Matching Tracksuits

Few things bring up as many memories, immerse one so fully in the past, as listening after many years to music that once formed the center of your orbit when young, music that you know ever nuance, ever breath of the vocalist, every small detail that at first went unnoticed. Paul Simon’s Rhythm of the Saints is one such album for me. It was the regular soundtrack of my college years, an album I listened to so frequently that had it been on cassette instead of CD, I certainly would have worn it out.

I received the album as part of the introductory twelve-CDs-for-a-penny package from Columbia House, the now-defunct mail-order music club that was one of the many casualty of streaming services. I must have joined the club, bought the requisite CDs, quit, and rejoined half a dozen times, and Rhythm was one of the selections I chose on the basis of liking the artist but knowing nothing about the album. It captivated me from the first instant, from the first moment of the first song, “The Obvious Child.”

Every element of every song captivated me: the tones of the guitars, the rhythms of the percussion, the lyrics, the arrangements, the paradoxical diversity and continuity of all the songs. It was an album that I could immediately replay after finishing it, using it as an endless loop for the soundtrack of just about any activity.

I don’t know the last time I listened to Rhythm, but while driving to CYS rehearsal this afternoon, E and I were listening to You'll Hear It, a podcast that explores albums in depth, one album per episode. After the Boy went into rehearsal, I sat for a moment scrolling through the episodes to find some interesting ones for future trips, and I noticed they have an episode on Still Crazy After All These Years. As I sat waiting for the Boy, I decided to listen to Still Crazy. My thoughts turned to the role Simon’s music has played through my life and I remembered Rhythm and switched to it immediately. It was like opening a portal to the past. Suddenly, I was in the print shop at my college printing covers for the literary magazine for which I was the editor my senior year. I only stayed there a second before landing in my car, driving back from class and singing along with Simon with abandon (but not much skill). Another moment and I was standing on the grassy oval that served as the hub of my college, handing the CD to a friend with a warning: “I need this back in a day or two.” Each song felt warm and inviting, like meeting with an old friend for the first time in years and finding we are just as close now as we were years ago despite the break.