In 1991, I drank one of Paul Simon’s beers.

In 1991, I drank one of Paul Simon’s beers.

I’m exaggerating, but let me tell you how I found myself in the “Rhythm of the Saints” Tour Green Room, chatting it up with Chris Botti, Michael Brecker, and Steve Gadd — Yeah, I know. I was 21.

I was playing trumpet with my college teacher, Robert Baca, on a Thursday or Friday morning. I mentioned I was going to hear Paul Simon play at the then new Target Center in Minneapolis the next night. I didn’t think it would be noteworthy to him, but immediately, he said, “Oh, you should try to say hi to my IU friend Chris Botti! He’s on that gig.”

Well, OK then. Challenge accepted / failure anticipated.

But I was young and dumb enough to think I might be able to contact someone in PAUL SIMON’S FREAKIN’ BAND. I went with my college sophomore roommate Jeremy, my dear friend Jen, and her roommate and our friend Lisa.

I wrote a note ahead of time that went something like this:

“Hi Mr. Botti. I’m a student of Robert Baca, who said I should try to have a conversation with you after the show. I’m sitting in Section 112, Row H, Seat 14. I’m the dorky lookin’ one.”

I flagged down a pimply-faced usher who was on the main floor, tossed my note over the rail that separates those with money from the college kids, and hollered, “Can you get that to the trumpet player in the band?!” He looked at me like I was nuts, and I could read his thought bubble: “No, I don’t think so!” 

In desperation, I replied over the crowd noise, “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope!” 

I mean, maybe I said that. It was a long time ago.

A few minutes later, the band came out and opened with one of Paul’s hits that didn’t include horns. I went back down to the rail, where I could see Chris noodling off-mic to the side of the stage. I did my best to get his attention, and somehow, he heard me, seeming to acknowledge that I was a complete dork, and that he got my note. The horns walked on to play “You Can Call Me Al,” and I went back to my friends. Somewhere in the middle of “Late in the Evening,” an official-looking lady with an earpiece tapped me on my shoulder, said something over the heavy pulse of the massive band, and handed me a back stage pass. I was suddenly converted into THE coolest person in the stadium, a miracle of miracles, and everyone near us was staring at the patch I proudly stuck on the front of my jeans. Are you kidding me?! I was 21, about to head back stage to meet the Paul Simon Band and maybe even Paul Simon himself. 

(Yeah, right — like Paul was gonna hang out with us and sing an 11 PM rendition of “Kumbaya”.)

At any rate, the concert concluded after an incredible 4 hour single set (!!!) split in two by a 45 minute solo break played by the incomparable Michael Brecker. It remains one of the best shows I’ve ever been to, and not just because I got to go back stage. There, I talked to Chris Botti and fan-girled Michael Brecker and Steve Gadd — “OMGOMGOMG!” — it was the first big hang like this of my life, and I’ll never forget it. As a trumpet player, that concert motivated me for years, if not decades.

And yes, I continue to tell myself that the beer I drank was meant for Paul Simon — that’s how close I got to perhaps the greatest songwriter there ever was. I ate some of his cheese and crackers, too. Woof.

Fast forward 33 years — let’s bring the lesson home —

I recently read a Paul Simon biography, written with Paul’s cooperation by author Robert Hilburn (and sent to me by the the same Jen who went to that ’91 concert with me — thanks, Jen!). As a long time fan, I ate it up. And what I remember from the book was how much failure Paul endured in his early years. He had a “neighborhood hit,” in his teens as the duo Tom and Jerry (with Art Garfunkel), and then tried everything for the next 10-15 or so years to be successful in the industry. He wrote jingles, recorded 30 of so songs that tanked, changed his stage name several times, worked for music publishers, copied other artists — he truly studied and tried everything — and was fairy lousy at it for a very, very long time. And we all know what happened to him starting in the early 70s, after he turned 30. In my estimation, Paul developed into the greatest singer songwriter of all time by sheer power of will and maybe a dose of destiny. Check out this 1975 lyric, reprised on one of his most recent albums, Into the Blue Light, as he expresses a deep understanding what we are all trying to do as musicians and humans:

Some folks’ lives roll easy as a breeze
Drifting through a summer night
Heading for a sunny day
But most folks’ lives
Oh, they stumble, Lord, they fall
Through no fault of their own
Most folks never catch their stars

Wow. On the new album, the keyboard is gently replaced by a celeste at the word “Stars.” It’s great. He’s creating in his late 70s with this one. Check it out HERE:

The lesson, kids, is that you just keep working on what you love. Some of you will fail and fail and fail, and some of you will fail and fail and succeed. But we all fail — over and over. Just keep going, my friends, and I hope to share a beer with you someday.

I truly hope you catch your star, in whatever form it takes.

Sincerely,

Steve Kriesel

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