Tag Archives: 1968

14 – Simon & Garfunkel: America


Fifteen was a pretty awful age, and I hit the very bottom of it sometime in the spring of 1996. We’d just finished our Duke of Edinburgh’s Award practice expedition in the Yorkshire Dales. It had been trial by Trangia, a miserable weekend of petty squabbles and running jokes, usually at my expense. By the time our minibus got to Gargrave, I was conjuring up the smell of a roasting joint to get me through; I knew I would never curse home again. During a loo-stop at a service station, I found myself locked out of the coach in one of those fine drizzles common to Pennine parts, to a chorus of schoolboy laughter from inside. There appeared to be a human barricade at work; they were probably hoping for some kind of wig-out on my part. But I didn’t have the energy for fireworks. Bugger them, I thought, I won’t even bother to bang the windows. I’ll just sit on this bench here in my anorak, put my earphones in and listen to Simon and Garfunkel in defiance. I am a rock! I am an island!

Simon and Garfunkel were buttered muffin music for me as a teenager – comfort food to binge on. ‘I am a rock’ is every only child’s anthem, and was almost too true to be real when I was growing up: ‘hiding in my room, safe within my womb, I touch no-one and no-one touches me’. Yet despite the embittered, hermitic lyrics, the music has the rise and shine qualities of a Christian summer camp. It’s a morning mantra: none of your Nirvanic layabout lie-ins for Mr Simon. Nowadays I find it a little less affecting than of old. How can misanthropy be so perky? How come it sounds so much like a rolling stone? I am still loyal enough to ‘I am a rock’ to remind you its recording predates Dylan’s by a couple of months, but the days when I printed the lyrics and framed them on my wall are long gone. ‘Bridge over troubled water’ has suffered much the same fate. At one point it was almost my signature song. I played and sang it tremulously at birthday parties and other social occasions, mostly in a state of inebriation. It probably sounded like a bad X-factor audition, though my audience was usually just as sauced as me, and thus too drunk to notice. It’s one of those rare pop tunes that seem to predate the dark ages – a battle hymn for the downtrodden; but it’s a difficult listen, a song whose final verse almost drowns in its own tears.

Still, these are everyman songs that strike a chord with people of diverse generations and persuasions. Perverse as it may sound, I really think this translatability, this popularity, accounts for Paul Simon’s relatively humble position among the great singer-songwriters of the sixties and seventies. The rockerati understandably rush to Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell, poets and sages whose albums are often more obviously challenging to the listener. And of course they worship the graven image of Bob: poor Bob, the orts and fragments of his genius sacrificed to Dylanolatry, every scrap of doggerel scrutinised for mystical truths. Paul Simon, on the other hand, is too twee, or else too normal for such reverence. His singing voice always reminds me of a Sesame Street character. It’s sweet and innocent and trustworthy; you can imagine him penning little ditties about his favourite numbers and colours. I know this irritates some people. His whole persona, all t-shirts with jackets and white sneakers, says ‘I’m just a small man, with a small guitar, singing small songs about everyday things’. But at their finest, what songs! Can anyone resist ‘You can call me Al’, surely the most exciting pop hit of the mid eighties? It still sounds like joy. As for poetry, I’d venture that ‘For Emily, wherever I may find her’, with its gauzy talk of crinolines and organdie, is as gorgeous as any ‘Chelsea Morning’ or ‘Suzanne’. It’s also surprisingly otherworldly, though this is because Simon chooses to communicate its sentiments through the medium of Art. Indeed, watching old footage of Garfunkel at his peak, he seems to be just that: a medium. In clips of the duo, his transfixed, blink-free gaze is disconcerting to say the least; but his voice is a kind of enchantment, sprinkling fairy dust over Simon’s flower garden. ‘Scarborough Fair’ is their finest achievement in this regard; it’s like an antique shop coming alive, as if the harpsichords and music boxes are magically playing themselves after the premises have been locked.

Simon’s finest song is another miraculous fusion of the mundane and the magical. As paeans to the spirit of the USA go, ‘America’ is quite muted and modest.  It’s certainly no ‘Born to run’: these pilgrims are journeying to New York in a Greyhound bus, not the shiny, overheating Cadillacs of a thousand mythical road-trips. It’s the very opposite of brash. While it’s certainly in awe of America, there’s a nagging scepticism, a desire to keep it at arm’s length. The first two lines (two of the very best ever written) do just that: ‘let us be lovers, we’ll marry our fortunes together, / I’ve got some real estate here in my bag’. If there’s one thing I’ve gleaned from reading cases full of American novels, from The Grapes of Wrath to The Wizard of Oz and back again along the yellow brick road, it’s the dichotomous American relationship to home: it seems Americans are as obsessed with escaping their roots as planting them. Simon’s carrying acreage in his holdall, an ingenious way of saying he actually has no baggage at all. The fact that he communicates this through an image of property is everything: the twin impulses of settlement and flight are inextricable. What are Paul and Kathy fleeing? Saginaw, Michigan, memorably described by the poet Theodore Roethke as a place where bartenders ‘throw you through the front plate glass, / And then send you the bill’. Saginaw is clearly not America, but then is New York? At the end of the song, the arrangement becomes more excitable as the couple ‘count the cars on the New Jersey turnpike’: cymbals crash and the harmonies acquire an exotic burnish. The lovers don’t find America though. The lines only repeat. They – and we – are left looking, longing, hoping.

This may be Simon’s point, that we finally find America, and understand what it means to be an American, when we realise that there is no such place or person; or else that the most American thing of all is to yearn for a country that will never reach the perfection it has so manifestly set out to achieve since independence. This explains some of the pomp of the song’s finale, or at least those few bars before the folksy waltz resumes for the fadeout. It also lies behind the most anguished lines: ‘Kathy, I’m lost, I said, though I knew she was sleeping / I’m empty and aching, and I don’t know why’. But the rest of the track suggests that a different type of American sensibility may offer some consolation. The real America is the land of intimacies and unremarkable moments which form the true spine of the song, the pin-sharp flashes that Simon expresses with such lucidity and economy. Though I’ve never been on a Greyhound, I know the scene completely. I know the small talk interspersed with private thoughts, the long journey shared, the turning of the head to the window as the ‘moon [rises] over an open field’. I too have ‘play[ed] games with the faces’, inventing daft stories about fellow travellers to pass the hours. Who hasn’t? The music colludes with the lovers, and with us too; at around 1:38, the joke about the man in the gabardine suit being a spy is illustrated with a garrulous saxophone, aping the sound of co-conspirators tittering behind cupped hands. None of these experiences are especially unique to their journey, of course. But I can’t help thinking that this is the real America: a country in which they have the liberty to be normal. That’s what I love so much about the song. It finds gentle beauty in the most normal of actions and utterances. Perhaps this is why David Bowie’s rendition at the Concert for New York City after 9/11 was the most moving of the night. Skyscrapers tumble; the faces of those reflected in the glass, and the identities they project onto it, disappear in the debris. In the words of Philip Larkin, ‘what remains of us is love’. And love isn’t all fireworks and rainbows, is it? It’s raised eyebrows, comfortable silences, the ability to fall asleep next to somebody on the Greyhound without feeling self-conscious. None of us are rocks really, are we? Even if we think we are, we’re only surrounded by rocks of other shapes and sizes.

I’m pleased to report that I never again found myself locked out of a minibus. But I’ve taken many coach and train trips since 1996. Even if I’ve only wound up in Birmingham New Street, I too have looked for America. I too have unwrapped my sandwiches from the foil and dreamt. Duke of Edinburgh’s Award? Bah, a mere frippery in the margins of a university application form. Simon and Garfunkel? The soundtrack to my life, I guess. Home, where my thought’s escaping. Home, where my music’s playing. Home, where my love lies waiting, silently for me.



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8 – David Ackles: His Name is Andrew


In 7:8, my form class at comprehensive school, I was one of three Andrews. I was then one of four in my college year group (of around one hundred and twenty people in total). It seems that the early 1980s were a bumper time for Andrews; they jostled with Jameses, Thomases and Marks at the top of the table. I was therefore a bit taken aback at the most popular baby names survey in 2009. While James and Thomas were still right there in the top ten, Andrew didn’t even make the first hundred. My name has begun to date me; just as my dad’s Nigel marks him out as a baby-boomer, Andrew reduces me to ‘progeny of the Thatcher era’. Boo. Boo-hoo, in fact.

It’s not as if there are many exciting Andrews in history either. There’s the apostle, of course, and the patron saint of Scotland. But literature produces scant pickings. Andrew Marvell is a good one, but he’s a conspicuous exception (compare this woeful situation to that of my partner William – he has Shakespeare, Blake and Wordsworth as his guides). Not much from the other arts either. I have to look abroad for my mentors, and they’re an odd crew side by side: Andy Warhol, Andrei Rublev, the Andrés Gide and Breton. A healthy gamut of sacred to profane, I suppose. Present day Andrews are less encouraging. Aside from a few sportsmen (Andy Murray, Andrew Flintoff, who goes by the name of Freddie, for crying out loud), we have, er, Andrew Neil (damn), Prince Andrew (double damn) and Andrew Lloyd Webber (fucking hell). Deed poll seems quite attractive at this point. I’m not even celebrated in song. If I were a Daniel, I’d have Natasha Khan breathing sweetly in one ear and Elton John serenading me in the other (and if I were a sculptor…but then again, no). If I went by my middle name, Michael, I’d be a beautiful dance whore, according to Alex Kapranos. Blimey.

Argh, enough of these scenarios. Let’s confirm it once and for all. I work in a canning factory. I have no friends. And I’m having a spiritual crisis.

Such is life for the protagonist in David Ackles’ ‘His Name is Andrew’, which may yet be one of my funeral songs. When I first played it to my parents, after discovering Ackles through one of those ‘forgotten masterpieces’ features in Mojo magazine, they initially laughed at its grimness. It seemed portentous to them; Ackles’ intonation of my own name was morbid to the point of amusement. It chills me every time I hear it, though I’ve listened to it countless times now, and the initial novelty of hearing myself addressed is less potent than it once was. I’m more fascinated nowadays by Andrew’s everyman resonance. Ackles’ otherworldly prayer makes him archetypal, turning him into a kind of anonymous folk hero – an unknown soldier in humanity’s battle against its own apparent meaninglessness. His anonymity means that Ackles can only reveal the barest of details, though they are enough.  In fact, ‘His Name is Andrew’ is a very rare popular song indeed, one that confronts the void without flinching, yet achieves its greatness in what is omitted or only hinted.

We are offered mere snapshots of Andrew’s life. A happy, unquestioning child, living ‘in a world of innocence’, begins to doubt the possibility of divine love and grace as he grows older. His faith wavers, though he nevertheless imagines that God will still redeem him. While the drudgery of Monday compromises the devotions of Sunday, it may not always be thus; and so he finds himself stumbling through the thicket to a ‘lighted place’. However, on reaching it, he encounters not the light of Christ, but another kind of enlightenment altogether – the voice of a preacher in the trees whispering ‘God is dead’; ‘and he believe[s] him’. Lastly, the narrator comes clean, and drops his mask. ‘My name is Andrew’, he confesses, in a simple, breathtaking twist. ‘I work in a canning factory, / I do not have a friend, / I choose to wait alone for this life to end’. Up to this point, the song has been strophic in form. It’s one of the oldest musical structures, frequently found in folk music – most of Dylan’s material follows this standard, built around long, repeated verses rather than the more usual pop standby of verse-chorus-middle eight.  ‘His Name is Andrew’ concludes with a half-verse, a wispy coda fading out in irresolution. The cycle isn’t completed. How could it be, now that we know it is Andrew himself who sings? To finish the last verse would be to bow out, to bring down the curtain.

These lyrics turn away from the edge, though they know well what lies below it. But the song’s magnificence lies in the way they interact with the tense, tortuous melody and an arrangement that negotiates the knife-edge between numinous and satanic. Though the strophic form is simple, the chordal structure is anything but. Ackles takes us through a series of enharmonic false relations, modulations that pivot on one common note but move into only dimly related keys. All lives end on a precipice, but the route there is a convolution of concealed entrances and subterranean tunnels; it’s like Bach leading the blind.

‘His Name is Andrew’ isn’t interested in clearing a way for the listener, then. It wants us to grope our way to the altar, to sit at our orisons in the half-light. In fact, God never appears; his adversaries are strong and numerous. If you listen carefully each time Andrew waits ‘for his life to end’, you hear a dissonant organ chord darkening in the background. That’s a tritone, the mythical diabolus in musica; Satan hovers in the air. Meanwhile, the professions of faith in the song are actually suspensions of disbelief; literally – the chords do not resolve. Belief is only ever doubt held in temporary abeyance. The baroque organ instrumentals, with their swirling crescendos, almost break this impasse. As they reach the final suspension, we shiver apprehensively on that precipice. Will they resolve into a triumphal major chord, or a nightmarish minor? Is that an archangel materialising in the fug, or are we about to plunge into the heart of darkness? Will the epiphany be divine or diabolical? I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that these organ figures are a life spirit hoping to outrun fate. They are a shimmering burst of sound and fury. Signifying nothing? It would seem so. As we say goodbye to Andrew, the tritone returns, now accompanied by the toll of a bell. The canning factory is clocking off.

Music critics have long heard Jacques Brel in Ackles’ work. He’s certainly there, as is his American disciple, Scott Walker. But where Walker’s chocolatey baritone might force Andrew out of smalltown America and into the coffee houses of the Old World, Ackles’ priestly, almost puritanical delivery places him squarely in the pews of a plain clapboard chapel. Scott Walker’s deathly imaginings come from watching Bergman’s Seventh Seal. Ackles’s are far removed from Europe. His most admired album is American Gothic after all, a nod to the iconic Grant Wood painting. I’ve always seen more than a shadow of the devil’s trident in that pitchfork, and this is Andrew’s world, a fallen Eden where every symbol is double-edged: America itself, the America of Sleepy Hollow and the House of Usher. But it isn’t just a song about the Andrews Jackson and Carnegie; it’s for all Andrews across the world, regardless of root or branch.  It’s my favourite song about death, and therefore one of my favourite songs about life – that brief votive candle flickering in the wick, burning its illusory shadow into the walls.


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