April 3, 1968--Capping a period of intense competition with The Beach Boys, The Beatles, and Bob Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel released their concept album Bookends, achieving a higher level of craftsmanship with several songs that become among the most covered of the rock era.
If you want to relive the turbulent days in which their LP appeared—and come away with a better understanding of one of the most talked-about love-hate relationships in music—you can’t do better than to read veteran deejay Pete Fornatale’s extended meditation, Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bookends”.
I grew up listening to Fornatale on the late lamented WNEW-FM, 102.7 FM on the dial—now occupied by some monstrosity called “Fresh” (until some program director who should be selling cornflakes instead of peddling music decides five minutes from now that the concept isn’t working). In time, I migrated, with thousands of other New York area listeners, to WFUV-FM—90.7, where he now does his “Mixed-Bag” program from 4 to 8 on Saturdays, along with an additional hour from 7 to 8 am on Sundays.
Through years of spinning records and interviewing the men and women who made the music—James Taylor, Peter Paul and Mary, Richie Havens, etc.—he can truly be said to have forgotten more about this great music than you and I and every friend we could ever put together have ever learned. I don’t know how he does it: there are days when I feel odd in every bone in my body, but he sounds, like the title of the Dylan classic, “forever young.”
I mention all this because you can’t ask for a better guide to the seminal music of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel. Fornatale’s voice on the page is much like he is on the radio: informed, warm, wry, relaxed, personal, addressing you directly (come to think of it, much like the ideal blogger should sound).
To be technical, the discussion of Bookends only takes up about 20 out of the 131 pages of this book. But the author concisely and masterfully lays out the duo’s background—the sources of their exquisite musical harmonies and personal ambivalence—and he makes a convincing case that in Bookends, Simon and Garfunkel were able to combine, perhaps at the only point in their partnership, time, resources and unity of purpose.
In prior albums, Simon and Garfunkel had been rushed into the studio to come up with follow-ups to hit singles. This time, given their extraordinary track record of success, they were allowed to take a then-unheard-of full year to come up with a follow-up album to Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme. (Though Columbia Records honcho Clive Davis couldn’t resist a Steinbrennerish “tough-love” session to get the boys to hurry up—only to have the duo secretly record every word he said.)
On the other hand, by the time they had finished their final LP, Bridge Over Troubled Water—more financially successful and, I would wager, more artistically adventurous—the pair’s quarrels had become so intense that the album came out with only 11 instead of the customary 12 songs, because the duo could not agree on the final number.
(Art wanted a Bach chorale; Paul, a blatant bit of agitprop called “Cuba Si, Nixon No.” I’ve never been accused of being remotely close to a Nixon fan, but given Castro’s horrendous human-rights record—which we’re going to hear a lot more of as soon as he goes the way of all flesh—I think Art had the better of the argument.)
But back to Bookends. Why does Fornatale call it, with considerable justification, “a once-in-a-career convergence of musical, personal, and societal forces that placed Simon and Garfunkel squarely at the center of the cultural zeitgeist of the sixties”?
Let’s start with that “societal” part. The album was released 24 hours before the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and its lyrics and musical textures seem at times to this listener to function as attempts at a separate peace within the larger, more clamorous culture. The opening song, “Save the Life of My Child,” ends on a disturbing line: “Oh, my Grace, I got no hiding place.”
Simon and Garfunkel used their newfound artistic freedom to exercise greater control over the shaping of their work. I didn’t realize this before reading the book, but “Save the Life of My Child” is not only probably the first example of sampling in a popular-music recording, but might also be the first song to use a synthesizer.
Yet the album also had its elements of serendipity, particularly as it related to “Mrs. Robinson.” Fornatale recounts a hilarious story about Simon’s cluelessness on just how potent a song he had on his hands.
Director Mike Nichols had been begging in vain for more new material (besides “Punky’s Dilemma,” which ended up not being filmed for the movie) for The Graduate. Simon put him off by saying he was too busy touring to compose anything, though he did have a couple of notes he’d been working on. “It’s not for the movie,” Simon explained. “It’s a song about times past—about Mrs. Roosevelt and Joe DiMaggio and stuff.” Nichols’ response: “It’s now about Mrs. Robinson, not Mrs. Roosevelt.”)
The album also included the majestic "America", "A Hazy Shade of Winter," "At the Zoo" (containing some of the cleverest lyrics Simon ever came up with), and a song that gains in poignancy with each passing year, "Old Friends."
This account made me think again about what we lost when Simon and Garfunkel broke up. Yes, they both had successful solo careers (Simon, of course, especially so). But their Everly Brothers-influenced harmonies were lost. (For an idea of what Garfunkel in particular might have accomplished with more Simon compositions, try to hunt down what Art offered last year on A&E’s Sunday morning “Breakfast With the Arts”: an extraordinarily moving rendition of “American Tune.”)
So by all means read this fond and knowing tribute to Simon and Garfunkel. Then play their CDs—especially the artful one discussed here—and recall why they moved you so in the first place so many years ago.
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