New sound, no silence; Garfunkel shines in Knox

Anticipation mounted.

You knew it was coming. The only question was when. And then:

Hello, darkness, my old friend;
I've come to talk with you again...

I hit my knee with my hand, not to keep time, but to reassure myself that I was six or eight rows back from Art Garfunkel, hearing a song that has long haunted my life.

He was here in Knox Vegas last night at the town's best acoustic venue, the intimate, inviting Bijou Theatre. And, oh, how the memories quickly mounted.

Even without Paul Simon, Garfunkel was great. More than great. He was grand, and I'll tell you why. Art Garfunkel has recovered from a vocal cord problem. That voice, the soaring voice that took us on the "Bridge Over Troubled Water," was nearly silenced.

No, no. Art worked hard. It healed.

And he went back on the road. It's just him, a guitarist, and occasional appearances by his son Art Jr. When father and son sang together, oh, boy. Oh, boy.

In between songs, he interspersed pieces of poetry he's written. So, when he took questions, I asked him which poet inspires him. His answer? Dylan Thomas. Makes sense, doesn't it?

Somebody told him that Phil Everly, whom we lost last month, went to West High School. He didn't know that, liked it, and paid homage to Phil and Don, whose harmonies influenced everybody from Garfunkel and Simon (I feel like reversing that order for once!) to John, Paul, George and Ringo.

Time marches on, as it must. Garfunkel looks like an accountant who's nearing retirement. Gone is the big hair and the tall, slender physique.

But that voice? It endures.

Garfunkel got standing ovations for "The Sound of Silence" and "Bridge."

No, he didn't go for the gold at the end of the latter song. That's OK. He didn't have to.

He's already been there.

'Smiling faces try to understand...'

Well, it really is Wednesday morning, 3 a.m., and I'm listening to the album of the same name by Simon and Garfunkel.

Can't sleep. Tough day. Such is life.

I put the record on to wind down, to listen to "Last Night I Had The Strangest Dream," to seek healing in haunting harmony.

And then I heard "Bleecker Street."

"Voices leaking from a sad cafe; smiling faces try to understand..."

Somehow it fits.

Vinyl Side A's final is "The Sounds of Silence" (sic). This is long before "The Graduate." The title is still plural -- sounds. Mystic melody.

"It's theme," Art Garfunkel wrote, "is man's inability to communicate with man.

"There is no serious understanding because there is no serious communication -- 'people talking without speaking -- hearing without listening.' The words tell us that when meaningful communication fails, the only sound is silence."

Written on Feb. 19, 1964, nearly 50 years ago, a song for today.

Jonno Schwartz just reminded me of something.

"'How do you know so much?' John Guare once asked Stephen Sondheim. 'I listen,' was the reply."

Points to ponder on Wednesday morning at 3 a.m., or any ol' day of the week.

Slip sliding away...

I swear, music has healing power. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Wasn't exactly ready to meet the day. Bunch of reasons, none of which matter. It got worse quickly, one of those mornings that cause you to think, "Hmm -- should've stayed in bed."

But, nah. Up pops Paul Simon and the Oak Ridge Boys singing "Slip Sliding Away."

Simon will cure what ails you anyway. Seeing William Lee Golden hit baritone notes behind him, while the other Oaks sway back and forth? Well, if that doesn't put a smile on your face, you're one cold-hearted dude.

A little later I watched Earl Scruggs and The Byrds go to town on Bob Dylan's "You Ain't Going Nowhere." Don't ask me why, but it all works. Scruggs' banjo pickin' slips in between the harmony, as if it had been there all along, waiting in the background while McGuinn sang lead.

But, I'm in a mellow mood today, so I do some more surfing and find Simon again -- reunited with Garfunkel, in Central Park -- their voices smooth as silk together, wrapping around the notes like dew falling on green grass in the early morning.

Hello darkness my old friend, they sing, and we wonder why on earth they ever drifted apart.

By noon I was hungry but otherwise feeling like I could spread out on the ground by a lake somewhere, skip a few stones across the water, watch the afternoon slip out of the horizon, dream about women and read a little Hemingway.

Oh, well. You know what they say.

The nearer your destination, the more you're slip sliding away...