Graceland

I almost died this morning. That sounds dramatic, but it’s the truth. A block away from the office, a large white truck, one of those Suburbans or Expeditions, some massive truck that gets like eight miles to the gallon, drifted over from the oncoming traffic, bearing down on my Focus hatchback. Fortunately, I have the reflexes of a moderately athletic twenty-five-year-old man and I swerved across three lanes to avoid the truck and my almost-certain death. I assume the driver was asleep or texting or picking a grape up off the floor, because after laying on my horn, they recovered and swerved back into their own lane.

I was pretty shaken up. It’s not every day you confront your own mortality. I arrived at work a minute or so later and sat in the parking lot shaking. Paul Simon’s “Graceland” had been playing at the time of the almost-accident. At first I thought, it was an odd bit of music for the occasion; “Graceland” being one of the most beautiful, joyous albums ever created – me ruminating on what my life would be like if I somehow survived a head-on collision with truck going 45 as the Paul Simon’s sweet voice echoed in my brain. And then it hit me: if I had died, the last thing I would’ve heard, “You Can Call Me Al,” is a pretty cool song to go out on. And then it hit me again: If I was able to have that kind of thought, so shortly after a near-death experience, “Graceland” truly must be my all-time favorite album… something which I’d been debating over the past month or so.

I feel comfortable saying it’s my favorite album and not qualifying the statement. I assume anyone who’s ever listened to the album would surely understand. If for some crazy reason, you’ve never listened to “Graceland,” feel ashamed, getting caught by your mother masturbating to a JC Penny catalogue ashamed.

Simon somehow seamlessly infuses African music and musicians, with Zydeco and Tex-Mex music and musicians, then encompasses the whole sound into this beautiful little package, akin to a pop song. Is it pop music? World music? Does it matter?! It’s just perfect music, from start to finish, every song, beautiful, wonderful, complex, simple and subtle bass lines that expertly fill gaps, horns, accordions, Ladysmith Black Mumbazo, Los Lobos, The Everly Brothers, Linda Ronstadt, harmonies and rhythms as unique as they are beautiful, fucking Ladysmith Black Mumbazo for crying out loud!

It’s autobiographical, inspired, inspiring, and my god, the lyrics, the lyrics!!! And I’m not even a lyrics guy but:

There's a girl in New York City,
Who calls herself the human trampoline,
And sometimes when I'm falling flying
Or tumbling in turmoil I say
Whoa so this is what she means,
She means we're bouncing into Graceland.
And I see losing love
Is like a window in your heart,
Everybody sees you're blown apart,
Everybody feels the wind blow.

It just doesn’t get any better than that. And these feelings aren’t new, they weren’t suddenly brought on by the trauma of almost becoming a statistic this morning. “Graceland” has endured for years… dating back to my senior camper summer at Camp Seneca Lake, singing “You Can Call Me Al,” cooking with Alex and Julian this was in the background, the first record Christine played when we finished unpacking in our new apartment… it’s a part of me, seems like it always has, and always will be.

Something about that is comforting. In the face of death, I felt calm, at peace; it was the music. Immediately after I swerved away from the truck, I turned off my CD player. There was no way I was going to let something as silly as almost dying, tarnish in any way, shape, or form, an album I love so very much.