 Simon and Garfunkel This is a widely acknowledged classic album that is worth its hype, in my opinion easily Simon & Garfunkel's best album, and one of the situations with Art Garfunkel wherein he is not merely a punchline. It's an album that your parents probably loved, and their parents, and their parents. I remember my grandfather telling us how they used to gather 'round the Edison cylinder listening to the title song, and how that provided solace for a world torn by the effects of the bloody King Philip's War. An album that has been regarded as a classic for so long usually comes under serious fire from me for being one of the following: "tired," "overrated," "sissy music," "monkey kong," "jumpo jalopy," or "heekee reekee." However, even the gibberish caused by the microscopic parasites that are systematically devouring my brain could not do justice to how fine an album this remains, million after million a'copy sold. You'd be hard pressed to find a better Side 1, that much is clear. The album opens with "Bridge Over Troubled Water," which is audacious because it is such an epic. Usually a band will build up to that kind of song, but they go right into it, with Art Garfunkel's soaring, pristine vocal bringing out every nuance of Paul Simon's beautiful lyric. This is a song that caused Paul McCartney (he of the style-over-substance epic; see "Hey Jude") to sequester himself away at home for a week intentionally trying to out-write it – he came up with "Let it Be," which comparatively is about as plastic as the catheter I sometimes use recreationally when I'm feeling especially lazy. As perfect as "Bridge Over Troubled Water" is (and still is despite thousands of high school choirs each year doing their best to remove every last bit of pleasure from it), it's not even the best song on the album – that honor goes to "The Boxer," which normally would be ruled out on account of its having harmonica, but everything is in the right place to make this one gorgeous … even the harmonica serves a purpose, it pretty much plays the bass line. It's a hard instrument to feature prominently in any meaningful way (i.e. Alanis Morrissette using it as a means of getting a musician credit on her albums), but it's used very well here, not interfering with the seamlessly blended harmonies of Mr. Shorty and his tall feathery friend. And there is also: "El Condor Pasa," "Cecilia," "Keep the Customer Satisfied," and "So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright," probably the only song to successfully use the word "architects" in the chorus (besides my own "Architects and Archeologists," a 1972 bubblegum hit released under the name Dr. Funnybones and the Artless Brooklyn Dodgers, Inc."). With six consecutive songs like those it can only go downhill by comparison, and the Side 2 songs are quite a bit less immediate, but when you're smoking the sweet leaf in a college dorm, you won't mind. (I should point out that although my persistent marijuana references are getting more persistent, I am not advocating the use or abuse of that narcotic. It can only lead you down a dangerous path. I started with medicinal marijuana but less than a week later I was desperately trying to smoke my roommate's hemp pants; when those were gone, I tried to smoke a regular pair of Dockers, but that only resulted in hospitalization after the red-hot zipper scalded the roof of my mouth. Now I'm back to medicinal marijuana and the occasional recreational saline solution.) The remaining five songs, compared to the previous six, are surely secondary, from the corny "Baby Driver" to the cornier cover of "Bye Bye Love," a live version that by all accounts should provide charming levity to the album, but it's pretty much a throwaway track especially given the high-minded seriousness of the songs on the first side (besides, "Cecilia" already provided that "charming levity"). Yet these are not songs to write-off: "The Only Living Boy in New York" is a beautiful song, and "Song For the Asking" is a poignant closer. "Why Don't You Write Me" is memorable, if not killer. There's still a ton of reverb on the album (it was the late 60s after all), but mostly that creates some good atmosphere and fills in the space for the off-beat arrangements, which blend bluegrassy folk with South American rhythms. This is probably the best album Paul Simon has ever been a part of, which is saying something, since he's one of the most consistent performers out there, despite having apparently killed any desire Edie Brickell has to make another album. Perhaps he's got an enormous cock, fully half the size of his own body, and she just can't get enough of it. No, if that were the case then Cecilia wouldn't have replaced him as a lover when he got up to wash his face. Also, he wouldn't have been focusing so much thought on Frank Lloyd Wright in song, if he were satisfied with his own personal architecture. Well, at any rate this is a great album, even if Paul Simon has the most microscopic penis in the world, even tinier than the penises of the parasites attacking my brain and "forcing" me to say such naughty things.
Review by Hugo Early |