Showing posts with label Simon and Garfunkel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Simon and Garfunkel. Show all posts

Sunday, February 3, 2013

January Mixtape

 

It's a new year, but why not keep up with these mixtapes?  As I mentioned before, I've been obsessed with Almost Famous, a movie that was actually first released on the day of my birthday (9/8/2000).  It tells a story of a high school journalist who gets an assignment with Rolling Stone to cover the up-and-coming (fictional) band Stillwater.  Set in 1973, the film captures the excitement and eclecticism of American rock-n-roll, hosting over 50+ songs from the era (according to IMDB, the film's music budget was $3.5 million, about $2 million more than the average music budget).  As its bloated budget indicates, the soundtrack is absolutely vital to the film.  Here are some of the songs that moved me during the film and retained their charm well after the final credits rolled.

**Extra note: As I had this blog post open, I was watching the making of Almost Famous, where director Cameron Crowe admitted that for years he's been making monthly mixtapes of his favorite songs from each particular month. The coincidence is eerie and awesome and has inspired me to keep this project going for as long as possible.


1. Simon and Garfunkel - "America."  Honey... they're on pot. As she jabs at Simon and Garfunkel's dark, wide-eyes, Elaine Miller warns her rebellious daughter, Anita (Zooey Deschanel), about immoral rock bands like S&G, who write songs about "drugs and promiscuous sex."  The pleas fail to deter Anita, and shortly after we find her in the living room, announcing, "This song explains why I'm leaving home to become a stewardess."  The gorgeous humming from Simon and Garfunkel's "America" then plays from the phonograph, while Elaine asks, "We can't talk? We have to listen to rock music?"  These short scenes reveal the differences between mother and daughter: Elaine strives for white-collar success in herself and her children, reviles drugs and "immoral" art (preferring the high theory of Carl Jung or the literature of Goethe and Harper Lee), and practices radical, anti-commercial beliefs.  Anita, on the other hand, embodies more bohemian, Kerouacian philosophies, believing in the virtues of personal hardship (what she calls "living"), the transcendence of rock-n-roll, and the freedom of the road.  As Simon and Garfunkel sing, Anita is off "to look for America," leaving the tight reins of her mother's home to travel the nation.

These initial scenes already convey the intense emotional and spiritual connections a listener can have with music.  "America" defines Anita, telling her life story and even prophesizing her future.  They also speak for her when words fail; when Elaine asks, "Can't we talk?", neither Elaine nor Anita speak until Anita leaves the confines of their house.  Their relationship has deteriorated to the point where communication is no longer possible: Anita needs the medium of music to express her thoughts and emotions.  "America," thus, first indicates the tremendous impact music had on American culture, acting as a poetic inspiration and motivation as well as a voice to a dissatisfied youth.

"One day...  you'll be cool."
The song itself, too, is beautiful, and is the best track on Simon and Garfunkel's renowned Bookends.  It captures the excitement of hitchhiking through American yet also shows the paranoia ("she said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy / I said be careful his bowtie is really a camera") and despair ("'Cathy, I'm lost,' I said, though I knew she was sleeping / 'I'm empty and aching and I don't know why'") endemic to the drug-laden 70s.  My favorite part comes near the conclusion, after echoey drums that sound so Beach Boys-y and twangy guitars build to heavy strumming and clattery cymbals.  When the song and vocals climax, the disillusioned speaker sits "counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike -- they've all come to look for America."  It's a powerful moment not only of empathy but also of sadness and loneliness; he identifies with others as they whirl down the Turnpike, but this connection is fleeting.  Just as the speaker's heartfelt confessions to his sleeping companion suggest, these lyrics capture his inability to have a substantial empathetic connection with another.  It's a great example of how "America" is the perfect selection for this particular scene, evoking isolation and failed empathy during a mother and daughter's emotional impasse.