Here’s what I wrote about Paul
Simon’s Graceland,
the album that arguably rescued his
career, in my guide to his music that was published in 1997. I received some
help from my friend Chris Allen who knew more than me about African music.
In
the summer of 1984, as he faced the problem of furthering a critically
successful but commercially waning career, Paul Simon received a gift from his
friend Heidi Berg which set him on the road towards what many critics believe
to be his masterpiece. The gift was a bootleg tape from the townships of South Africa
called Gumboots: Accordion Jive Hits No.
2, and it changed his musical direction radically.
Simon
spent the rest of the year seeking out similar black African music and,
thoroughly inspired by his researches, went to South
Africa in February 1985 to spend 17 days recording with
local musicians in Johannesburg’s
Ovation Studio.
Graceland, however, was not recorded
solely in South Africa,
nor did it consist only of South African music, nor was its subject matter
African-oriented. The album was recorded in New York,
Los Angeles, London
and Louisiana as well as Johannesburg, and included tracks with Cajun
and Hispanic backing musicians.
While South African mbaqanga and mbube rhythms dominate
the music, adding a unique flavour which up to this point was largely unknown
in America and Europe, the songs actually fuse South African elements
with American pop, thus rendering the unknown more palatable to ears already
tuned to Paul Simon. The majority of the tracks were backed by musicians from
the townships, and the experience of writing for and in such a different
musical tradition was obviously a liberating experience. While the concerns
about which Simon chose to write are those of an American writer – and he is
too honest a writer to wish or be able to renounce his cultural heritage – his open response to other cultures
loosened the bounds of his songwriting and seems to have enabled him to find a
new language, both musically and lyrically.
The
release of Graceland
was met with as much political criticism as artistic acclaim. In 1986, South
Africa was still ruled by the minority National Party regime, and the
essentially peaceful “velvet revolution” (to borrow a description more usually
applied to Eastern Europe) which followed from the release of Nelson Mandela,
and Prime Minister De Klerk’s recognition that Apartheid was no longer
sustainable, was some years away. Sanctions still applied, and a major focus of
the anti-Apartheid movement was on high profile sporting and cultural events.
Although the principal purpose of the boycott as it affected musicians was to
prevent middle-of-the-road or pension-seeking rock dinosaurs cashing in at the
notorious white playground of Sun City, Simon
had clearly broken the letter of the sanctions regulations. Graceland thus attracted
more controversy than Paul Simon, eternally quiet, diligent and
uncontroversial, had attracted in his entire career.
In
vain did Simon plead that, far from offering succour to the oppressor, he had
been popularising (and rewarding handsomely) some of the very “victims” the
sanctions were intended to benefit. He had wandered into a political minefield.
To those who argued that any breach of sanctions was unacceptable – and this position
is understandable both in theory and as a propaganda weapon – any
counter-argument based on artistic grounds was irrelevant. In the final
analysis, however, the artistic merits of Graceland
figure more substantially in the history books than the fierce contemporary
denunciations that were, in the event, soon overtaken by the accelerating march
of progress.
The
album was a massive commercial success, especially in the UK where, after
reaching number one, it lingered in the charts for almost two years. In
America, where radio stations are traditionally less attuned to styles of music
that don’t comply with their rigid formatting process, Graceland reached number three, though it stayed in the Top 200 for
97 weeks, eventually selling four million copies.
The Boy In The Bubble
The
growl of accordion with which the album begins states immediately that this is
a different Simon product. With a nod
to the Gumboots bootleg which had
sparked his first interest in South African music, Simon lets his musical
co-writer, the accordionist Forere Motloheloa, signpost the direction the album
would take. It is a direction which, in
its dense, churning rhythms, owes little or nothing to the blues, to Chuck
Berry, or to the American folk and Tin Pan Alley traditions in which Simon had
made his reputation.
The
subject matter – the horrors and insubstantiality which underpins the “days of
miracle and wonder” – is less of a radical departure from Simon’s previous
work, but he brings a vividness to the lyrics (the juxtaposition of “the bomb
in the baby carriage”, for example), as well as a “serious playfulness”
(witness the alliteration of “the boy in the bubble and the baby with the
baboon heart”), which clearly shows the extent to which this new music had irrigated
Simon’s imagination. His lyrics add an ironic counterpoint to the upbeat,
cheerful swing of the music, but it is not his purpose merely to moan about the
awfulness of life on “a distant constellation that’s dying in a corner of the
sky”. He is more knowledgeable, more compassionate and more of a poet than
that, and if you doubt the poetic qualities of the song, try achieving in other
words the same concise effect as Simon does in the final lines - “these are the
days of miracle and wonder, and don’t cry, baby, don’t cry”.
‘The
Boy In The Bubble’ was released as a single in the UK, where it reached number
26 with the help of a stunning video which, in 3D, placed Simon in the jungle,
surrounded one minute by wild animals and the next by state-of-the-art
technology.
Graceland
Joy
and sorrow; history and today; America and Africa – in the album’s title track
Simon brews a medley of contrasting ingredients into a song as fine as any he
has written. The bubbling, insistent, sinuous playing of Baghiti Khumalo on
fretless bass and Ray Phiri on guitar provides a perfect counterpoint to the
American music which the song celebrates – the Mississippi Delta, home of the
blues, memorably defined as “shining like a National guitar”; Elvis Presley,
whose Graceland home is the object of the singer’s pilgrimage; and The Everly
Brothers, early influences who repay the compliment with their backing vocals
on the fade out.
But
the song is no mere trip down nostalgia lane. Simon’s concerns, and those of
the “poorboys and pilgrims with families” who share his journey, are
contemporary. The singer is not only divorced (“the child of my first marriage”
accompanies him) but also a recent loser in the game of love (the bittersweet
phrase “she comes back to tell me she’s gone” tells of a fresh, unhealed
wound). Nor is his sympathy reserved for his own misfortunes. His “travelling
companions are ghost and empty sockets”; he empathises with the “girl in New York City who calls
herself the human trampoline”.
The
jaunty music, with its traces of rockabilly, might seem callous and insensitive
set against the lyrics, with their clear-eyed view of the emotional detritus of
modern life, and such a contrast is just the sort of thing Simon excelled at
earlier in his career. Simon’s purpose, however, is not to express pity –
either for himself or for the other casualties “bouncing into Graceland”.
The happy accident of Presley’s choice of name for his famous and magnificent
abode allows Simon to play with the religious notion of redemptive grace.
Though not previously, nor here, a religious writer, Simon presents music
itself as offering a form of salvation. “Maybe I’ve a reason to believe we all
will be received in Graceland,” he concludes.
I Know What I Know
This
collaboration with General M.D. Shirinda and The Gaza Singers is a lighter
piece, contrasting the Shangaan voices of South
Africa with febrile chatter of the New York party scene. The song itself stands
as a tribute to Simon’s self-confidence in his new work. He can afford to quote
the party girl’s putdowns (“She thought I was alright ... in a sort of a
limited way for an off-night” and “There’s something about you that really
reminds me of money”) as well as his own feeble chat-up line (“Aren’t you the
woman who was recently given a Fulbright?”). The repeated line, “Don’t I know
you from the cinematographer’s party?”, brilliant in its scansion and rhythm,
neatly encapsulates the empty socialising of the New York arts crowd.
Simon,
while clearly not averse to attending
such parties, is not the prisoner of that scene, and has no illusions about the
permanence of fame and reputation. He is, at this stage of his life and career,
his own man. “I know what I know, I’ll sing what I said, we come and we go,
that’s a thing that I keep in the back of my head.”
Gumboots
As
the title indicates, this song is another tribute to the accordion-based music
that had triggered Simon’s initial interest in the sound of Soweto. Backed this
time by the Boyoyo Boys, he tackles a subject perennially popular with poets
and songsmiths – love. Among the challenges which this subject presents is the
difficulty of finding anything new to say but Simon rises to this challenge.
Three vignettes which show different ways of failing to communicate are
separated by a chorus which elegantly sums up a feeling every lover has
suffered at one time or another. “You don’t feel you could love me but I feel
you could”. The song ends with a repeat
of the opening two lines, as if to make the point that this is a process that
goes around and around forever.
This
was the first song that Simon heard on his bootleg tape. It is the style of
music favoured by mining and railroad workers in SA; ‘Gumboots’ are the heavy
boots they wear at work.
Diamonds On The Soles Of her Shoes
Unlike
the previous songs on the album, which were initially recorded in Johannesburg, ‘Diamonds...’ was recorded entirely at The
Hit Factory in New York,
when Ladysmith Black Mambazo were in town for an appearance on Saturday Night Live. Curiously, the song
opens, unlike the “African” songs, with a verse in Zulu. It also features the
popular West African star Youssou N’dour, as well as our old friends Baghiti
Khumalo and Ray Phiri.
Ladysmith Black Mambazo open the song a
cappella, before the familiar bouncing beat kicks in and establishes a
cheerful, danceable groove driven headlong by the startling bass guitar of
Baghiti Khumalo. The lyrics themselves are somewhat obscure. The rich girl
whose non-standard footwear provides the title seems to be involved both with
the singer, who takes her for granted, and, doubtless on the rebound, with a
poor boy whose “ordinary shoes” can only walk her to a doorway on Upper
Broadway.
Maybe
there are metaphors here, or subtle allusions to New York street life, or a surreal
re-working of the ‘Down In The Boondocks’ theme. Maybe Simon is just having fun
– “and I could say ‘oo oo oo ...’ as if everybody knows what I’m talking
about”.
You Can Call Me Al
Rumour
has it that this song has its origins at a party Simon hosted wherein he met
the composer Pierre Boulez for the first time. As he was leaving, Boulez called
Simon ‘Al’ and the hostess, his then wife Peggy, ‘Betty’.
Whether
or not this is true, the song itself has moved a long way from such a simple
social misunderstanding. Its theme is an old Simon favourite – alienation. The
three verses depict various instances – the man who feels “soft in the middle
[though] the rest of my life is so hard”; the man who, having lost his wife,
his family, and his role-model, finds “my nights are so long”; the man lost in
“a street in a strange world”.
Now,
though, merely depicting social alienation is not sufficient for the
revitalised Simon. As in ‘Graceland’, he
offers redemption from such angst. This time it is not music but friendship
which provides the means of salvation – “if you’ll be my bodyguard I can be
your long lost pal”. A penny whistle solo by Morris Goldberg (a white South
African based in New York)
offers plaintive support to the music of Baghiti Khumalo and Ray Phiri,
underlining the fragility of human relationships which Simon so frequently sees
and so sympathetically describes.
‘Al’
was a number four hit in the UK,
helped by an unusual, slightly surreal, video whose principal attraction was
its stark simplicity in the age of big budget, often pretentious, rock videos.
Shot with one stationary camera on one set, it featured Simon’s friend, the
actor Chevy Chase, appearing as Simon, playing
a Fender bass guitar, while Simon himself appears dressed similarly in the same
location, almost as a guest in his own video.
Under African Skies
If
‘Graceland’ offers the possibility of
redemption through music, then the subject of ‘Under African Skies’ is its
achievement – “after the dream of falling and calling your name out, these are
the roots of rhythm and the roots of rhythm remain”.
Set
to a lilting ‘walking rhythm’ and backed by Linda Ronstadt’s beautiful descant,
which seems to echo to the very skies Simon sings about, the song opens and
closes with a pen-portrait of ‘Joseph’ (a name undoubtedly suggested by that of
his collaborator Joseph Shabalala but perhaps more accurately to be taken as
symbolising an African Everyman). In a few deft lines, Simon sketches both man
and continent. Listening to the words and the music together, it is impossible
not to sense the vastness of the skies under which Joseph walks.
The
middle verse, which shifts curiously from Simon’s own, masculine, gender (“my
nursery door”) to the feminine halfway through, contains his clearest statement
of the redemptive power of music – “give her the wings to fly through harmony
and she won’t bother you no more”.
HOMELESS
Co-written
with Joseph Shabalala, the leader of Ladysmith Black Mambazo, ‘Homeless’ is
unlike any of the other songs on the album. Sung entirely a cappella,
showcasing the remarkable range and power of Shabalala’s ensemble, the lyrics,
alternating between Zulu and English, have no discernible narrative structure,
consisting mainly of phrases rather than complete sentences. The theme, as we
shall see, is African.
Simon
has said that “[we] wrote in English and Zulu, starting the piece in the middle
and working outwards to the beginning and end”. The crux of the song,
therefore, is the verse beginning “Strong wind destroy our home, many dead
tonight it could be you”. This song is not about homelessness as a social
problem affecting affluent western societies (not least London, where the song was recorded at Abbey
Road Studios). This is the homelessness of massacre victims in a society where
political violence rages. The haunting power of the key repeated chorus “We are
homeless... moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake” works not just literally but
as a metaphor for the political dispossession of the black South African
majority.
The
song ends with a verse in Zulu which translates as: “We would like to announce
to the entire nation that we are the best at singing in this style”. What, in
another context, might simply be an amusing piece of a performer’s egotism
becomes a statement of defiance. We do not accept, Ladysmith Black Mambazo
proclaim, the sub-human status to which our oppressors wish to condemn us. We
do not merely deserve better – we are better.
CRAZY
LOVE, VOL. II
With
‘Crazy Love, Vol. II’ Simon reverts to the music and the themes that dominate
the album. Guitarist Ray Phiri’s band Stimela provide the backing for the interwoven
stories of Fat Charlie and the singer, both of whom seem to be in the throes (sic) of divorce. (It may be conjectured that this is the
“second volume” of the title, divorce being an established stage in the
life-cycle of American love affairs.)
The
chorus lines (“I don’t want no part ...”), repeated with subtle rhythmic
variation after each of the song’s three verses, shows Simon rejecting the
“craziness” of a life “on fire ... all over the evening news” and telling his
ex that this time “the joke is on her”.
Initially
recorded in Johannesburg’s Ovation Studios, the
song was completed at The Hit Factory in New
York. Morris Goldberg, the penny whistler on ‘You Can
Call Me Al’, makes another appearance, this time on soprano sax.
THAT WAS
YOUR MOTHER
As
if to make the point that this is a Paul Simon album, not a World Music
curiosity, Graceland
ends with two songs rooted in specifically American musical traditions. The
first of these was recorded in Louisiana
with backing from those doyens of the Cajun scene Good Rockin’ Dopsie & The
Twisters.
Opening
with the robust accordion of the great Dopsie himself (Alton Rubin Sr.), and
thus linking the song to the Gumboots
accordion-based style which originally inspired the album, ‘That Was Your Mother’
is a jolly romp, sung by a father to his (implicitly grown-up) son, recalling
the circumstances in which the son’s parents met. The singer reminds his son
(whom he loves, despite his being “the burden of my generation” – a pun Simon
uses to great poetic effect) that, though he might now be a parental authority
figure, he was once a young man “standing on the corner of Lafayette” looking for some action. It is an
observation few children relish hearing or are capable of fully understanding.
It
is a mark of Simon’s maturity that he can use this subject, and in a song of
such danceable brio. (Irony is added by the presence in The Twisters’ line-up
of two of Dopsie’s own sons.) It is also remarkable that, in such a seemingly
simple song, he simultaneously takes the “child’s” position vis a vis a musical “parent” and pays
homage to Clifton Chenier, founding father of Cajun music and “the King of the
Bayou”.
ALL AROUND
THE WORLD or THE MYTH OF FINGERPRINTS
The
final song is perhaps the bleakest on the album. The second “American” track,
this time backed by the Tex-Mex stars Los Lobos, it also features the accordion
– David Hildago establishing a rocking tempo which, with the long and beautiful
“oo oo oo” vocal melody, belies the unvarnished grimness of the song’s lyrical
content.
If
the chorus is melancholy (the sun getting first “weary” and then “bloody”
before setting, the lack of any answer to the question “what’s a better thing
to do?” in “the black pit town”, and the universality of this condition “all
around the world”), then the verses positively drip with ennui. The first
verse, in the voice of the cynical, faded “former talk-show host”, defines “the
myth of fingerprints” – far from being unique, as criminologists affirm, “I’ve
seen them all and man, they’re all the same”. The second verse uses the image
of an army post – that it is abandoned only adds to the world-weary tone – as a
classic example of the crushing of individuality, in this case of the army’s
new recruits. The third verse largely repeats the first but, with no need to
repeat his definition of the myth, Simon ends with a bleak conclusion – “that’s
why we must learn to live alone”.
