Thoughts About an Aging Songwriter

Back to "A Quiet Celebration." 

This morning after the Paul Simon concert at the Hollywood Bowl, we four were sipping coffee and reflecting on the concert. We all had the sense that this could be the last hurrah for him. The tour looks to be a pretty grueling schedule. He’s mid-eighties, has lost hearing in one ear (though the technology can do anything with challenges like this). 

Personally, I loved the concert. The first thirty-three minutes he and his band performed his entire new album, “Seven Psalms.” A and B sides, no commentary, just the music and the lyrics. They then took a break. 

Back onstage, they performed for another hour and a half. A couple of songs I didn’t know (deep cuts?). Most of them, of course I knew. This music is in my veins. It’s music from my teens, my twenties, my thirties, my forties. The set list represents Paul Simon at his peak, his best music. 

That said, the songs performed on stage weren’t the songs of my youth. Yes, they were the same songs. But they were repurposed, reimagined. Classics made somehow new. 

Likewise, the voice on stage was not the voice from my past. It was a weakened voice, slightly shaky, a bit off tune. The voice was that of an old man singing to (mostly) old people. Like me. 

Nevertheless, the music and the voice were beautiful. Sitting in that quiet arena, listening to the voice I’d grown up with, I admit, I teared up a few times. Maybe it was the cheap wine. 

Near the end of the concert, I noticed my friend Karen had pulled out her phone and was filming. I asked her later to send me the videos she’d recorded. I’m including two of them in the comments (the first didn’t load). Maybe they illustrate what I’m trying to say here. 

The first, “Diamonds on the Soles of her Shoes,” is from his Graceland album. Again, the vocals are fragile. But the accompaniment, the instrumentation? Brilliant, as was that album, his first solo album after the split. Paul Simon, the boy from New York, rediscovering himself. 

The second is his classic, “American Tune.” Among the most beautiful song lyrics (in my opinion) he’s written. 

These clips reveal both Paul Simon’s musical genius and his poetic instincts. But they also reveal something else. Paul Simon is an old man. In his youth, in his prime, when he composed these songs, when he wrote these lyrics, he was an old soul. 

His body has finally caught up.

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"Diamonds on the Soles of her Shoes"

Video from "A Quiet Celebration"

Hollywood Bowl

June 7, 2026

"American Tune"

Video from "A Quiet Celebration"

Hollywood Bowl

June 7, 2026

A Word About Wine in an Igloo at the Hollywood Bowl

My husband and I went to the Hollywood Bowl this past weekend with another couple. We were there to see Paul Simon on the second night of his two-month 2026 tour he’s called, “A Quiet Celebration.” I didn’t know until after the concert that the tour had this name, but in retrospect, I understand why he chose that name--the evening was both quiet and celebratory. More on that later. But first, a word, about wine. 

Rather than deal with traffic and parking, we took a bus to the event from Lakewood, carrying a couple of ice chests and picnic accoutrements. As we approached the entrance to the Bowl, we noticed a sign informing guests that no wine bottles (or aluminum cans) are allowed inside the venue. We had both. But since we had recently done the same on a previous visit to the Bowl in 2025 to see Joni Mitchell and had passed through inspection without incident then, we weren't overly concerned. If the policy had been in effect, someone had apparently chosen to turn a blind eye and let us through. We assumed the same would be true this time.

Unfortunately, when we got to the inspection tables, our two inexpensive (I won't say "cheap") bottles of Chardonnay were flagged. No blind eye this time. We were given the option of either tossing the bottles or checking them in and picking them up after the concert. We obviously opted to check them in. Why throw away unopened wine bottles, especially when you know someone will take them home after the concert. Free to good home?

We learned later that the Hollywood Bowl’s alcohol policy depends on the type of event you're attending. According to the website, "For LA Phil-presented events, feel free to bring your own wine, beer, and more (glass bottles are permitted). For lease events outside alcohol is not allowed.” Ah, the fine print.

We’re still confused as to why we passed inspection the last time we came to the Hollywood Bowl. The Joni Jam was presumably a lease event. Whoever turned a blind eye at our concealed glass bottles at that event probably lost his job. But for the moment, the only issue at hand was that we had no wine. I felt a bit like Jack Sparrow: “Why is the rum gone?” 

No need to explain why we had carried in our own wine other than to say we had a hunch the wine on site would be ridiculously expensive. Should we overpay and plunk down too much money or go without? Needless to say, the desire to sip wine beneath a starry sky while listening to one of our favorite artists trumped our desire to save money, so, yes, plunk we did, a little over $100 for a couple bottles of the least expensive (cheap) Chardonnay. 

Lesson learned: Read the Hollywood Bowl Lease Events Policy before packing up a picnic. 

Concealed bottle of cheap Chardonnay in Igloo

Another Poem About Mothers

Here's another poem*, a little longer, a little more poignant than the earlier one.

To our daughters, just beginning.

And to our own mothers,

some long gone.

We celebrate you today.

💕

* Poem by Jess Urlichs

A Poem About Mothers

A Poem About Mothers

I like this little poem.

It doesn’t exactly represent a memory of my mom (banging pots in the kitchen before we woke up? Not really). For as long as I can remember, she was involved, to greater or lesser degrees, volunteering outside the home. So whether she was coming or going, she was always deeply preoccupied in whatever she was doing.

That said, we weren’t latchkey kids. She was home more often than not when we came home from school.

So yes. I like this little poem. It speaks to the value of being present. There’s a kind of security in that. Kids always knowing there’s an adult nearby.

Here’s to moms who may not be the best cooks, who may be preoccupied or absorbed in their own lives or interests, but who are downstairs when the kids wake up.

Wading Through Norman Maclean's River

Why I'll Probably Re-Read This Book

Years ago (we’re talking last century!) a friend recommended a novel written by E. Annie Proulx called The Shipping News. I will always read a book when a friend I respect recommends it, and I did read this one. But I admit, it was a bit of a slog. I remember wondering more than once why I continued reading it. But all I could think was, a friend I respect recommended it. So I soldiered on. Eventually I finished the book. 

 

But here’s the weird thing. By the time I reached the end of the novel, I was oddly moved. I remember thinking, as if it had never occurred to me the entire time I was reading, “Ohhh . . . it’s a love story.” 

I had a similar experience when I finished A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean, though for a different reason. It’s the oddest book I’ve ever read in that not only does it have no chapter breaks, it literally has no breaks at all. You know how some novels separate sections within a chapter by an extra space? So if you’re reading a long chapter but aren’t able to complete it in one sitting, you may reach that internal break knowing it’s a logical place to pause, even if you’re not finished with that chapter? That’s what I mean by no breaks at all, let alone no chapter breaks. The entire book is literally only one chapter. I’ve never experienced anything like that while reading. 

In that regard, A River Runs Through It is probably a book that should be read in one sitting. Since for a variety of reasons that scenario is not realistic for me, I ended up taking a few weeks to finish the book. My habit of penciling in the spot where I’d stopped reading and then resuming the next day was trickier in this book since there are neither section nor chapter breaks: consequently, I’d usually end up re-reading a paragraph or two before the spot I’d marked in order to re-capture the thread. 

Also, unlike other novels, A River Runs Through It, though referred to as a novella, is, in fact, autobiographical. In that regard, the book lacks the traditional narrative pattern of a novel: there’s no clear beginning-middle-end plot line, no distinct rising action/climax/falling action/denouement that you get when reading a novel. So, there’s a bit of a mismatch between the words on the page (autobiographical) and the expectations of the reader (fictional). At least, there was for me.

In a nutshell, here’s the book: 

Setting: Montana. 

Main Characters: the author himself, his preacher father, his alcoholic brother

Minor Characters: his brother’s wife, his brother’s brother-in-law 

Key Events: fly fishing in one particular river 

Minor Events: Rather than me summarizing, here's a helpful synopsis.

And that pretty much sums it up. There’s not much tension—as mentioned above, no dramatic rising action, at least, not until literally the last few pages. With the exception of getting his brother out of jail once, there’s really not much drama. And the most dramatic part of the story is literally not even discussed. Rather, it’s mentioned in passing. Almost as an afterthought. 

Re-reading my own description, I have to say, it’s not really a book that’s easy to recommend. 

And yet…I do. And I will read it again. Much like my experience reading The Shipping News—reading a book I wasn’t quite getting—I got to the end of A River Runs Through It and had a similar reaction. “Ohhh . . . it’s a love story.” 

But, it's also the writing. The prose. At times funny, at other times breathtakingly lovely. The author hints at a tragedy but doesn’t dwell on it. It’s truly the most understated event in the book. Yet it’s the saddest. Have I mentioned the incredible details about fly fishing? Even if you know nothing about this sport, the author has you baited and hooked. These three men (father and sons) were masterful fishermen. But the best among them was the author's brother. The final pages are of the author and his elderly father watching from the riverbank as the brother battled a monster trout. Ordinary event. Extraordinary prose. 

A River Runs Through It is a book that should be read more than once. Hopefully, my next read will be in one sitting.