"Beneath the halo of a heat lamp."

"I have to say it," said Paul Simon, "or it'll be stuck in my head all night."

My mom played Simon and Garfunkel records for me when I was four or five; I would run a little cylinder of purple velvet around a record's edge, dragging away the dust that had collected between the pages of each overlarge jacket. Given that, the Simon show on 10/06 was less a concert than a reunion with an old friend I'd never met, memories from my childhood unfolded in a two-hour set of perfect five-minute poems. The quieter tracks he performed solo, each song suspended between a spotlight, a guitar, and that ancient, unaged voice. It was a display of talent that would have been frightening if it wasn't already so familiar.

A few lamps had been sent to warm the stage at Berkeley's Greek Theatre, and the quip they inspired was the closest Simon came to performing "Sounds of Silence" that friday night. I forgave him after "The Boxer"; Paul seemed to let his voice fade in favor of our unsolicited chorus, and the beat of silence beyond the last note was something almost painful. When he returned for one of his three-plus encores he was almost embarassed, greeting the continued applause with a soft smile and a brief "I really don't know what to say." It wasn't surprising; by then, he'd pretty much said it all.


(Yay to the MoFan for the pic and the tix :)