Tag Archives: I Do It For Your Love

Still Crazy After All these Years – Paul Simon

It probably says a lot about me that I think this, but one of the greatest pleasures in being a music fan is having the opportunity to help a fellow fan find their way into a favourite artist’s body of work. Especially a long-standing favourite. It helps you hear their songs with fresh ears.

There’s no longer-standing favourite for me than Paul Simon. I’ve been listening to the man since I was about five years old. My parents had Greatest Hits Etc. on cassette and it accompanied virtually every long car journey we made. Why jazz harmony and songs about life as a divorced man in New York City should connect so strongly with a five-year-old British child is maybe a matter best left to a psychologist, but for whatever reason, Paul Simon became – and remains – my guy.

Mel asked me to put together a CD of Simon tunes she’d listened to on YouTube after I’d put Something So Right on a mix for her. This I did, but wanting to fill in the blanks and use up the remainder of the CD sent me scurrying back to my Simon albums, to hear these old songs as I imagined she might. I am, of course, knocked out by these songs all over again.

It’s the high points of Simon’s mid-seventies output that still hit me hardest: Something So Right, American Tune, Still Crazy After All these Years, I Do It For Your Love, 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover, Slip Slidin’ Away. They’re spread over several albums, rather than concentrated into one record. If you’re not a Simon obsessive, the records to get are his solo debut album (Paul Simon, written about here), Graceland and a good compilation to fill in the gaps (Greatest Hits Etc. was the best but is out of print – the double-CD Paul Simon Anthology will do in its stead). Simon rewards a conscientious compiler.

The question is, why? Was this stuff too complicated to be able to bash out 10 similar tracks for one LP in any abbreviated time frame? Did it take too long to write a Still Crazy After All these Years or an American Tune? Did he feel that to make a palatable album, he had to lighten things up with some faux gospel (Loves Me Like a Rock is terrific, by the way; Gone at Last is significantly less so). It’s hard to tell. But it’s interesting to me that, when I listen to the Still Crazy album, the gap between the peaks and troughs is fairly huge: Night Game comes off bathetic; Have a Good Time, which is elevated in the context of Greatest Hits Etc., sinks on the second side of Still Crazy

As dark, as idiosyncratic, as spotty, as Still Crazy After All These Years Was, it connected hard: it reached number one on the US Billboard Album Charts, it won the Grammy for Album of the Year in 1976, it went gold. But long term, it hasn’t been embraced as its more outward-looking peers in Simon’s discography have. It never went platinum in the US. That staggers me. Perhaps listeners realised that the best songs off the record were on the radio plenty and they didn’t need the album. Perhaps that CBS compilation did away with the need to have whole albums, despite not including My Little Town, the much-ballyhooed reunion with Art Garfunkel (better than it could have been, but more than a little out of place, sandwiched between Still Crazy and I Do It For Your Love – the muscularity of the drummer’s performance comes off rather startling).

I can’t help but feel Simon’s jazzy 1970s output will in time come to matter less and less in the reputation he has among younger fans; his career will likely be reduced to Bookends/Bridge Over Troubled Water and Graceland. Those sounds and arrangements are more copyable and are more copied by younger artists, allowing new fans a gateway to the original. And plenty of people my age and younger grew up with Graceland as their car-journey record. It’s a phenomenal album, as are Bookends and Troubled Water – don’t get me wrong for a second – but they have never left me gasping the way I Do it For Your Love or Slip Slidin’ Away do.

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Paul Simon, mid-seventies
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Everything Put Together Falls Apart – Paul Simon

As I have alluded to here before, I’ve been listening to Paul Simon since I was very young. Six or seven years old probably. My parents owned Greatest Hits, Etc. on cassette in the eighties, and it got played on long car journeys to relatives’ houses, probably more than any other tape we had. It sunk in, got inside me. What I loved most were the wonderful jazzy chord changes of songs like I Do It For Your Love and Still Crazy After All These Years (from Simon’s combover-and-moustache years), and the unknowably adult emotions that accompanied them. This was music I couldn’t fully comprehend and had to get the measure of slowly.

Nowadays, despite my love of the jazz harmony that underpinned Simon’s work between Still Crazy and Hearts and Bones, my favourite of his solo records is the first, Paul Simon, from early 1972. Its most well-known songs (Mother and Child Reunion, Duncan, Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard) are somewhat unrepresentative of the album’s mood as a whole. Take them away from the record and the remaining eight songs share a distinct character and feel – intimate, close-miked and alternating between metropolitan ennui and political anger, with occasional leavening moments of whimsy (‘Detroit, Detroit, got a hell of a hockey team’).

To be somewhat reductive for a moment, Paul Simon is Simon’s lo-fi album. The last Simon & Garfunkel album – the chart-conquering, record-breaking Bridge Over Troubled Water – was, Simon has suggested, difficult to make. As studio time mounted up (over 800 hours of it), disagreements surfaced (over the number of verses that Bridge Over Troubled Water should have – a debate Garfunkel, with his tendency towards the grandiose, won; over the inclusion of a song of Simon’s about Cuba and Nixon; over Garfunkel’s absenteeism while pursuing an acting career), and the pair did not make another record.

So while Simon had something to prove with his solo debut (to show that he was much more than just 50% of Simon & Garfunkel), he went about it in a way that was almost willfully low-key. If you’re going to make an album full of revealing, painful songs, possibly the best way is to do it matter-of-factly, without turning it into a big production. Duncan aside, Paul Simon is a small-scale, intimate experience, dry compared to the reverb-drenched Bridge, usually simple in arrangement and with mistakes and flubs left in.

The key moment comes in Everything Put Together Fall Apart, a short song that nevertheless modulates (sometimes semitonally) every couple of bars: a minute and twenty seconds in, Simon scratches his beard on microphone while singing the line ‘There’s nothing to it’. Such a thing happening on a Simon & Garfunkel record is unthinkable. Garfunkel wouldn’t have worn it, and in those days Simon wouldn’t have either. But after the protracted Bridge sessions, Simon was ready to make records differently. It’s a wonderfully human, magical moment; to break character, so to speak, in such a naked song, to look the audience straight in the eye and acknowledge the artifice of record-making, revealed a maturity that hadn’t been present on any S&G record, where everything (except possibly Cecilia) was done in dreadful earnest. It’s why listening to Paul Simon is never a heavy experience. It’s why it’s the most satisfying of any album that bears his name.

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Paul Simon