Still crazy about Paul Simon after all these years

When you’re an English major, you maintain this false aura of infallibility about your writing. I certainly know I experience it. You feel that if you can write an essay, then you can write a poem. If you can write a sonnet, then a press release can’t be too far off. You’ve received accolades on one specific mode of writing, say a rhetorical writing prompt, and you leap from it with the same confidence only Donald Trump must have to go out in public with that hair and try to run for president. Following this logic, I confess I am guilty of this syndrome. Today, with my undergraduate focus in post-Modern literature, I will attempt to write a concert review.

Last night, I went with my boss to see Paul Simon at the DAR Constitution Hall. Move over Arlo Guthrie—I’m here to argue that Paul Simon is the definition of Americana. He and his pal Artie from some decades past lifted the country’s spirits during Vietnam and relaxed us with sweet songs of bed-hopping Cecilia and Emily dressed in crinoline. While Paul Simon of today still embodies that melodious vibe of guitar, this concert was anything but relaxing.

I must confess I didn’t know much of Paul Simon’s newer music before the concert. One of his newer songs, “So Beautiful or So What” has a soulful, ironic tone that would have made O. Henry weep in creative jealousy. To me, it accurately depicts the human condition with the lines “Aint it strange the way we're ignorant/ How we seek out bad advice/ How we jigger it and figure it/ Mistaking value for the price”. Bravo Paul Simon, you’ve gotten me to self-loathe again in the most enjoyable way possible.

Paul  performed with seven to nine people at any time on stage with a variety of instruments. I definitely picked up on a very tribal, soulful feel from his songs and it sounded like a different Graceland than I remembered ripping from the CD years ago. Even one of my favorite classics of his, “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover” reminded me of a luau. Each player had various solos throughout the night and there was lively audience dancing and participation. I didn’t expect that and probably should have worn better dancing shoes if I expected Paul Simon to turn into a dance party. “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes” was especially energetic and the hordes of slightly older than middle aged Long Island Jews in my vicinity had serious moves.

Paul left for a brief break and came back to an encore of a solo acoustic “The Sound of Silence” that still gives me goose bumps when I think back on his performance. “Kodachrome” was lively and brought the audience to their feet once again. Surprisingly, Paul covered the Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun” to resounding applause. I wonder what Paul McCartney would think about this, but then I remember he has a young, hot fiancé to occupy him. I had to leave before he finished his set, but if they were anything like the rest of his songs, I know that it would not be a disappointment.

Overall, I have to admit that Paul Simon exuded a very palpable energy to the crowd. I attribute this not just to his lore as an amazing singer and songwriter, but to his spectacular musical cohorts and stunning visual displays. While I’ve never seen him in concert before, it was to me a different Paul Simon than I’m used to on my iPod playlist. If you expected a chill, folksy concert, this wasn’t it. While I didn’t smoke any J’s, when I come back to the room, everybody just seemed to move, and Paul just turned my amp up loud and began to play. It was late in the evening, and he blew the Constitution Hall away.

Edit:

The worst part of a concert is trying to hold onto that magical, musical feeling after you leave the venue. Luckily, when your roommate is himself magical and musical, this concern is no longer valid. I came home from the DAR and was greeted by the dulcet bluegrass tones of Alex on our back porch, jamming with his buddies Russ and Pierce. I wanted to establish my music street cred, so I started to brag about the concert. They all were inspired, either by my excellent descriptions, the sheer name drop of Paul Simon or the beer, and thus the concert was brought back. It started with the recognizable strumming of ‘The Boxer’. After an extended round of ‘la la la’s, Pierce broke off into my favorite Paul Simon tune, ‘Duncan’. I relate to this one because of its glorification of New England and losing your virginity in the woods. Just kidding Mom. The jam moved on to ‘America’, and some other songs from Bookends. Here was the steady, calming Paul Simon (with a sprinkle of Garfunkel) that I love. It was what I was used to, and while the concert was dazzling, a jam session among friends really makes you feel at home. Time it was, oh what a time it was.  

“I’m with the band”—The one phrase I never thought I’d say in my life

That centuries-old adage is true: Drunken words are just sober thoughts. A couple of months ago, I went to my friend Jeff’s band play at a Mexican restaurant in Burtonsville. Even before I got there, I knew it was going to be a solid night. The promise of Coronas and good rock music enticed me. I got their early and started immediately on one of my enticements-Corona. And kept enjoying. I was nursing a healthy buzz and a raging hard on for live music by the time Over Socialized hit the stage.

I remember them playing all of my favorite songs and since I am an phenomenal singer using a salt shaker as a microphone, I decided to sing along. One song would change everything. Jeff and Cliff started to play one of my favorites, the White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army”. Those of you who know me super well will recall me singing the shit out of it on Rock Band, in the shower and while jumping on my bed into a hair brush. I’m pretty badass. Anyways, when the band had finished their set, I went up to Jeff and with the confidence of a pack of lions and six pack of beer, told him I wanted to sing that song at their next gig. Lo and behold, about two weeks ago, I get a Facebook message from Jeff asking me if I was serious because they have a show in the beginning of June.

Let’s pause for a second here. I have a pretty terrible voice. While I certainly have other lovely genetic gifts, my parents plagued me with bad vocal genes on both sides of the family. I come from a dynasty of Rabbis, not chazzanim. Still, I love music. I’ve always wanted to be a big singer in my dreams because I’m always singing, despite the protests of everyone. This is probably the best, least pressure way to do part of my dream.  So I said yes.

I had my first band practice on Tuesday and was greeted with the most chivalrous way by Cliff—a shot of whiskey., I was also greeted by multiple sexy pin-up girls on the wall. Not a bad place. We all made our way down to the basement and it looked just how I envisioned a typical band practice to look—drums, basses, guitars and a hot poster of Carmen Electra.

I’m kind of a newbie when it comes to this stuff, so imagine my thrill when I saw more than one amp in a room. I’ve never even sung into a real microphone like this before, except at karaoke. I was a bit nervous at first, but after working out timing and things like breaks and riffs (new words for me), I got the hang of it. I can’t really change my key ever, besides the fact I think going higher means getting louder. I lose my keys all the time in real life. Actually, my singing is a lot like my driving—out of control, hazardous to others, but ultimately hasn’t killed anyone, yet.

We jammed for a couple more hours, and I had a blast. I found that my knowledge of random Beatles lyrics didn’t let me down, and I might be singing in other songs than my White Stripes anthem. You won’t get spoilers from me! I enjoyed my halfsie of whiskey but really enjoyed the fact that I was rocking out, for real, with cool guys. I’m inviting you all to come out and see me, June 3^rd at Chapala’s in Burtonsville.  The Facebook event is below. Plus, I’ll probably be buying rounds for everyone because if you’re drunk, I’ll sound that much better. Maybe I’ll try out for American Idol after this. You do know how much I love Ryan Seacrest!

https://www.facebook.com/#!/event.php?eid=224959614188166

Am I really supposed to feel bad Osama’s gone? Really?

For the past couple of days, yours truly got bested by something she swore she never believed in—germs. Sadly, their existence is waging a war against me and while I have tried to defiantly fight them with King of the Hill marathons, an assortment of high fiber granola bars and Penny snuggle fests on the couch, it turns out the best course of action in antibiotics. Damn you western medicine. At least I got the ‘one size fits all’ antibiotic, so chlamydia, if I have you, consider yourself cured. How’s that for a win win?

The one thing that disrupted my three-toed sloth sleep schedule for the past couple of days was the Osama bin Laden’s death. I checked my Facebook blearily Sunday night at 10:30 to see a status update that read “Holy shit, Osama’s dead!”. Nothing wakes me up harder than a headline like that, besides the first day of ski season. So, I tracked it online and saw that it was indeed true. I waited for an hour to hear Obama’s statement, and as brief as it was, I felt a happy and giddy sensation. Like there was finally some justice in this world. Well, whatever, Obama said it better than me.

And so I followed it more on Monday. I got to learn all about Osama’s compound in Pakistan, the operation US soldiers (and maybe Pakistani officials??) took to find and kill him and the woman he used as a human shield. Then, I check back to Facebook for a diversion and to play some WordTwist. I’m not calling anyone out, but some of the posts on my Newsfeed were admonishing people who ‘supported the circle of murder’ and that we should never rejoice in death. Yeah, I hate the death penalty. Yes, I even save the lives of insects. But you know what, I’m not going to be accosted via social networking to change my feelings. And here’s why.

I can't apologize for my finding of solace in the death of a person who literally rejoiced in the deaths of thousands of Americans. Osama bin Laden hated everyone who lives in America. No, that’s not true—he hates you if you live anywhere or acted in any way that isn’t his perfect idea of how humans should act and live. I never say the word hate and mean it, but this time I really hate what Osama’s done to our world. He’s made the peaceful religion of Islam feared and prejudiced by the world. His efforts have marginalized a religious people and brainwashed some into more violence, without any regard for them as individuals. His agenda has made us distrust our neighbors and caused not only the deaths directly affected by his terrorist actions, but also the thousands of deaths of armed forces who only wanted to support their country and its values.

Am I supposed to be sorry that he’s dead? I hate death but I love justice more. Gandhi says ‘An eye for an eye and the whole world goes blind’ but that only works if your opponent is a human being. Anyone who can exact that much terrorism and spread that much violence doesn’t deserve anything less than he got.

I don’t recall anyone telling Americans in the 1940s to feel sorry when Hitler died. If you want to feel sympathy for Osama’s death, why don’t you try feeling sympathy for each and every victim and their family members of his terrorist exploits. Don’t look at just 9/11 but also the embassy bombings in Kenya, the deaths at the USS Cole and so many others, including deaths of his own people. If you still can feel sorry for him dying after all of that, then be my guest, try to make me guilty too.