, probing but affectionate, emotional but also a damn good time, it's a flawless collection of eleven songs made to re-kindle what's missing in our lives; a genuine sense of wonder. Factor Miss Funny Girl's work out of the equation, and it's probably my all-time favorite album. Paul must've known this about me, as almost all the songs from Graceland appeared in one form or another throughout the evening. In fact, he started right out of the gate, opening with that album's glorious first track, "The Boy In the Bubble". Filled with throbbing bass drums, swooping synths, and an instantly singable refrain ("This is the long distance ca-a-all!"), it's the closest thing to an arena anthem the man's ever written, and he knows it. Standing center stage, guitar strapped to his chest, foot tapping to the wild rhythms of his boffo band, he delivers the verses with a conversational intimacy, slowly roping us in until he socks out that brilliant chorus all the way into the cheap seats. The applause is deafening. The electricity is palpable. A giant screen lights up center stage: "Paul Simon: So Beautiful or So What Tour." This is going to be quite an evening, I think to myself.

Just to make things clear, the Paul Simon I saw is not the Touring Paul that you hear about. Infamously shy, Simon's known for deliver stellar renditions of his biggest hits, but he's also known for being sort of a schlub in the working-the-crowd department. "I wrote this song in 1969" or "I like this one a lot" is about all you hear on his live albums. Not last night. He began with his typical "Hello, my friends", but then went beyond that. "I know it's a momentous evening", he said, referring to our Texas Rangers. "I wish you luck", he said, and winked. When we cheered for him, he even did a little "woo-hooing" of his own. After finishing his first song, he let out a triumphant "YEAH!" just as the lights went out. Shy, my ass.

This little outburst was just the beginning. As he settled into his setlist, Simon became positively loosey-goosey, doing a little hand-jive during "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover", even indulging in a N'awlins shuffle during the zydeco-zapped "That Was Your Mother". Then, he strutted up to the front of the stage and gave us a little background. "This city is special to me. I may be from New York, but my wife's from this city. As such, if you all lose tonight...I'm boycotting St. Louis. Forever. Forever, I tell you!" Playing just a few miles away from his beloved's birthplace, Simon clearly felt as if he had something to prove. And boy, did he prove it. He was fiercely funny, perfectly in tune, and absolutely on fire when he picked up a guitar or harmonica--his strum-off with two other guitarists, a banjoist, and a mandolin player on "Rewrite" was a cannily organized fireworks display of great musicianship. With entertainment like this, who needs massive sets or pricey meat dresses or giant fruit-shaped tits?

Having said that, Simon did allow a few minimal effects, and they worked wonderfully well. In addition to rotating through a mind-boggling eighteen different guitars, Simon spices things up by using the aforementioned lit screen to project abstract colors, shapes, and images that drifted dreamily in and out of focus, punctuating what we already know; this man's songs contain a little bit of infinity. These displays added to the experience without distracting from the music. They underlined the title of "Dazzling Blue", bounced along to pulsating bass of "50 Ways", and, in a truly unforgettable moment, cast giant red shadows on Simon, illuminating the mournful furrowing of his brows while he performed "Hearts and Bones", easily the most honest, bruising, and catchiest song ever written about an adult breakup. Traditional photographs were used sparingly but effectively; in a particularly neat bit of stagecraft, the screen zooms out on a series of blurred pastel colors until Paul plays the intro to "Mother and Child Reunion" and they snap into a crystal-clear shot of the first vinyl recording of that very song. It's this sort of attention to detail that makes for good concerts. However, if you want a great concert, Damn Yankees said it best--"you gotta have heart". And Paul had it in spades. After sailing through his wonderfully weird new composition "Love Is Eternal Sacred Light" (it's the only song ever written that could be called an existential boogie), he put the finished touches on the concert proper with a jubilant one-two punch featuring a duo of Graceland heavy hitters, "Diamonds On the Souls of Her Shoes" and "Gumboots". They were showstoppers, but nothing prepared us for what came next--an encore to end all encores. Comprising so many songs and so much banter that it was almost as long as the first half of the concert, this blissfully prolonged farewell would've redeemed the show even if the songs preceding it were total bat poo-poo. In these relaxed, deeply soulful thirty minutes, Paul Simon knocked the ball so far out of the park that I doubt if anyone I ever see live will match his swing. (Baseball puns intentional.)

It begins in total darkness. The band and, for the first time, Simon himself, are absent from the stage. The cheering is louder than any sound that has come from the stage thus far. This guy has given us a night to remember, but we're not through with him yet, and, thank god, he's not through with us.

A single spotlight comes up center stage. Paul walks out, simple acoustic in hand, contemplative sadness etched in the lines of his face. He looks up, and something in that look tells us exactly what he's going to do. He does it;

Hello darkness, my old friend

I've come to talk with you again.

They're perhaps the most recognizable opening lines in pop music. They're greeted with round applause, but by the time he's finished with that couplet, there is a dead silence in the room. Anyone who was moving is standing still. Everyone's holding up their camera and holding back their sniffles. It's a song that means something to all of us, whether we thrilled to it on the radio or teared up to it at the end of The Graduate. And here's the man who wrote it, alone in the light, throwing us all a little piece of eternity. It's ours, and we're his. That final chord hits us like a shot. A moment of silence, then a two minute standing ovation. Then a giant whoosh, one delayed, collective discharge into a thousand Kleenexes That great, ineffable connection, that rare alchemy of audience and artist, has been achieved. We know it. So does Paul, who goes into full gear for the last part of the evening. As his band trickles back on, he talks with the audience. Not banters. Talks. "How we doin', how we doin'?!", he says, referring to the game. When he finds out his (and our) Rangers are losing, he shakes his head and holds up his guitar. "Oh no! Well", he proclaims with a devilish grin in his eye "I have the perfect song, then." He launches into a sweetly strummed version of "Here Comes the Sun", which he double-dedicates to the Rangers and "of course, to George". Everyone waves their hands in tandem, and I close my eyes, letting it all run over me. So this is how the Baby Boomers felt. Having gotten us high on nostalgia, he straps on his electric and sprints through "Kodachrome", much to the delight of my 'rents. Then a gospel re-working of "Gone At Last" that goes on for a good ten minutes, getting everyone on their feet and into the game. I've never seen fifty year olds dance like this. He heads offstage, presumably for the last time. In the darkness, people whip out their phones and uncover a sad truth: the Rangers have lost. "Well, they tried", my mother whispers to me. No sooner has she uttered this than the lights come up again, first on the band, and then on Paul Simon, clad in a Rangers shirt. The crowd goes crazy.

"We love you Paul!"

"Rangers forever!"

"Graceland! Play Graceland."

This last cry is of particular interest to me. You see, the title track of the Graceland album is easily my favorite song written since Golden Age of Gershwin. It's my go to belt-it-out-in-the-car piece, and it's situated towards the top of my Itunes most played list. Combining an uncanny vulnerability ("They say losing love is like a window in your heart") with an oddball agility ("There is a girl in New York City who calls herself the Human Trampoline!"), the song tells the story of a single father and his child as they head out on a road trip to see Elvis's resting place. But, in this English major's opinion, Simon's getting at something deeper; it's not Elvis they're looking to reclaim. It's what he represented--1950's America, the age of change rooted into idealism before our growth was blighted by violence--the very violence that sent Simon in a dark room with a dripping faucet one winter day to write about people talking without speaking, hearing without listening. It's a poem, a prayer, and a helluva song. But Paul's got a habit of playing what he wants to play, and the Paul Simon forums that help me avoid schoolwork claim that he's left the song off the setlist.....

"You know", Paul says, gesturing to his shirts, "We've all got good things in our lives." It's not a question, it's a statement, one I found extremely moving. Here's a guy who's seen it all, wrestled with it all, and finally cast out his demons in song--and he wants to help us do the same, to stop asking if there are possibilities for kindness and awe and transcendent glory in the world and start knowing it.

"Here we go. A one, two, three, four."

Paul launches into "Graceland". Anyone who says it isn't possible to laugh, cry, dance, and scream all at once wasn't sitting in my vicinity. All the sad-faced baseball fans were up on their feet. So were all those who had a hard day at work, who lost a friend or a family member recently, or who were stressed out by midterms or worried they'd never find a job or a house or even a wife, and they were all dancing dancing dancing, and any doubt I had about the healing, unifying power of good art was forever erased. Paul helped me confirm what I already knew; I will use my life to facilitate this powerful, singular connection, this bond between the artistic creations of others and our very real effort to create ourselves. "I have a reason to believed we all will be received in Graceland", Simon sang, and he was right--I felt at home. Take that, Ke$ha.

Paul can't quite top his post-loss "Graceland" coup, but he comes close. He does a rollicking rendition of "Late in the Evening", which segues into a Bo Diddley cover that serves not just as an homage to his rockabilly roots, but as a moving "thank-you" to his band. Paul's a musicians musician whose ensemble is as tight as any this side of E Street, and this is their song. The guitarist, saxophonist, and percussionists all get their due, and even take turns singing lead. Many of these guys have been with him since the beginning, and, as he plays backup for them, he can't help grinning like a proud papa. Pride is the word here; Paul is proud of his work, his musicians, his art, his audience, and his country. As he should be. After a series of heartfelt thank-yous, Paul takes center stage one last time, delivering a languid, touching rendition of one of his greatest songs; "Still Crazy After All These Years". Everytime he sings those words, the audience breaks into applause. Some idiot was even whooping, screaming, and declaring his love for Paul. I confess that idiot was me. You are indeed still crazy after all these years, Mr. Simon. And thank God you are. Thank God you are.