What were they up to down by that schoolyard anyway?
In an interview he gave about five or six years ago, Paul Simon provided his opinion on the hierarchy of history’s greatest popular songwriters, which caused a bit of a stir, because, of course, everybody has highly emotional opinions on such things, despite most having no particular insight into the form, or any appreciation of the relevant criteria. Simon’s assessment – which, I think we can stipulate, is infinitely more valuable than anything liable to be posted by this or that random idiot on social media – was that of a purist, concerned only with the classic virtues of superior music composition, with no regard for the more superficial aspects of any songwriter’s popular appeal. Guaranteed, in other words, to piss everybody off.
A very select group, in his view, belonged in the most exclusive rank of the pantheon, and he wasn’t one of them. Tier 1 comprised George Gershwin, Irving Berlin, Richard Rodgers, Paul McCartney, and, surprisingly to some, Hank Williams. The second tier, by no means anybody’s idea of a collection of abject mediocrities, was populated by Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Stephen Sondheim, and, he hoped he could say without seeming to brag, himself.
Cue the indignant howls of self-styled musicologists all over the world, most of them nothing more than “I don’t have any particular credentials but I know what I like” ignoramuses, but many others with thoughtful arguments about, for example, the relative importance of melody vs. lyrics, whether a gift for chord progressions was as special as a genius for melody, and so on. Many suggested names that Simon hadn’t included, like Cole Porter, Brian Wilson, Ray Davies, and Pete Townshend, which was perfectly reasonable. One might also have queried the absence of Holland-Dozier-Holland, say, or Difford and Tilbrook. There’s so much to argue about, especially if you’re convinced that everything, when it comes to art, is subjective, and nobody’s opinion matters more than anybody else’s.
What interested me most was that Simon didn’t think he belonged in the topmost rank, and in that I don’t think he was affecting false modesty; I think he was quite sincere.
Was he short-changing himself? Maybe, yeah. Reasonable people can disagree, and I don’t suppose today’s offering, which lacks the enormous gravitas of masterworks like Homeward Bound, America, and Bridge Over Troubled Water, not to mention a score of latter day solo works like, say, African Skies, Darling Lorraine, or Obvious Child, could be cited as a reason to elevate Simon to the level of Gershwin et al. But damn, it sure is catchy, isn’t it? It sure does bring a smile to your face, right? Can anybody in a right frame of mind be wholly immune to its charms?
Not everything an artist produces is going to be One For The Ages, but there’s more than a little to be said for a tune that acts as an elixir to counteract gloomy thoughts and negative emotions, especially these days. I don’t see how it’s possible for anyone, no matter how miserably wallowing in the dumps – at least not anyone more or less free of crippling mental illness – to listen to Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard and remain every bit as dejected and grumpy as before. Nope. Nobody is that much of a sourpuss. The song’s just got to do something for you, even if the effect is only temporary. It’s the musical equivalent of watching a bunch of otters at play, or kittens wrestling with big balls of yarn. It’s like a measured dose of warm sunshine in a bottle marked with a label that says To be opened during periods of protracted gloom. It never gets old, and never sounds dated, even if it is, probably, about previously taboo behaviour that wouldn’t raise an eyebrow today. There’s always something that the self-designated upright folk are going to feel obligated to condemn, and that’s why this unassuming little gem will always feel relevant.
Besides which, just the whistling part in the middle eight could probably be proved to be more clinically effective than Prozac. Everybody should have a dose handy, just in case.
Which, I’d argue, qualifies it as One For The Ages after all.
the needlefish 