Hot Topics
…in the music world, anyway
Creativity
“Songs didn’t get here by themselves.”
- Bob Dylan
Global Music
A bigger picture…
Global Music
colonization resulted in mixed musical cultures
recording technology
spreads mixed musical cultures
brings new influences to those cultures
gives listeners access to a wide variety
4
4
GM: Isicathamiya
South African musical tradition
all-male a cappella song style
developed by Zulu-speaking migrant laborers
now familiar worldwide
5
5
GM: Complex International Roots
native traditions
choral polyphony
influence of missionaries
four-part harmony, Christian hymns
American vaudeville and minstrel shows
syncopated ragtime
6
6
GM: Solomon Linda and the Evening Birds
first recording stars of Zulu scene
a mix of African, European, and African American roots
“Mbube” (“Lion”), 1939
Pete Seeger, “Wimoweh,” 1952
The Tokens, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” 1961
featured in Disney’s The Lion King, 1994
used in McDonald’s commercials with promotional tie-in
7
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X3rWuxqx5cc
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZgI4DdINQLQ
7
GM: Paul Simon – Graceland & Apartheid
Brief explanation at beginning:
http://www.rollingstone.com/music/features/paul-simons-graceland-10-things-you-didnt-know-w435711
Detailed explanation (Aug. 2016)
https://consequenceofsound.net/2016/08/paul-simons-graceland-turns-30-a-bridge-over-troubled-waters/
“Can an artist ever connect exclusively with the art of a less privileged culture, or does the very nature of the difference in privilege and politics define the interaction in some way?”
GM: Think about it…
Consider Paul Simon and Dali Tambo’s positions.
Understand each position.
What do YOU think?
What’s the difference between “cultural appropriation” & musicians/composers being ‘influenced’ or ‘inspired’ by new sounds/songs/other artists & “borrowing” their style?
“Can an artist ever connect exclusively with the art of a less privileged culture, or does the very nature of the difference in privilege and politics define the interaction in some way?”
Is there a solution, resolution or standard?
Global Perspectives
Global Music:
South African
1
Key Terms
homogenization
reggae
localization
isicathamiya
a cappella
choral declamation
call and response
2
2
Global Music
colonization resulted in mixed musical cultures
recording technology
spreads mixed musical cultures
brings new influences to those cultures
gives listeners access to a wide variety
3
3
Complexities of Globalism
two opposing tendencies
homogenization
adopting similar basic features, especially from African American music
localization
creating distinct local idioms from foreign music styles
4
4
Isicathamiya
South African musical tradition
all-male a cappella song style
developed by Zulu-speaking migrant laborers
now familiar worldwide
5
5
Complex International Roots
native traditions
choral polyphony
influence of mission ...
Measures of Dispersion and Variability: Range, QD, AD and SD
Hot Topics…in the music world, anyway
1. Hot Topics
…in the music world, anyway
Creativity
“Songs didn’t get here by themselves.”
- Bob Dylan
Global Music
A bigger picture…
2. Global Music
colonization resulted in mixed musical cultures
recording technology
spreads mixed musical cultures
brings new influences to those cultures
gives listeners access to a wide variety
4
4
GM: Isicathamiya
South African musical tradition
all-male a cappella song style
developed by Zulu-speaking migrant laborers
now familiar worldwide
5
5
GM: Complex International Roots
native traditions
choral polyphony
influence of missionaries
four-part harmony, Christian hymns
American vaudeville and minstrel shows
3. syncopated ragtime
6
6
GM: Solomon Linda and the Evening Birds
first recording stars of Zulu scene
a mix of African, European, and African American roots
“Mbube” (“Lion”), 1939
Pete Seeger, “Wimoweh,” 1952
The Tokens, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” 1961
featured in Disney’s The Lion King, 1994
used in McDonald’s commercials with promotional tie-in
7
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X3rWuxqx5cc
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZgI4DdINQLQ
7
GM: Paul Simon – Graceland & Apartheid
Brief explanation at beginning:
http://www.rollingstone.com/music/features/paul-simons-
graceland-10-things-you-didnt-know-w435711
Detailed explanation (Aug. 2016)
https://consequenceofsound.net/2016/08/paul-simons-graceland-
4. turns-30-a-bridge-over-troubled-waters/
“Can an artist ever connect exclusively with the art of a less
privileged culture, or does the very nature of the difference in
privilege and politics define the interaction in some way?”
GM: Think about it…
Consider Paul Simon and Dali Tambo’s positions.
Understand each position.
What do YOU think?
What’s the difference between “cultural appropriation” &
musicians/composers being ‘influenced’ or ‘inspired’ by new
sounds/songs/other artists & “borrowing” their style?
“Can an artist ever connect exclusively with the art of a less
privileged culture, or does the very nature of the difference in
privilege and politics define the interaction in some way?”
Is there a solution, resolution or standard?
Global Perspectives
Global Music:
South African
1
5. Key Terms
homogenization
reggae
localization
isicathamiya
a cappella
choral declamation
call and response
2
2
Global Music
colonization resulted in mixed musical cultures
recording technology
spreads mixed musical cultures
brings new influences to those cultures
gives listeners access to a wide variety
3
3
Complexities of Globalism
two opposing tendencies
homogenization
adopting similar basic features, especially from African
American music
localization
creating distinct local idioms from foreign music styles
4
6. 4
Isicathamiya
South African musical tradition
all-male a cappella song style
developed by Zulu-speaking migrant laborers
now familiar worldwide
5
5
Complex International Roots
native traditions
choral polyphony
influence of missionaries
four-part harmony, Christian hymns
American vaudeville and minstrel shows
syncopated ragtime
6
6
Solomon Linda and the Evening Birds
first recording stars of Zulu scene
“Mbube” (“Lion”), 1939
Pete Seeger, “Wimoweh,” 1952
7. The Tokens, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” 1961
featured in Disney’s The Lion King, 1994
used in McDonald’s commercials with promotional tie-in
7
7
More Complexities of Globalism
“Mbube” first recorded in Africa 70 years ago
a mix of African, European, and African American roots
remade by Disney, a multinational corporation
exploited by another multinational corporation to sell
hamburgers!
8
8
Solomon Linda, “Anoku Gonda”
uses two isicathamiya styles
free choral declamation at first
homophonic, no clear meter
a a b b a a
slides in all voices from high to low
switches to call-and-response
takes on clear meter
Linda against chorus; then basses against chorus
9
8. 9
Rolling Stone:
https://www.rollingstone.com/music/features/paul-simons-
graceland-10-things-you-didnt-know-w435711 (brief video
recap online)
Paul Simon's 'Graceland': 10 Things You Didn't Know
How singer-songwriter's landmark LP set off an international
firestorm
NOW PLAYING
Paul Simon's 'Graceland': 10 Things You Didn't Know
Closed Captions
Read little-known facts about the making of Paul Simon's
controversial 1986 masterpiece 'Graceland.'
By Jordan Runtagh
August 25, 2016
Paul Simon's joyous, vibrant Graceland, released 30 years ago
today, remains one of the most beloved albums in pop history.
And also one the most controversial. Simon had ventured to
South Africa to record the album with local musicians, ignoring
an international boycott set in place by the United Nations Anti -
Apartheid Committee. "What gives [governments] the right to
wear the cloak of morality?" he railed at the time. "Their
morality comes out of the barrel of a gun."
Though striving to make art that transcended politics, Simon
quickly found himself at the center of a dire human-rights
crisis. To some he represented a rebellious hero taking a stand
against bureaucracy and totalitarian regimes; to others he was a
naïve fool who undermined the anti-apartheid cause. Still more
felt he was a little more than a common thief. "The intensity of
the criticism really did surprise me," he reflected years later.
"Part of the criticism was 'Here's this white guy from New
York, and he ripped off these poor innocent guys.'"
The fundamental debate hinges on a double-pronged query: Was
9. Simon right in breaking the boycott, and did he have the right to
make the album at all?
The latter question is made more complicated by the passage of
time. Terms like "cultural appropriation" barely existed when
Graceland was recorded. Whether you call it "borrowing,"
"paying homage to," "riffing on" or "stealing," white artists had
been incorporating traditionally black music into their work for
most of the 20th century. But Graceland was groundbreaking for
wearing its influence for all to see. South African musicians and
singers were invited to share the spotlight with Simon, giving
many of them mainstream international exposure for the first
time. Still, some elements of the project remain problematic.
Famed South African trombonist and anti-apartheid activist
Jonas Gwangwa summed up the thoughts of countless black
artists when confronted with Graceland's success: "So, it has
taken another white man to discover my people?" Simon's
insistence that the album was a true collaboration is arguable,
but at the very least Graceland provided a platform to a group
who were legally prohibited from participating on an
international stage.
There are many who would argue that the South Africa cultural
boycott was a deeply flawed strategy that did more harm than
good for the black population it was put in place to support.
This view was shared by practically all of the musicians who
played with Simon on Graceland. "In South Africa, we had no
opportunity," recalled saxophonist Barney Rachabane in 2012,
"You could have dreams, but they never come true. It really
destroys you. But Graceland opened my eyes and set a tone of
hope in my life."
Yet this uplifting revelation is countered by Dali Tambo,
founder of Artists Against Apartheid, who felt that Simon put
the showbiz ambitions of a handful of local musicians above the
struggles of a nation. "We were fighting for our land, for our
identity," he told The New York Times. "We had a job to do,
and it was a serious job. And we saw Paul Simon coming as a
threat because it was not sanctioned ... by the liberation
10. movement."
The Graceland saga is a tale of black, white and a sprawling
gray area. As the album turns 30, here is the story of its
creation as told through 10 little-known facts.
1. Saturday Night Live creator Lorne Michaels was the patron
saint of Graceland.
A wealth of underrepresented people and cultures contributed to
the innovative music Simon made on his 1986 masterwork, but
there's one figure who seldom gets recognized for his role in the
Graceland odyssey. Surprisingly, the album probably never
would have happened without television titan Lorne Michaels.
In 1980 Michaels moved on from Saturday Night Live, the
landmark comedy series that he helped create. His next project,
aptly titled The New Show, failed to connect with viewers and
ran for just nine episodes before being cancelled in the spring of
1984. A short time later he received a visit from the defunct
show's bandleader, Heidi Berg, who bad been lured away from
her prior role in the SNL band. When Berg inquired about
possible music opportunities, Michaels suggested she visit his
good friend Paul Simon, who kept his offices just down the hall
in New York City's Brill Building. It was Berg who would
introduce Simon to the sounds of South Africa.
Two years later, after Michaels had returned to produce SNL
during the show's 11th season, he invited Simon to perform
tracks from the yet-to-be-released Graceland. Backed by his
South African band and the Zulu choir Ladysmith Black
Mambazo, the memorable appearance on May 10th, 1986, gave
the public its first sample of Simon's new sonic stew. In the
2012 documentary Under African Skies, Michaels referred to
the occasion as "a revolution in taste" in the United States. "It
was the synthesis of two cultures, and the obvious affection
they had for Paul, and that Paul had for them. It was the perfect
moment." What's more, it set the scene for recording one of
Graceland's standout tracks, "Diamonds on the Soles of Her
Shoes."
Simon also used the time on SNL's Rockefeller Center stage to
11. film a music video for the album's first single, "You Can Call
Me Al," but he was ultimately displeased with the result.
Michaels alluded to this when hanging out with old friend (and
former leading man) Chevy Chase. "Paul had a test pressing of
the album and Lorne Michaels had a copy at his summer house,"
said Chase in Laura Jackson's book Paul Simon: The Definitive
Biography. "We all live out in Long Island in the East Hampton
area and Lorne said, 'Have you heard it?' I said, 'I hadn't yet.'
He said, 'It's great.' And Lorne played a couple of songs for me
and then told me, 'Paul's unhappy with this [first] video. Why
don't you do something?'"
The video of Chase ferociously lip-syncing "You Can Call Me
Al" became a mainstay on a budding MTV, no doubt
contributing to the song's enormous success.
2. It all started with a mysterious bootleg cassette tape.
When Heidi Berg took Lorne Michaels' advice and ventured
down the hallway to Paul Simon's office, she couldn't have
realized that they had more in common than music. Both were at
a professional crossroads. While Berg was newly unemployed,
Simon had been at a low ebb for years.
After dominating the Seventies with a string of critical and
commercial hits, he entered the new decade with One Trick
Pony, a film written by and starring himself, plus an
accompanying soundtrack. Neither made much of an impact. His
fortunes improved during a Simon and Garfunkel reunion tour,
but relations between the old friends were tenuous and a
proposed album fell through. When the solo disc Hearts and
Bones – filled with allusions to his troubled relationship with
actress Carrie Fisher – was released in its place, it was the
lowest charting record of his career. By the spring of 1984, he
was wondering what to do next.
The answer arrived in the form of the young singer-songwriter
standing at his office door. Having been briefed by Michaels,
Simon asked to hear some of Berg's songs. He found himself
impressed by the music, and soon offered to produce an album
for her. They met frequently at Simon's Central Park West
12. apartment, where Berg would play fragments of songs and
discuss how she wanted the record to sound. For reference, she
handed her soon-to-be producer a homemade cassette bearing
the hand-written label "Accordion Jive Vol. II."
Berg had come across the tape, a collection of South African
pop bands, while cruising New York City in a friend's car. It
was mbaqanga, or 'township jive,' street music from Soweto, a
poor black suburb on the outskirts of Johannesburg. She was
enthralled by the sunny sounds of accordions, saxophones,
jangly guitars and supercharged rhythms, and it quickly became
her favorite music. She lent the cassette to Simon, on the
condition that she could have it back in a week. It was, after all,
her most treasured tape.
It would take a few days before he listened. At the time he was
making regular drives from Manhattan to the East Hampton
town of Montauk to supervise construction on his beach house
being built a short distance from Lorne Michaels' summer
residence. One day, to liven up the journey, he popped in the
tape. Just like Berg, he was bewitched.
"It was very good summer music, happy music. It sounded like
very early rock & roll to me, black, urban, mid-Fifties rock and
roll, like the great Atlantic tracks from that period," he
remembered. "I was listening to it for fun for at least a month
before I started to make up melodies over it. Even then I wasn't
making them up for the purpose of writing. I was just singing
along with the tape, the way people do."
Aside from the nondescript title, the tape bore no hint of the
music's origins. He knew it came from South Africa, but to
Simon that might as well have been another planet. "After a
couple of weeks of driving back and forth to the house and
listening to the tape, I thought, 'What is this tape? This is my
favorite tape, I wonder who this band is.' And that's when things
started to perk up."
He called Warner Bros. label chief Lenny Waronker, who got in
touch with South African producer Hilton Rosenthal. Despite
the limited information, Rosenthal was able to peg Simon's
13. favorite track as an instrumental called "Gumboots" by the
Boyoyo Boys. Simon spoke excitedly of buying the rights to the
song and putting his own melody and lyrics overtop, as he had
done with an Andean folk song for the Simon and Garfunkel
tune "El Condor Pasa." But Rosenthal suggested that Simon
record a full album of South African music. Simon liked this
idea very much.
Unfortunately, Berg did not. Weeks went by and her prized tape
had still not been returned. Though Simon was touring through
much of the summer of 1984, she got the distinct feeling that he
was avoiding her. When they finally connected backstage at one
of his shows, Simon told her about his plan to record a whole
album of mbaqanga sounds. According to an interview with
Peter Ames Carlin for his upcoming book Homeward Bound,
Berg extended her palm and angrily exclaimed, "Where's my
end?" Their working relationship deteriorated shortly after.
3. Simon entered the studio without a having single song
prepared.
When Paul Simon heard music that sent his spirit soaring, he
was not content to approximate the sound with session pros and
studio tricks. Instead, he wanted the very same hands to play on
his records. Two decades of pop music superstardom had given
him license to make a number of musical field trips. When he
wished to explore the emerging reggae genre on his 1972 track
"Mother and Child Reunion," he traveled to Kingston, Jamaica,
to record in the famed Dynamic Sound Studios. When he sought
to add an extra dose of funk to the album that would become
There Goes Rhymin' Simon the following year, he decamped to
Alabama and hired the services of the Muscle Schoals Sound
Rhythm Section. "I learned pretty early on if you want to get
the music right you should probably travel to where it's being
played as opposed to asking musicians who are not familiar with
it to copy it," he told National Geographic in 2012.
To get the sounds he heard on the bootleg "Accordion Jive"
tape, he knew he would have to go to South Africa. "At first I
thought: it's too bad [the tape] isn't from Zimbabwe or Zaire or
14. Nigeria," he said. "Because life would be simpler."
"Simpler" would be an understatement. Recording in South
Africa in the mid-Eighties was not only dangerous – it was
prohibited by the United Nations. The South African
government had been globally condemned for the unjust and
immoral practice of apartheid (or "separateness") that ensured
white minority rule and stripped black individuals of their
rights and citizenship. In December 1980, the U.N. General
Assembly passed resolution 35/206, which forced "all states to
prevent all cultural, academic, sporting and other exchanges
with South Africa" and ordered "writers, artists, musicians and
other personalities to boycott" the nation. Even working with
South African players elsewhere in the world was forbidden.
Paul Simon refused to be told what to do – by the U.N. or
anybody else. The headstrong artist would record where he
wanted, with whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
Determined to chase his muse, he resolved to venture to South
Africa whether the politicians liked it or not. "I knew I would
be criticized if I went, even though I wasn't going to record for
the government … or to perform for segregated audiences," he
told The New York Times. "I was following my musical
instincts in wanting to work with people whose music I greatly
admired."
He sought the advice of Quincy Jones and Harry Belafonte,
whose reputations as civil-rights activists rivaled their
prodigious musical output. Both encouraged Simon, but
Belafonte urged him to pause until he could speak to contacts in
the African National Congress, South Africa's anti-apartheid
opposition party that had been led by Nelson Mandela before his
imprisonment in 1964. But Simon was far too excited to wait.
"It's like having your dad tell you not to take the car on a date
you really want to go on," he admitted in Under African Skies.
"You take the car anyway."
Accompanied only by longtime engineer Roy Halee, Simon
arrived in early February 1986, less than a year after first
hearing the music. With Hilton Rosenthal on hand to bridge the
15. cultural gap, they holed up in Johannesburg's Ovation Studios
and called in a steady stream of local musicians. Instead of
having a specific song in mind, Simon just wanted to play and
see what happened.
"My typical style of songwriting in the past [had] been to sit
with a guitar and write a song, finish it, go into the studio, book
the musicians, lay out the song and the chords, and then try to
make a track," Simon said in a New York Times profile. "With
these musicians, I was doing it the other way around. The tracks
preceded the songs. We worked improvisationally. While a
group was playing in the studio I would sing melodies and
words – anything that fit the scale they were playing in."
Rosenthal contacted many of the bands who were heard on the
"Accordion Jive" tape. The band Tau ea Matsehka gave "The
Boy In the Bubble" its urgent beat, while General M.D. Shirinda
and the Gaza Sisters provided the distinctive backing to "I
Know What I Know." The Boyoyo Boys ran through a blistering
version of their own "Gumboots," the unofficial theme song of
the project. With Simon as an active participant, they would
engage in lengthy, unstructured jam sessions as a way to get to
know one another, and potentially stumble across a usable idea
for a song. "Here we were going in there with nothing on
paper," recounts Halee in Under African Skies. "It was an idea,
a concept. I know they thought we were both nuts."
By the second week of recording, Simon and Halee had homed
in on a core group of musicians to form the backbone of the
Graceland players: Chikapa "Ray" Phiri of the band Stimela on
guitar, Tao Ea Matsekha bassist Bakithi Kumalo and Stimela's
Isaac Mthsli on drums. With a revolving cast of locally famous
musicians from nearby Soweto, the jams continued. "It was a
concept of getting good grooves and coming back and re-writing
it. There was nothing really written," continues Halee. "It was a
gamble, I guess."
Simon, the consummate perfectionist, took the approach of
letting go, leaning back and letting the spirit move him.
"Instead of resisting what's going on, I'll go with it and I'll be
16. carried along and I'll find out where we're going. Instead of
assuming that I'm the captain of the ship, I'm not; I'm just a
passenger."
In just under two weeks, he had the raw music for eight tracks
from which he could tease out usable riffs and instrumental
passages to manipulate at will. The technique was not unlike a
modern hip-hop producer chopping pre-existing songs to create
new beats. "The amount of editing that went into that album was
unbelievable," says Halee. "Without the facility to edit digital I
don't think we could have done that project." With everything in
the can, Simon returned home to Montauk to piece it all
together and compose lyrics.
4. The evils of apartheid could be felt in the recording studio.
Simon went to great lengths to ensure that his South African
musical colleagues were treated as equals throughout the
sessions. He offered the band almost $200 dollars an hour –
triple the scale wages for top players in New York City – at a
time when the going rate in Johannesburg was around $15 a day.
Moreover, he promised to share writing credits for any musical
or lyrical input. The deal was fair enough that the justifiably
suspicious South African black musician's union passed a
resolution to formally invite Simon to record in their country.
When sessions were shifted to New York City and London, the
maestro made sure his musicians flew first class, stayed at the
top rate hotels, and dined in five-star restaurants.
While Simon's recording sessions in the rest of the world were
generally cheerful and relaxed, the early dates in Johannesburg
had an undeniable edge. "There was a surface tranquility, but
right below the surface there was all this tension," Si mon told
Rolling Stone in 1986. "For instance, we would begin recording
sessions at noon, and we would stop when we got a finished
track. So a session could go past dark. But once it gets past
dark, the musicians have to figure out a way home. They
couldn't use public transportation. They are not allowed to be
on the streets of Johannesburg after curfew. They would have to
show papers, and it was something they clearly didn't want to
17. have to do. So always around six or seven o'clock, there would
be an uncomfortable time when the players couldn't concentrate
until they knew there might be a car to take them home."
In a 2012 interview with NPR, he recalled a particularly
distressing incident from an early recording date. "I was putting
a saxophone on 'Gumboots' with Barney Rachabane and I
wanted him to play a harmony to a part that he wrote. He said, 'I
have to go. I have to be out of the garage by five o'clock
because I don't have a permit to be in Johannesburg after five
o'clock. And if I don't have a permit, I could be arrested.' So in
the middle of the euphoric feeling in the studio, you would have
reminders that you're living in incredibly tense racial
environment, where the law of the land was apartheid."
5. "You Can Call Me Al" got its title from a misunderstanding
at a party – and its bass solo is technically impossible to play.
While the irresistible riff came flowing out of Ray Phiri's guitar
one day in Ovation Studios, the inscrutable lyrics of "You Can
Call Me Al" stemmed from an incident that took place at a party
Simon had attended years before with his then-wife, Peggy
Harper. During the evening they had chatted with fellow guest
Pierre Boulez, the French composer and conductor. As Boulez
prepared to make his exit, he tapped Simon on the shoulder.
"Sorry I have to leave, Al," he said with utmost civility. "And
give my best to Betty."
Simon found the faux pas extremely funny. "Ever since then,
Peggy would call me Al, and I would call her Betty," he said
years later during a seminar at Rollins College. "It became a
running joke." When penning lyrics for Phiri's riff back in
Montauk, he remembered the moment.
While the story helps demystify the perplexing lyrical content,
the song's stunning bass breakdown continues to dazzle. It was
performed by Baghiti Khumalo on May 10th, 1986 – his
birthday. "I wasn't slapping the whole thing, but when it came
to that break, I just used my slapping because in the studio, the
fretless sounded unbelievable!" he recalled in For Bass Players
Only.
18. Simon loved the sound so much that he decided to artificially
extend Khumalo's solo by playing the tape backwards. The
result is a musical palindrome with a one-measure descending
phrase mirrored by the reversed ascending portion. It was
enormously effective, and technically impossible to reproduce
live exactly as heard on the record. "That kind of thing was
always happening – 'Let's try it in reverse,'" Halee explained to
Sound on Sound. "We would wild-track all the time. Anything
to make it sound more interesting."
6. "Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes" was a last-minute
addition to the album.
Graceland was originally due out in June 1986, but Warner
Brothers decided to push back the release until the end of
August. So when Simon reconvened with the Soweto rhythm
section and Ladysmith Black Mambazo for an appearance on
SNL that May, it seemed like a great excuse to get together in
the studio. "Well, we're all here, we might as well do another
track," he thought at the time.
Simon's relationship with the a cappella choir had been
cemented months earlier when recording "Homeless" at
London's Abbey Road Studios. The group's leader, Joseph
Shabalala, adapted the words of a traditional Zulu wedding as
an introduction for the song. To the surprise and delight of the
close-knit group, Simon joined them around the microphone to
sing the delicate vocal takes. "I nearly fainted!" Shabalala said
in Under African Skies. "I'm thinking, who is this guy?' He is
my brother. Why is he hiding himself in America? I call him
'brother.'"
This feeling of intimacy and camaraderie carried over into that
May's sessions at New York City's Hit Factory. They began with
an extended vocal tag in the traditional African mbube style.
The Zulu dialect of the refrain roughly translates to "It's not
usual but in our days we see those things happen/They are
women, they can take care of themselves," but perhaps Simon's
imagination was triggered by mbube's history as the music of
migrant coal and diamond miners.
19. Regardless of its precise lyrical origin, the stunni ng "Diamonds
on the Soles of Her Shoes" became the 11th song recorded for
the album. The vocals from Ladysmith Black Mambazo were
accented by percussion work from Senegalese musician Youssou
N'Dour, marking the first time they had blended their voices
with instruments.
7. Linda Ronstadt's appearance on the album also sparked a
major controversy.
With her string of soulful hits, Linda Ronstadt hardly seems like
a lightning rod for controversy. Yet her vocal cameo on the
Graceland track "Under African Skies" caused nearly as much
of a firestorm as Simon's decisions to employ South African
musicians and record in Johannesburg.
The trouble stemmed from her six appearances at a South
African luxury resort called Sun City in May 1983. She had
been approached to appear as a last-minute replacement act for
the strange duo of Frank Sinatra and boxer Ray "Boom Boom"
Mancini. Bookers apparently told Ronstadt that the venue was
located in the semi-independent (and semi-fictitious) territory
of Bophuthatswana. Though nominally integrated, this area was
effectively the South African equivalent of a North American
Indian reservation, where many displaced black individuals
were relocated. Either Ronstadt misunderstood the geopolitical
complexities of the region, or had fallen victim to a promoter's
ruse to lure international superstars to their resort. In any event,
she accepted the $500,000 fee.
While conscious of South Africa's abysmal human-rights
practices, she claimed that she was unaware of an official
boycott until she had already arrived at Sun City. "I had two
days to decide [to come]," she told Rolling Stone at the time. "I
talked to everyone. I called friends of mine at Motown. Their
story was: 'Black artists go, so we can't tell you not to go.'"
Even after learning of the cultural ban, the singer remained
defiant. "The last place for a boycott is in the arts. I don't like
being told I can't go somewhere." Though she repeatedly
maintained that her appearances were not an endorsement of the
20. South African government, Ronstadt received worldwide
condemnation for the concerts.
Simon himself had turned down prior offers to perform at Sun
City. But given Ronstadt's troubled relationship with South
Africa, his choice to feature her prominently on Graceland
comes with conflicting implications. The lyrics to "Under
African Skies" were composed with Ronstadt's direct input,
contrasting her youthful memories in the American Southwest
with the natural serenity of an African sunset. "He called me up
one day and said, 'I'm having a hard time writing. Give me some
images from your childhood,'" she later recalled. "I said, 'OK, I
grew up in Tucson near the San Javier Mission.' I've loved that
place and considered it my spiritual homeland. I told him about
the mission, and he included that part in the song."
To Simon, the purpose of the track was to both celebrate
music's power to nourish the soul and also illustrate how we are
all united under the same sky. But not everyone viewed it with
such tenderhearted optimism. Nelson George of Billboard
likened the choice of Ronstadt to "using gasoline to put out
birthday candles." Legendary rock writer Robert Christgau was
another cynic. "Even if the lyric called for total U.S.
divestiture, Ronstadt's presence on Graceland would be a slap in
the face to the world anti-apartheid movement," he wrote at the
time. "A deliberate, considered, headstrong slap in the face."
8. The only Graceland musicians to openly accuse Simon of
plagiarism were Americans.
The final two tracks on Graceland bucked the mbaqanga theme.
"I didn't want it to be just an African album," Simon said in
Rolling Stone. "I wanted to say, 'Look, don't look upon this as
something so strange and different. It actually relates to our
world.'" The rollicking "That Was Your Mother" featured
zydeco dance band Good Rockin' Dopsie and the Twisters, and
the closer, "All Around the World or the Myth of Fingerprints,"
included backing from Chicano rockers Los Lobos. While
Simon weathered accusations that he went to South Africa to
"steal" their music, these two North American bands were the
21. only Graceland players to openly complain of plagiarism.
Good Rockin' Dopsie and the Twisters reacted with little more
than annoyance. Listening closely to "That Was Your Mother,"
one can hear certain similarities in chord structure and
accordion passages to a zydeco song called "My Baby, She's
Gone," registered to Alton Rubin Sr. (a.k.a. Good Rockin'
Dopsie). His name failed to appear on the Graceland writing
credits, but Rubin decided that the exposure was all the payment
he needed and did not make any further claim.
On the other hand, Steve Berlin of Los Lobos wasn't interested
in exposure. His band was already hot following the release of
their third major label album, 1984's How Will the Wolf
Survive? The disc drew the attention of many industry notables
– including Simon, who put out word that he wanted to record
with the band. But according to Berlin, the collaboration was
fairly one-sided.
"We go into the studio, and he had quite literally nothing," he
said in 2008. "I mean, he had no ideas, no concepts, and said,
'Well, let's just jam.'" One full day of playing failed to yield
any results, but something caught Simon's attention on day two.
"Paul goes, 'Hey, what's that?' We start playing what we have of
it, and it is exactly what you hear on the record. So we're like,
'Oh, OK. We'll share this song.'" When Los Lobos found no
trace of their names on the album's writing credits, they initially
assumed that it had been an honest mistake. But when months
went by with no restitution, the band's bemusement turned to
anger. "It was not a pleasant deal for us," maintains Berlin. "I
mean he quite literally – and in no way do I exaggerate when I
say – he stole the song from us."
He claims that he brought to matter to Simon's attention and
was met with the less-than-conciliatory response of, "Sue me.
See what happens." The guitarist holds a grudge to this day,
dubbing Simon "the world's biggest prick." However, Simon
says it's all a case of opportunism. "The album came out and we
heard nothing. Then six months passed and Graceland had
become a hit and the first thing I heard about the problem was
22. when my manager got a lawyer's letter. I was shocked."
9. Steven Van Zandt got Paul Simon taken off an African hit
list.
Graceland stirred up controversy even before it was released on
August 26th, 1986. While no one could deny the album's
brilliance, some critics felt it amounted to a kind of musical
colonialism: a white man going to Africa, strip-mining raw
materials, and bringing it home to the West where it could be
refined and sold at a massive profit. While the question of
cultural appropriation can be considered a gray area, violating
the cultural ban against South Africa was much more concrete.
The act could be – and often was – interpreted as tacit support
of a brutal racist regime.
Not that this was his intention. Simon insisted that all of his
fellow musicians were there on their own free will and paid
fairly. They split food, lodging, transport and songwriting
credits. "I wasn't going there to take money out of the country,"
he explained to The Washington Post. "I wasn't being paid for
playing to a white audience. I was recording with black groups
and paying them and sharing my royalties with them." Guitarist
Ray Pieri agreed in the documentary Classic Albums:
Graceland. "We used Paul as much as Paul used us. There was
no abuse. He came at the right time and he was what we needed
to bring our music into the mainstream."
Simon also cited the invitation from the South African black
musician's union, and the encouragement from Quincy Jones
and Harry Belafonte. But for anti-apartheid sects, it was not
enough. "When he goes to South Africa, Paul Simon bows to
apartheid," declared James Victor Ghebo, the former Ghanaian
ambassador to the UN. "He lives in designated hotels for
whites. He spends money the way whites have made it possible
to spend money there. The money he spends goes to look after
white society, not to the townships."
Related
Paul Simon's Amazing Graceland Tour
23. The world is suddenly dancing to a South African beat, much to
the dismay of some antiapartheid activists
Still others expressed outrage that Simon's lyrics didn't directly
address the human-rights violations and make some kind of
overt stand against apartheid. "Was I supposed to solve things
in a song?" he sputtered in his own defense. While admitting
that he simply wasn't any good at writing Bob Dylan/Bob
Geldof–like protest anthems, he claimed that the mere existence
of Graceland was a political statement in itself. "I never said
there were not strong political implications to what I did," he
told Rolling Stone. "I just said the music was not overtly
political. But the implications of the music certainly are. And I
still think it's the most powerful form of politics, more powerful
than saying it right on the money, in which case you're usually
preaching to the converted. People get attracted to the music,
and once they hear what's going on within it, they say, 'What?
They're doing that to these people?'"
The debate intensified when Simon announced a six-month
world tour entitled "Graceland: The African Concert," which
would feature a front line of South African session players,
Lady Smith Black Mambazo, and South African exiles Hugh
Masekela and Miriam Makeba. As 1987 dawned, Simon found
himself on the UN Anti-Apartheid Committee's boycott
violator's list, putting him in unsavory company. Obviously
distressed by this, he undoubtedly would have been much more
disturbed to know that he was also at the top of a hit list.
Bizarrely, Simon was unwittingly saved from a tragic fate by
Bruce Springsteen's E Street Band deputy, Steven Van Zandt.
The guitarist had been active in the South African freedom
movement for many years, founding the Artists United Against
Apartheid organization. He wrote, produced and performed on
the 1985 all-star protest song "Sun City," a rock & roll
denunciation of all artists who dared to perform at the titular
resort. Van Zandt had originally asked Simon to participate in
the recording, but he refused after being shown an early draft of
the lyrics that called out his friend Linda Ronstadt by name.
24. The pair apparently shared a rocky relationship for some time
after that. In a recent Sirius XM interview with Dave Marsh,
Van Zandt claims that Simon questioned his pro–Nelson
Mandela stance around the time of the Graceland sessions with
a scornful, "What are you doing, defending this communist?"
Van Zandt's anti-apartheid activities took him into Soweto to
meet with a group of militant black radicals known as the
Azanian People's Organization, or AZAPO. They were so die-
hard that they had a lengthy discussion with Van Zandt about
whether to kill him on the spot simply for showing up. "That's
how serious they were about violating the boycott," he said. "I
eventually talked them out of that."
He soon gained their trust. "They showed me that they [had] an
assassination list, and Paul Simon was at the top of it. And in
spite of my feelings about Paul Simon, I said to them, 'Listen, I
understand your feelings about this; I might even share them,
but ... this is not gonna help anybody if you knock off Paul
Simon. Trust me on this, alright? Let's put that aside for the
moment. Give me a year or so … to try and do this a different
way. I'm trying to actually unify the music community around
this, which may or may not include Paul Simon, but I don't want
it to be a distraction. I just don't need that distraction right now;
I gotta keep my eye on the ball.' And they took him off that
assassination list."
10. Paul Simon was the first major international artist to
perform in a free South Africa – and it nearly killed him.
The political instruments of apartheid began to deteriorate by
the end of the decade, culminating in Nelson Mandela's release
from Victor Verster prison in 1990. The symbolic victory
sparked dramatic results in the fight for majority rule, and by
December 1991, the cultural boycott was finally lifted. With
artists now free to tour South America as they pleased, it
seemed appropriate that Paul Simon be welcomed into the
nation to perform his greatest work for the very people who
influenced it. At the invitation of Mandela and with the full
support of the African National Congress, promoter Attie van
25. Wyk booked Simon and his band for a series of five shows,
beginning at Johannesburg's Ellis Park Stadium.
The multi-national touring party was treated to a formal
reception at an upscale hotel on January 9th, 1992, with
Mandela himself in attendance. The future South African
president locked hands with Simon for photos and wished him
"a real success indeed." An ebullient Simon echoed the
goodwill, seemingly putting aside any misgivings about
Mandela's alleged communist leanings. "I hope my presence
here and the concerts will bring people pleasure as a musical
evening and that for those few hours at least people can put
aside their differences and simply enjoy the pleasure of the
music."
Mandela's public support should have been a peak moment
Simon considering the years of controversy and public scorn he
had endured because of his African sojourn. But the victory was
tainted later that night when three hand grenades were tossed
into Van Wyk's office. The premises were completely destroyed,
but no one was hurt. Still, Simon was understandably shaken.
AZAYO, a sect of the militant AZAPO, claimed responsibility.
Presumably Van Zandt's influence was enough to dissuade
AZAPO from murdering Simon outright, but the act sent a very
clear message: They did not want the concerts to take place. A
terrified Simon paced his bedroom, fretting that someone could
be hurt or killed. He considered cancelling the African leg of
the tour altogether, but local security forces insisted that
AZAYO consisted of "three guys and a fax machine."
Simon held a clandestine meeting with representatives of
AZAYO to negotiate a truce, but they were unwilling to settle
for a portion of the tour's proceeds. Later they appeared at a
press conference to deliver unveiled threats. "We have always
pointed out that should his show go on, there is the potential for
violence." Nearly a hundred demonstrators congregated outside
the venue before the show on January 11th, many brandishing
placards promising blood on the soles of Simon's shoes. But
they were no match for the 800 policemen and the shows went
26. off without further incident.
Though the risk of AZAYO an attack put a serious dent in ticket
sales, Simon was finally able to perform for the people who
inspired his music and rejuvenated his soul.