Paul Simon at the Beacon Theater

My papers are done, for good or for ill, and with any luck.  Looks like, for now, at least, I'm still on track to not get kicked out of the program with one of those consolation prize Master's degree...  Woot!  While it sometimes seems that I spent the entirety of the last month locked in my carrel in the library, reading, writing, and drinking enough coffee to float an ocean liner, that's not entirely correct. I did slip into NYC for the Paul Simon concert (now) almost two weeks ago.

It was incredible.  The only less than ideal part was that I went alone, since I don't know anyone else who is as convinced of the epicness of Paul Simon to get a ticket, especially not when we're all working on final papers.  So, whatever; I went alone.  Me, and two-thousand or so middle-aged couples.**

I struggled to write this post; I began with a rough sketch for a simple concert review.  He began with Crazy Love Vol. II.  Images of MLK came on the screen when he sang “So Beautiful or So What.”  He made a crack about having to stop playing, otherwise he’d miss the train home.  As if he had to take a train back home, as if he were one of us.  He played quite a few songs from the new CD, and two songs from the old S&G stuff... But, then I realized that sort of review didn't capture why I was so happy to have seen him perform live.  Even though I was alone.  Even though I was stressed about all of the work I wasn't doing. 

The concert was, to me, more than a list of songs that were played, more than a retelling of the few words directed at the audience.  I know that this sounds corny, but Paul Simon’s music has defined my life, from as early as I can remember.  My parents used to play me Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes before I had to go to sleep, and I would dance along to the music for six minute duration, and then that was the last of my fun.  It was time to go to bed.  Sometimes, I would dream of that mysterious couple, the lady with diamond-studded shoes, and the poor boy who would follow her everywhere.  I had no idea what a bodega was, and, as a born and bred Angelino, I had no idea where Broadway was.  Still, these shadowy figures would dance in my dreams, all the while accompanied by raucous trumpets and guitars.  Time went on, and my parents no longer played me songs before I went to sleep.  Times were rough, and they were busy. But, that song remained in the back of my memory, and the rich girl with diamonds on the soles of her shoes was a fuzzy recollection in the back of my mind, but a recollection nonetheless. 

Fast forward a couple of years, and I’m in junior high school.  It’s the age when musical tastes start to form, but I remember distinctly not liking the songs that people of my age and gender listened too.  The Spice Girls?  N’Sync? The Backstreet Boys?  It was never something that really spoke to me or hooked into my soul the way good music does.  I didn’t have a radio that I could discover music on, so I did the next best thing—I raided the cupboard where my parents kept all of their music—back then, it was full of CDs and the few tapes that were still hanging about the house.  I ditched all of things I knew I wouldn’t like—the tangos, milongas, and the folklórico, and everything from the ‘old country.’  Everything else, I threw in the big, bulky music console that had been in the living room before my mother got tired of always having cables and mess there, and banished it to my brother’s room.  It was an old machine, it even had a turntable on the top, not that we had any records; by the time my parents moved here, those were out, and even tapes were rapidly becoming obsolete.  At any rate, I took all the CDs I could find that sounded interesting, and took them for a spin. It was then that I stumbled upon the Old Friends compilation album, and my 11-year old self was immediately hooked. 

I remember many an evening laying on the floor of my brother’s room and listening to all of those Simon and Garfunkel songs.  I knew all of the lyrics by heart, and I would try and pick apart the two voices, and determine which person sang which song.  From the introductions on the live versions of “Red Rubber Ball” and “A Poem on the Underground Wall” I knew which voice belonged to which name, and I would parse the harmonies to see who was singing when.  I also wondered which one was Paul, and which one was Art.  From the picture on the cover of the box set, I decided that the one with the curly hair and seemingly his head in the clouds was the one with the sweeter, higher voice. He just looked like the kind of guy who would have a voice like that.   And the other voice, (perhaps not quite as light and sweet as the first, but nonetheless arresting), I decided, belonged to the shorter man with a troubled countenance.  I even made the mistake of having some of my friends listen to some of the songs.  "You've got to listen to this stuff, it's amazing!" I said in my naivité.  My friends just laughed at me-- a song with the word 'groovy' in it?  Laaaaaame!  That was the subject of much good-natured ribbing for the next few years.


Even in college, when my CD collection was full of Bad Religion, the Descendents, X, All, the Distillers, and all sorts of punk bands of varying degrees of musical ability; even when I cut my hair short, and gelled it into spikes, and generally went through my teenage years, I still listened to my old Simon and Garfunkel CDs (mostly when no one could see me though***).

High school turned into college.  I packed up all of my stuff, Graceland in the box, along with my laptop; Bridge Over Troubled Water in the box with my molecular model set.  I’ll always remember the day that I came home from college—it must have been about 2006--- and my dad called me into the kitchen to see something.  He had just discovered YouTube, and had found the music video for “You Can Call Me Al.”  I was 18, and like most other teenagers, I bet I rolled my eyes a bit—it’s not like YouTube was new to me like it was to my dad.  But, the rolling eyes was more affectation than not.  I watched as Paul Simon stood next to Chevy Chase, and pretended to play a saxophone that was far too large for him.  And it *was* funny.  And it brought back memories for the whole family, of long car trips to fun places, Paul Simon spinning from the car's speakers.

Even when I moved across the country for grad school, with mp3s for pretty much every song Paul Simon ever wrote were all safely on my hard drive and space at a premium, I only packed a few of my favorite CDs in the boxes that brought a hundred or so books safely to Grad School City.  That smattering of CDs included quite a few of Simon's works.


And, earlier this month, I even got to have another go at dancing to “Diamonds on the Souls of Her Shoes.”  In that, I suppose I was lucky to have gone alone-- no one I knew present to see me dance like an idiot.

I had the most incredible time.  Everyone I knew was in the library, and I was having the time of my life. 

_____
** this isn't totally accurate, I wasn't the only person there under 30, as I had feared I might be, but there weren't too many people there that seemed to be in their early 20s....


*** Ah, the insecurity of youth!  I've gotten more than a bit of grief for my taste in music, characterized as lame by more than one person.  But, now, I realize that I'm getting a Ph.D. in something esoteric and boring.  I am lame.  And I'm OK with that.