Great Exudations

Paul Simon is one of my favorite songwriters. His lyrics are witty and surprising and touching and so often near the bullseye. “Graceland” was released in 1986 to enormous success, and rightly so, winning Album of the Year in 1987. He had bucked the ongoing cultural boycott of South Africa that was implemented in protest to apartheid, and he was roundly upbraided for it. Other artists and politicians called the project “colonialist” and “opportunistic” and tacitly supporting of the apartheid regime. There were accusations and death threats, which go with the territory. Time has proven those critics wrong by most accounts, and to my mind. He paid the South African musicians multiples of their usual rate, shared songwriting credits (though apparently Los Lobos felt robbed of “Myth of the Fingerprints”), and introduced the larger world to musicians like those in Ladysmith Black Mambazo. I saw them live at Merriweather Post Pavilion on that tour and it was a terrific show. A triumph of art and collaboration over politics, and in a small way he shone a light on those very disparities and on the beauty of the native African music. I particularly like the fact that Simon was first exposed to those sounds on a loaned cassette from fellow singer-songwriter Heidi Berg (per Wikipedia). The bootlegged recording featured mbaqanga music from Soweto that he enjoyed for its bright and happy quality (#4/Lydian mode, perhaps). It has to start somewhere and often it’s with another person (an emerging theme that we will explore further down the road).

But what I wanted to talk about is bad lyrics. Or rather, in this case, misunderstood lines that turn out to be great. From the start I was a big fan of the album but never really liked the opening salvo of the title track (above). I mean, c’mon, a “national guitar”?? What hokem! Paul, you can surely do better than that. Every time I heard it I would cringe a little. Until decades later when I had started taking music lessons and realized that he was surely referring to the National brand of guitar (formerly National String Instrument Corporation, founded in LA in 1927) and their iconic shiny steel resonator guitars (below). Ah-ha!!

The lyric works well for me now as a double entendre, though not nakedly without this more specific reference. It just needed a capital letter, which of course you cannot hear. I have the vinyl in storage and will check the liner notes to see how this was officially handled. How wrong I was to doubt the great Paul Simon. And I wonder how many people actually get this reference. I’m pretty sure that Mark Knopfler did.

Where were you in December 1968 (see postmark below)? Maybe you hadn’t been born. I think I was in a Montessori pre-school in suburban DC/Maryland. We did the Christmas play “Little Drummer Boy” and for some reason I was cast in the title roll. I had no dialogue. Stiffer than my sticks as I nervously hit the drum. It’s more of a memory fragment than a true recollection but also my first audience performance. The play was not reviewed. Then on to 4th grade where I was a late substitution to play Thomas Jefferson in a historical when another kid chickened out. The teacher was a friend of my grandmother. In Catholic school 8th grade, I was tapped to play the slighted brother of the infamous prodigal son — that ne’er-do-well who returns to a hero’s welcome. What an asshole! That one felt good, as I was able to vent a little middle-child frustration. Alas, I couldn’t get past my fear to try out for one of our excellent high school plays, and I truly regret that. But for a (non-acting) theater class in college, I had chance to recite the “O for a Muse of Fire” prologue to HENRY V. Midway through the speech, I realized I had practiced with a heavily exaggerated Olivier-esque inflection, as one does, and forgotten to dial it back. Nothing to do but soldier on there, come what may. I wish there was video! Finally at the end of medical school, my friend Joel and I volunteered to host the senior class follies. We had written a rap about the GI system that was performed by four of us (joined by Dan and Steve). I was quite proud of my lyrical contribution: “Shigella, Salmonella and Vibrio… it’s all the same to me when I know I gotsta go!” Ahh, medical humor. On the grand scale, just below mimes and bad improv. At a hurried dry-run the night before, we saw that the program was to be a shambolic affair (in our defense, we were still working busy hospital rotations). So we course-corrected and carved out breathing space by doing the whole show as if it was a final walk-through. Best to lower expectations, we felt. I entered down the side aisle with headphones and a Walkman, belting out “Brandy (You’re A Fine Girl)” by Looking Glass (inspired by or, if you must, ripped-off from Eddie Murphy in “48 Hours”). To my mock-shock, there was a fully-seated audience to whom I explained that some classmates would be joining me in a rehearsal and that they were welcome to stay and watch. That was my first time singing in public. What a rush! Someday I will reprise that song in full-throated karaoke (more threat than promise). And speaking of live music, I looked up who played the Atlantic City boardwalk’s STEEL PIER (see postcard) in the summer of 1968: the Beach Boys, Herman’s Hermits, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, the Cowsills, the Fifth Dimension, Helen Reddy(!!), Frankie Avalon, the Four Tops, and Gladys Knight and the Pips. Pretty, pretty cool.

This vintage postcard was purchased at a consignment shop in the Hampden neighborhood of Baltimore last year. I love how succinct the prose is. The dichotomy of warm salutation followed by the bad news about the sofa bed. “Love Joy.” More like killjoy, I might think. Poor old Charles. But now the postman knows all about it! And what exactly happened on that sofa bed? The mind races off in all directions. Does it also need cleaning? No, no, scratch that. So is there a plan to fix it? Some money left on the counter, perhaps? I suppose Charles, being a “rich doctor” himself (back then the phrase actually fit), can presumably afford the repairs. But still there are questions. More questions than answers, Joy…

My most memorable trip to Atlantic City happened on the back-end of a run up to Summit, NJ for a family wedding. My cousin Mark was driving his mom’s station wagon (that we later impossibly parked just outside the Palladium in NYC, where Mark greased the bouncer and we waltzed right in… he’s a magician, literally) on the outward leg of the trip, and we were doing about 65 mph on the interstate when the conversation turned from God-knows-what to who-knows-where. I was riding shotgun and got hung up on a bit of trivia, the context of which has been lost to time. It was just a name. What was his damn name? And this being the late 80’s, there were no cellphones. No Yahoo. No AOL. No Google. You just had to know shit back then (or else fake it, go full-Santos!). But there was this pressing need. What was the man’s name?? It was Mark’s idea. We pulled alongside another car on the turnpike and matched their speed. I gestured for the driver to roll (yes, roll) down his window. And once done, I shouted my question at him (the human voice travels surprisingly well at speed): “What’s the name of the race car announcer with the Scottish accent….?!”

Man in other car after pondering a moment: “Jackie Stewart??”

Mark and I (in jubilation): “That’s it! Thank you!!”

So fuck Google. It’s human interaction we seek. And when did you ever get that kind of jolt from your iPhone???

I wonder if our friend ever tells that story.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love this film. It gives me a nice cathartic cry without fail at year’s end, and it also reminds me that I need to expand my posse (“Remember no man is a failure who has friends”). But this scene where Uncle Billy fumbles away 8000.00 is so painful, I can hardly stand to watch it. I don’t blame Capra or the writers, it’s a pivotal scene in the film. And the great character actor Thomas Mitchell plays him masterfully. My big beef is with the George Bailey and the other employees at the Bailey Building & Loan, Cousin Tilly and Cousin Eustace. Why in the hell would they allow a man who clearly suffers from pre-senile dementia (he says at one point, “I can get another job, I’m only 55.”…. to which Cousin Tilly responds, “56!”…. thus proving the point!!) — probably exacerbated by alcoholism — carry around a big wad of cash like that unattended?! It’s the whole damn enchilada! This man keeps squirrels in his home and he’s got bats in his belfry. He even forgot his nephew’s wedding, no doubt because of a bender. And, if we assume that Harry Bailey’s Congressional Medal of Honor was announced shortly after the war in 1945, then that 8000.00 is the equivalent of 132,500.00 today. Nice going, team! You just about screwed the pooch, but for the cash infusion of that insufferable douchebag Sam Wainwright. He can shove the “Hee-Haw!” right up his hee-haw, as far as I’m concerned (keep your stinking money!). Man, what were they thinking…??!

Oh, and Happy New Year!!