Skip to main content

Paul Simon: "Crazy Love, Vol. II"

Kelly Clarkson has fumbled her opportunity; everyone is ready to love a divorce album, but the Times says Clarkson has really failed to go mining for gold.


One of my favorite divorce songs is "Crazy Love," by Paul Simon; it seems to be about post-Carrie Fisher wreckage.

Fat Charlie the Archangel sloped into the room...
He said, "Well, I have no opinion about this...."
And: "I have no opinion about that...."
Sad as a lonely little wrinkled balloon.
He said, "Well, I don't claim to be happy about this, boys..."
And: "I don't claim to be happy about that...."

Simon mocks himself, and it's charming. He is like Bartleby, the Scrivener, turning away from the world. Calling himself "Fat Charlie the Archangel," he seems to be making a reference to his delusions of grandeur. At the same time, he is laughing about his own weight.

She says she knows about jokes;
This time the joke is on me.
Well, I have no opinion about that.
And I have no opinion about me...
Somebody could walk into this room and say....
"Your life is on fire."
It's all over the evening news....
All about the fire in your life, on the evening news...

Simon suggests that Carrie Fisher is just a little bit childish--and, in his stagy neutral reaction, Simon is also being a child. In his tantrum, Simon can't even be bothered to notice if he is a topic of interest on the evening news. You can sense actual sadness in Simon's voice, but Simon also recognizes the ridiculousness underneath his sadness. He can step aside and notice something comical in his own personal trainwreck.

Fat Charlie the Archangel files for divorce....
He says, "Well, this will eat up another year of my life."
And then: "There's all that weight to be lost...."

So inspiring to see someone turning himself into "a character." This is a tier-one breakup song.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LeY4s_nLvtM

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more