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A remarkable album called Graceland by singer Paul Simon

grew out of a trip that he made to South Africa.

The Graceland album started out a cross-cultural experiment.

It has become a worldwide hit.

Five million copies have been sold so far.

I really wasn't thinking that Graceland was gonna have this kind of effect on people.

I didn't think of it as anything other than a really interesting...

- Something you loved. - Yeah.

Right. It was a music that I... Exactly.

But you can't miss the political side, you know.

Paul Simon's Graceland's a big success, but it's also controversial.

Because Simon recorded the album in South Africa,

and critics say he should have had nothing to do with the racist country.

The conscience of the world must be awakened

to the horror of apartheid in South Africa.

We are calling upon all international artists to stay away from our country.

- What made you to go there? - I was invited there.

I was invited by black musicians.

When the artist gets into some sort of disagreement with politics,

why are the politicians designated to be the ones to tell us, the artists, what to do?

And we're supposed to follow, otherwise we're not good citizens or we're not good...

You're not allowed to think, you're not allowed to feel,

or have a political opinion. That's nonsense, man.

I remember when Graceland first came out

there was some controversy about it,

and so it was just one of those things like,

"Well, it's controversy, I'm not gonna buy that album."

But when I went to hear him perform in a concert in Chicago,

I was infected by the music,

I was overcome by the music, and had to have the music.

Graceland was the Paul Simon record that kind of

rocked a little harder than some of the ones just before that.

The ones just before, of course, had great songs on,

but this one kind of had a little bit more low end going on.

Music is the most unifying thing I've ever seen.

Cultures have been swapping information for so...

There's only 12 notes, man.

Until God gives us 13,

we all got the same materials to work with for 500 years, 12 notes.

This is what music is. It's the voice of God, you know.

Don't you think?

Yeah, I do.

Your number one news and talk station.

I want to mention Paul Simon.

He's currently visiting South Africa,

commemorating the 25th anniversary of the release of Graceland.

He plans to reunite the South African musicians

involved with the original project.

The last time I was here was when we played.

It was a long time ago. It was a long time ago.

I expect to see a lot of changes,

as any place would be after a couple of decades.

Anyway, we'll see. We'll see what we get.

I'm trying to imagine the next few days and get my focus right,

going back into a rehearsal kind of frame of mind,

to see where everybody's at.

Thinking about Ray.

I haven't seen Ray now since 1991.

Oh, man, Ray!

Isaac, I haven't seen even longer.

- Jsaacl. - Hey, it's nice to see you.

Barney, I haven't seen in a really long time.

Oh, my God! It's Barney's father!

Hey!

We had an intense period of time together

and then we separated and went our separate ways

so we're always attached by Graceland.

To the great Barney Rachabane!

And now, with this reunion, we'll finally get the chance to talk about

how we made the record and going on tour.

That'll be interesting to me.

Because it's the same event, but everybody's story is different.

Paul Simon is going to be giving, listen to this, this is exciting,

an exclusive and intimate performance this Thursday evening in Johannesburg.

Paul would like to invite a few select listeners to attend the event.

That could be you.

I think all of us, we are like,

"Oh, boy, this performance, man,"

"we have to get back onto Graceland and just do it one more time 25 years later."

Here I was, living in South Africa, and then,

here comes a particular individual called Paul Simon.

For me, music is the closest thing to religion.

And if it's utilized in the right way,

it can inform and bring people closer

and they can find solutions to their problems.

And Graceland did that.

I've been doing music professionally since I'm 15 years old.

And in many ways, Graceland was the most significant achievement of my career.

I really think that the next generation still has a pretty deep connection to Graceland.

For a lot of people my age,

it was really evocative of being on road trips with their family

when they were five or six years old.

And for us, we have specific songs

where I think you can totally make the Graceland connection.

My perspective is that what Paul Simon was doing had a beauty to it.

I think he had a great idea, a creative idea,

to mix his music and his rhythms and his ingenuity

with some that he had found in South Africa.

But, at that moment in time,

it was not helpful.

There was this inconvenient thing called apartheid.

It got in the way.

Apartheid was a system made to divide the people of South Africa

on the basis of color of skin.

The white South Africans were dominating everything, under protection by law.

And the whole apartheid system intentionally, deliberately

set out to prove that black people were the most inferior beings on Earth.

And people of South Africa did not take this lying down.

We fought.

We were fighting for our land, for our identity.

We had a job to do, and it was a serious job,

and we saw Paul Simon come in as a threat and we saw it as an issue.

Because it was not sanctioned, as we saw it, by the liberation movement,

and this situation was not about Paul Simon,

it was about the liberation of the people of South Africa.

The criticism and the attacks on the album and on me was very hurtful.

And I don't really know what the internal debate was here.

I mean, I know what the result was,

but I don't know who said what and why.

From the South African side of things, there's a lot that I don't know, a lot.

So I was just thinking to myself, it's a bit surreal what's going on here

because the first time I saw you, it was on an album cover.

We didn't meet but we had that relationship

- over the cultural boycott. - Right.

And here you are, 25 years later.

I know you are a brilliant artist, I've respected you all my life,

I know that you had no mal-intent in going,

and I do think it's regrettable that with the brilliance of what you did,

with these musicians,

there was this conflagration around it on a political level.

Well, this misunderstanding is really unfortunate,

and it's been on my mind for all this time.

So, I'll tell you my story,

- then you tell me your story. - Sure.

- Then we'll see what happened. - Yeah.

I was given a cassette.

It was called Accordion Jive Hits by the Boyoyo Boys.

I used to play this tape all the time,

and after about three weeks of it I said,

"You know, this is my favorite music."

"I am not interested in listening to anything else."

I found out that it came from South Africa, so I asked my record label,

"Do we know anybody in South Africa?"

They said, "Yeah, there's this producer Hilton Rosentha|."

I had the call from Paul Simon and he said that

one of the cuts on side two, I think, was called Gumboots,

and could I do some research.

I asked Paul at that time what he wanted to do with the song.

He said he had written some lyrics.

And he wasn't sure what he was going to do but that he just wanted to record the song.

Paul put the cassette in, played this thing, and he sang, and I said to him,

"You can just do that here in New York. Just get a couple of great players."

"You've got the instrumentation. The players can certainly do that."

He looked at me like, "What?"

And he said, "No, no, no, no. I'm going down there."

I really wanted to do that music.

But I was very aware of what was going on, politically, in South Africa.

So I call up Harry Belafonte, who I've known for many, many years.

When I spoke to Paul, I said,

"I think it's great that you're going,

"and I think you should just let the ANC know,

"|et Oliver Tambo and the leadership know.

"The ANC, the African National Congress, was the voice of black South Africans."

"I can introduce you to the powers that prevail"

"to let them know what you're doing so that you can have"

"all of the necessary passes on it."

And I saw right then and there that Paul resisted the idea.

Paul, as I recall, declared that the power of art and the voice of the artist

was supreme and that to go to one group or another,

for whatever reason, to beg the rite of passage

was against his instinct.

It was an adventure that seemed irresistible to me.

And, of course, I was fascinated

and intimidated by the fact that I'm coming to South Africa.

And I didn't tell Harry, you know?

Which I probably should have done.

Except it's like your dad.

You know, when your dad says, "Don't take the car,"

but you really have a date that you really want to go on,

you just decide you're gonna take the car anyway.

So, I came with my engineer,

and I was immediately struck by the extreme racial tension.

And coming from a country that was racially tense,

I was absolutely unprepared for what it felt like in the air.

The law of the land was apartheid.

Mandela was still in jail.

De Klerk was the president.

I was uncomfortable.

But we got into the studio

and began to record with this group called Tau Ea Matsekha.

It was very exciting to see these South African groups come in.

I was already familiar with their records.

There was this accordion player named Forere.

He didn't know who I was. He didn't speak English.

But our interaction was really interesting

because you give him a signal and you say, "Go,"

and he just starts playing.

And then everybody would fall in behind him.

He was playing a melody on the accordion and I wanted him to play,

and we got a really great sound.

It was kind of all over the place and needed to be edited and changed around.

When we started jamming in the studio with Paul,

I didn't know him.

I saw this guy with cowboy boots, you know?

And I was asking myself, "What is this guy trying to do?"

Because he was trying to fuse pop music plus African music.

The first clay, the feeling in the room was a little strained.

That's what I sensed. They're very shy. You know, "Am I doing the right thing?"

And it was really something to see them change.

During the course of the session, all of a sudden,

were a bunch a musicians in this room having fun.

Bakithi played the fretless bass,

and when he plays a groove, the guy lights up, you know.

He just lights up. He's incredible.

And his intonation and his articulation was phenomenal.

I was just working as a mechanic, and then one day

I got this call from the boss

and he said, "Hey, Paul Simon is in town, and he's looking for some musicians,"

and I said, "Paul Simon? Who is Paul Simon?"

I mean, I had no idea.

And the guy tried to explain to me, he's singing all the songs, you know,

like the songs from Simon & Garfunkel and I'm like,

"It doesn't ring a bell."

And then I take my bass and I go to the studio.

And so I meet Paul and Roy Halee, the engineer, and they're like,

"Hey, man. Let's play some grooves."

Every groove we play, Paul just loved it.

And then he would stop and change it, but we didn't know why...

I mean, the groove is so good, why was he changing?

But he needed another part that we didn't know.

Then he'll break and then give us different chords,

and then we'd learn different things.

It was like going back to music school.

The initial recording sessions in Johannesburg were planned pretty quietly.

I contacted the representatives of the groups that Paul wanted to work with

including producer Koloi Lebona.

Hilton said, "Could you organize the musicians"

"that would play on the session?"

So, I brought Bakithi Kumalo, I brought Vusi Khumalo as a drummer,

and I brought Forere who plays piano accordion.

What attracted me was the way Forere combines

what his left hand and his right hand is playing on the accordion.

And I think that's exactly what drew Paul Simon to be entranced with this music.

We are at the house of the piano accordion player Forere Motloheloa.

We've come here to fetch him for this Graceland reunion project.

This was the original melody

that Paul Simon turned into The Boy In The Bubble, yeah?

And what he says here is he's paying tribute to

a beautiful woman that he has found and that he's happy with.

He says the solitude of the place combined with the landscape

gives him so much time to think of beautiful things

that he then translates into the music.

When Forere came to me, he was working in the mines.

The money paid in the mines was a pittance.

But it was better than sitting around here and doing nothing.

And he started realizing that,

"Well, surely there must be other means of earning a living"

"than just slaving away in the mines."

And that's how he learned to perfect his accordion skills.

The way he plays a piano accordion, it's the voicing.

How he's adapting it to suit the traditional Basuto melodies.

And that's what led to the birth of The Boy In The Bubble.

Do you think it would be interesting to hear him sing his song?

We will see if we can combine the two songs.

So he begins verse four, I answer verse four,

he comes back, verse four.

After that we go to the chorus.

Again, he sings again, and I sing against him.

This is the way it happened. This is what happened in the studio.

You know, somebody would play and I'd say,

"That's good, let's do that. Let's go here and let's go there."

"Then let's do this. No, no."

"Then, Bakithi, you play here. Then we'll try that."

"Let's try it again. Let's do it this way and this way."

Trial and error. So, we'll try it now. We'll see how many errors we make.

When Paul Simon was in South Africa in 1985,

it was at a moment of high struggle.

The apartheid regime were at their most vicious.

It was very scary,

I was just a kid growing up there,

but I just had no idea why there was so much problem.

And people are running,

the cops come in the middle of the night, start counting people.

There was a point sometime I couldn't eat for two days

because there was no food.

And my parents, they didn't know where they were gonna get the food the next day.

So you just gotta hang in there.

Because the apartheid regime were at their most vicious,

we had to ensure that by all means necessary they are isolated.

The General Assembly of the United Nations

called for economic sanctions, oil embargo, sports boycott,

and cultural boycott of South Africa.

Part of the cultural boycott

was to call on all people who are engaged in cultural activities

not to cooperate with South Africa.

What were the ANC's hope

that artists of other nations might do to help?

I think firstly, we'd like them to obey the cultural boycott of South Africa

to the letter.

We had been saying to artists all over the world,

"At this point in the history of South Africa,"

"the expression of your support must be non-participatory."

"You can't go there."

The way in which you interact with other peoples is on a free basis,

between free people.

I remember talking about the issue of Paul Simon,

that I did not think that it was correct for him to come.

When I brought musicians to the Graceland session,

I was patently aware at the time that there was a cultural boycott.

It was risky,

but our music is always regarded as third world music.

And I thought, if our music gets a chance to be part of mainstream music,

surely that can't do any harm.

So when Paul Simon came,

I deliberately withheld some of the risks involved

in doing this thing.

I thought, "What the heck? This is a chance in a million."

"We must do this."

Yeah.

That's it.

That's good. That's cool.

- Shall we try I Know What I Know? - Yeah.

See if we can do it? All right.

Isaac!

- You think you know what you know. - I know.

Bakithi knows what he knows.

This song was originally recorded with General Shirinda and the Gaza Sisters.

They're Shangaan.

Shangaan sound was electric guitar-based

with a pop band around it.

And some very strange, to Western ears anyway,

strange sounds of the female vocalists

doing a wailing sound in the background.

It's different because it's like

you're singing out of tune sometimes.

But that is how it should sound like. You understand?

When General Shirinda came into the studio,

they came in with the whole family, mothers, and their children.

It was like a party.

I was in South Africa for a very short time, like maybe 10 or 12 days,

recording frantically.

And it was exhilarating.

It was really amazing.

The album that preceded Graceland, Hearts and Bones,

was a relative commercial failure.

And my reaction to that, rather than thinking,

"I'm dead,"

my reaction to that was,

"Well, good. The next time I make a record, nobody will be looking over my shoulder,"

which is what they'd been doing for years and years.

"What's the hit on this album? What's it gonna be?"

Because I had an unbroken string of hits from Simon & Garfunkel,

up until Hearts and Bones.

So that was in my mind when I went to South Africa,

"Well, I can do whatever I want here.

"And I'm not gonna get calls from the record company every week saying,

"'How's it going?" Or, "Can you send us something? We're dying to hear it."'

They just left me alone, and that was good.

With those groups that I knew, like General Shirinda and the Gaza Sisters,

I really had a clear idea of what I really liked, and what I wanted to record.

So those songs, where there's co-writing,

that's because they were based on tracks that I had heard,

and I could point to their record and say,

"Can you play this, but change it a little bit here?"

And whatever writing was shared,

we would share the credit and share the royalties.

I thought about writing political songs about the situation,

but I'm not actually very good at it.

And here's an interesting thing.

When I recorded with General Shirinda a song that became I Know What I Know,

I asked him, "What's that song about?"

And he said, "You know, it's about..."

"Remember the '60s when girls wore really short skirts? Wasn't that great?"

He said, "That's what it was about."

So I said, "You know, they're not making up political music."

"They're making up pop music."

These songs are pop music.

What was the other verse about the chicken and...

The other one, it says...

It means, "Slaughter an owl"

"because there's no chicken,"

"and you cut the head and throw it away."

"The body will look like a chicken, so don't worry."

"We Will eat that in the train."

We'll eat it on the train. It'll look like a chicken.

Cut off the head of the owl, it'll look like a chicken.

And nobody will know. We'll eat it on the train.

Yeah.

That's what it meant.

So I realized that instead of writing a song like Biko, the Peter Gabriel song,

which I love, in fact I recorded it,

and is a great example of a political song.

My idea was, "They play their best. I'm gonna play my best."

"I'm gonna give it my best shot."

I didn't come in here promising to do anything

other than to make a really great record.

They didn't say, "Come in here and tell our story."

They just said, "Yeah, you can come in. We'll play with you."

Biko was a more overt political song than the work of Graceland.

But Graceland introduced millions of people around the world

to what was wonderful in South African music.

And made people feel good, want to dance.

There were so many positives in Africa.

And yet most of us still have the image of a child in drought, surrounded by flies,

or Africa, the basket case that needs help.

Graceland helped people around the world think that there was a lot more to Africa

than suffering.

Once we got to the second week of recording,

the nucleus of the band was Ray Phiri on guitar,

Bakithi Kumalo on bass, and Isaac Mtshali on drums.

And Paul would go in and they would chat

and start playing around and grooving,

and then when Paul heard something he liked,

he'd say, "Let's try that and build around it."

He said to us, "Feel free, play anything."

We started jamming, playing anything, like we're practicing.

Only to find that the tape is rolling, you know.

And then they are sitting that side, they keep on peeking,

"Okay, stop now."

"Okay, now run."

"Okay, now stop."

Just do the answer to this bass voice, instead of playing solo throughout it.

So it's...

Here comes the bass.

We were just playing around our African thing,

only to find that Paul, he's hearing things his way.

At the end of the day when we listened to the whole thing,

we didn't believe it's us doing that.

Because we're not thinking of, like,

"Are we recording or what?"

The sessions were great.

But the racial tension in South Africa was at such a level

that it was palpable even in the studio.

Here's a kind of an example of what it was like.

The Boyoyo Boys came into the studio.

And I said, "Play this." And they couldn't play it.

And when they came back the next clay, they still couldn't play it.

And I'm really frustrated.

"Why is it terrible?"

And one of the white engineers, or assistant engineers, said,

"Well, now you see what we're talking about here?"

"This is what we're talking about."

"I mean, they can't do it."

"They tell you they can, but they can't do it."

It was a racist comment.

Did it bother me? It stunned me.

You know? I didn't know.

The epiphany comes from the next day when Ray Phiri comes in.

Ray Phiri comes in with his band,

which was probably the top band in South Africa, it was called Stimela.

And the drummer was Isaac Mtshali.

So they came in, and he was playing, and I was playing with him,

and I said, "Well, that's good. Why don't we do that?"

And he said, "Yeah, I can do that."

And then I overdub another part on top of it.

And I'm still thinking about the Boyoyo Boys.

So I say, "Yeah, yeah, just get that and I'll be happy."

So he does, he gets it.

And I think, "Well, that's pretty good."

He says, "Let me do the overdub now."

So I say, "Yeah, okay, go ahead, try it, overdub."

And it's great.

And suddenly I realize the guy's brilliant.

I was ready to buy into the racist thing.

They fed it to me. They give it to you, you know.

So you get a big South African lesson.

We were all just meeting for the first time.

They didn't know my political beliefs, and I didn't know theirs.

And I knew that Stimela was a number one group.

But I didn't know that they were known as a group

that was provocative to the police.

Sometimes at the gig, the police are waiting for us.

They say, "Where are those Stimelas?"

"We want those Stimelas. Where are they?"

They come with tear gas. And they put tear gas all over the place.

People are like this.

I'm not afraid.

If I have to die, and I die on stage, I'll be the happiest.

But if I have to die on the street when somebody does that,

that would be cowardly.

As a musician, I could see that things are bad.

But we keep on singing the song.

One day, Ray started playing the riff...

After we recorded the backing track,

next morning I picked Paul up on the way to the studio.

And said to him, "I have a feeling that yesterday"

"at least one of the hits from this album was recorded."

So we began to know each other.

And the recording process,

which was still completely separated from any political implications,

as far as I knew,

was getting more and more fascinating.

We were really learning how to combine different musical ideas.

Okay, let me tell you my story.

Go ahead.

I had been in exile for a while and went to live in England.

These people were hunting my father, Oliver Tambo, as a terrorist.

As the president of the ANC, he was an icon of human rights.

And I grew up surrounded by revolutionaries.

Our home was a hub for all exiles.

So I met a lot of people in that time

who showed me that this was actually a united struggle.

And we formed Artists Against Apartheid to enforce this cultural boycott

because we genuinely felt that if you go there,

you become part of apartheid's attempt to gain international legitimacy

and pull itself out of the sanctions that was gripping the country.

And so when you came to South Africa, it wasn't the ideal form of cultural exchange.

They weren't free people, Paul.

Then why did they say, "Come"?

Do you think they were all selfish, that they did it for three times union scale?

Yeah, I think if you went anywhere in the world and you said,

"Paul Simon wants to perform with you,"

people would pretty much say, "Yes, I'll do that."

Yes, but I treated them as equals.

They treated me as equals.

We treated each other as musicians.

We didn't have anything to do with color, race.

It was purely music.

And it wasn't lost on any of them,

because here I come back 25 years later, and those people are my dear friends.

Joseph, my brother.

Where is my hug?

You come back with it.

It is very special to work with Paul Simon because many, many years

it was very difficult to work together with a white person.

But when we started to work with Paul Simon,

we didn't see a difference.

We didn't see that he's white, I'm black.

I just... He's my brother.

- You good? - You do it again.

- Do it again? I'll do it forever. - Yeah.

- So glad to see you, my friend. - Thank you so much.

Joseph Shabalala, from Ladysmith Black Mambazo,

came into the studio.

And that's the group that I knew from a British documentary

called The Rhythm of Resistance.

In townships outside the white cities, music happens everywhere.

The Ladysmith Black Mambazo are a group who found exceptional commercial success.

They draw on the Zulu tradition of the male vocal group

to create a unique blend of African and Western harmonies.

The sound of Ladysmith Black Mambazo, it's a sound of everything that surrounds us,

because we grew up in the farm.

Birds singing, wind blowing, frogs singing,

and some small insect.

So the music is there all the time.

When I got the call, I just ran to my guys.

"Hey, I talked to somebody."

"His name is Paul Simon."

"He wants to see me."

I was proud of that. "He wants to see me. He wants to talk to me."

And the guy said, "Go there, go there. Don't make a mistake."

"Please go there and come back and tell us."

Joseph Shabalala was very quiet in the studio.

He was just kind of mysterious and quiet.

So I didn't know whether he liked what I was doing,

or whether he liked me.

And he gave me like 10 or 12 albums which I used to listen to every night.

I used to listen to them on...

I would fall asleep listening to them.

And I just totally became,

just bewitched by Ladysmith Black Mambazo

because they were so beautiful.

The music was enchanting.

It was all a cappella. I'd never heard it really, never heard it.

And I thought it was so beautiful that I was totally intimidated.

They were so good at what they did, and it was so contained,

that I didn't really know at the time

how I could possibly fit into their world,

and didn't know whether they wanted me to fit into their world.

And I couldn't bring myself to ask him

if he would bring the group in and try to record something in the studio.

Paul was so polite.

Paul has a special magic. Nobody has that magic.

He just came to me like a baby,

like, "Father",

"can you teach me something?"

And we hugged. That was my first time to hug,

especially a white man.

When I finished that, I said, "I'm in jail HOW."

And Paul Simon was talking, and I forgot about that. "Oh, yes."

"And Joseph, Paul Simon from New York City."

"| just listened to your record. I think you can do something together."

I'm a person who is just like when you talk about music to me,

let's do it now.

And I say, "Yes, Paul, let's do it."

And he said, "A|| right, Joseph. I'll let you know where, when."

So we decided that I would write a song,

and we would record outside of South Africa.

I didn't wanna go back to South Africa.

I wasn't comfortable.

I wanted to get out of there.

We took it back to New York, and that's when the work really started.

Putting it all together, it was a heck of an undertaking.

Roy's a genius.

I think what Roy had to do after the fact

was incredibly difficult and time-consuming.

In this day and age, with Pro Tools,

it wouldn't have been that difficult.

That didn't exist, and he had stuff he had to do.

The challenge on this album

was there were no songs, there was no arrangement.

So the challenge was editing, editing, editing, and lots of editing.

Taking things from here, putting them there,

take that out, put it over here, and recopying things.

If you heard what the tracks were originally

without his magic, and his echo,

and his devices that he used,

it wouldn't sound so huge and so mysterious.

So we finished all our editing.

We made tracks that had some semblance of a song there.

And he went on and tried desperately to put words to each one.

And he did.

And he slaved at it. It was awfully hard

because there's so much going on in those tracks.

They're very busy tracks.

Paul came back from Africa

and we met on holiday that year.

We were in the same place in the summer, on Long Island.

I've known him for a little while as a friend.

And he talked about this music.

And I said, "Have you got it? Let's hear it."

So we went out to the car and he played it on the car stereo.

And I said, "What are you gonna do with it? What do you do? You got songs?"

He said, "Well, I'm gonna make them up."

When I was writing back at home,

I would write a verse, it would be fine.

And then I'd write another verse, it wouldn't be fine.

Then I'd write a verse, it would be fine.

I'd say, "Yeah, it's all good, except for that verse. I don't know."

"I don't know why that verse isn't good."

"It should be. It seems like it's exactly the same as the others."

"And I'm doing the lyrics in the same rhythm. I really don't get it."

I was really frustrated by not being able to get the lyrics to fit.

And then I'd say, "Okay, let me really listen to what's going on."

And when I started to really listen,

then I realized that the guitar part was playing a different symmetry

than I had assumed it was playing.

And the bass was doing something that was much more important.

And that you really might be better off following what the bass was doing.

So I began to think about that, and the rhythm, and what that meant.

And what effect that would have on the lyrics.

And what effect that would have on storytelling.

And I began to raise the bar for my own writing.

Paul to me is almost like a painter and a screenwriter,

the way he writes songs.

Because he makes me see things when he writes.

He gets really inside of his music,

and takes you there with colors,

whether it be pennywhistle or whatever, you know, African choirs.

He's got that curious mind.

So I ended up writing abstract, or ironic,

but in either case, sort of sophisticated lyrics

to what were sophisticated rhythms.

So you get a song like Graceland, where in the middle of the song, it's,

"There's a girl in New York City who calls herself the human trampoline."

A lyric that would never appear in a South African song.

I mean, it was a very New York lyric.

I mean, I wrote it while I was walking past the Museum of Natural History.

And I kept singing this chorus,

"I'm going to Graceland. I'm going to Graceland."

And I kept thinking, "Well, of course, that'll go away"

"because the song is not about Elvis Presley or Graceland."

I mean, it's a South African record.

But it wouldn't go away.

And finally I said, "You know, it's not going away. I better go to Graceland."

I had never been.

I better make that trip and see what...

Maybe there's something about this that I'm supposed to find out.

And had I not made that trip,

I wouldn't have been able to have written thelandscape,

that is the first verse, about the Mississippi delta.

"Shining like a National guitar."

And so the song took on a bigger meaning.

It was a metaphor for a state of grace.

I was taking absurdist lyrics,

which I thought had no place with this rhythm track.

And finally saying, "Well, maybe it does have a place."

"Sometimes when I'm falling, flying, tumbling in turmoil..."

This was something else that I was doing, was a lot of syllables.

"This is what she means. She means we're bouncing into Graceland."

Which was also something that I hadn't done,

which was taking the chorus word

and putting it into the verse.

Usually the chorus has its own repetitive phrase, or word,

and you don't hear that word in the verse.

But now I was saying, "Well, there's no reason to separate."

"They can bleed back and forth."

And that's the beginning of saying, actually, these patterns that have felt restrictive

are not...

They needn't be there.

I remember he would invite me over to hear what he was doing.

We did that a lot in those days. We still do.

He would have the backing tracks and play those for me,

and then he would just sing the words.

And at some point I said, "Paul",

"this is gonna be a really, really good record."

That's very good, guys.

That was the great gift that I received from making the trip to South Africa,

and collaborating with African musicians.

I think a lot of musicians all over the world are drawn to African music in particular

because almost all the pop music in the world is African, in a certain way.

It came in through the slaves, and through Cuban music,

and through New Orleans and all these places

and it kind of seeped in

and it became, really, part of American music,

and part of international pop music.

In Graceland, you can hear the whole phenomena of American music

being rejoined with its African roots.

It wasn't until I got home that I started to think,

"I could write a song for Ladysmith Black Mambazo."

And so I wrote Homeless, imitating them, and sent the demo to them

and said,

"You can use this or you can change it."

"And add to it if you want or change it completely if you want."

"Do anything you want to it."

After two weeks, we saw the cassette

came in the post office from Paul Simon.

And then we put the cassette to play.

So he was playing a piano and singing only two lines.

"Homeless, homeless. Moonlight sleeping on a midnight lake."

And then he was doing some other noise like...

And then we thought, "Maybe he was trying to say..."

And then do all those things.

They wrote back and said, yeah, they liked it

and they had some ideas.

And we decided to go to Abbey Road Studios in London.

- London? - First class.

London!

In London, we were taken to the studio,

and then that was the first time for us, as a group, to meet Paul Simon.

Wow! This is wonderful! It felt so good! And so exciting.

So the microphones were set there. And then we get there.

We started to sing the song.

But the song didn't want to work the first day.

Our producer here at home, West Nkosi, was there trying to help.

He said, "No guys, man. Just sing it like this. Paul wants this."

And so many people are trying to help.

We tried the song from 2:00 until 6:00 in the evening.

And then the song didn't want to work at all.

And Paul Simon said, "Okay, let's call it a day and then we'll see tomorrow."

We went back to our hotel very disappointed.

Because usually, Ladysmith Black Mambazo, we record 12 songs a day.

But this time, only one song, we couldn't make it.

We were so disappointed. And then when we get in the hotel,

we had dinner, and then we got together, we pray.

Our prayer was very, you know, deep that day.

I remember that I was so concerned that, "No, I've never failed in anything."

"So this is no time to fail now."

And then, so, we practice the song until 12:00 midnight.

And then the song was together.

- I should come over here. - Maybe!

The next day when we went to the studio

and Joseph just walk up to Paul Simon and said,

"We have been practicing."

"So we want you to listen, what we have been practice."

We just look one another, "Okay, guys."

Just like I'm angry.

And then Paul...

I nearly faint.

I thought he's going to wait until we finish.

And he gets there in the right position.

I think it took two takes. They had it so perfectly.

The beginning of the song is a folk song or traditional song.

I said, "What does it mean?"

And then they said, "We're far away from home,"

"and we're sleeping and our fists are our pillows."

I said, "That's beautiful."

In two hours, the song was finished.

We were so excited and so satisfied.

And we said... "This is it. Wonderful!"

I enjoyed to work with Paul Simon.

It was just like he's my younger brother or elder brother, "Who is this guy?"

"He was hiding himself in America? This is my brother."

I call him brother every day. Brother because of music.

Music is something like prayer.

Then we decided that we would get Ray Phiri and Bakithi

and Isaac and form a kind of a studio band.

And I invited them

and Ladysmith to come to New York to finish the album.

And everybody was getting really excited.

First of all, they got off the plane. They were met by a limo.

You know, and a white driver. And they drove into Manhattan.

I used to see a limo in the movie.

And, I mean, in South Africa, I don't remember seeing any limo anywhere.

I mean, do you understand what I'm saying?

And it was a cool thing to be in the limo

and you're served whiskey and that kind of thing.

You know, you're being treated like a musician.

My dream was just to come to New York.

Because, as a kid, looking at the records,

and listening to the records that were recorded in New York,

I just wanted to go there and be one of those guys.

And it happened.

I remember, it was Bakithi or Isaac said,

"We want to go to Central Park. Where do we go to get a permit?"

And I said, "You don't need a permit. You just go."

"You can go anywhere you want."

Those guys were coming from an imprisoned society

into freedom for the first time.

It was very touching.

They were free. Free.

The record was supposed to come out in the spring of '86.

And we were booked to do "Saturday Night Live."

And Warner Bros. Decided to postpone the record till the fall,

but we were booked for "Saturday Night Live."

So I said, "While we're all here, we might as well try and do another track."

So we did what became Diamonds On The Soles Of Her Shoes.

They were doing the song.

And then they stopped, and Paul Simon said to Mr. Shabalala,

"Can you play this song?"

"I'm just doing this song, Diamonds On The Soles Of Her Shoes."

And then, so Joseph just took a piece of paper and then the pen,

and then he wrote it down, only few words.

What were the words?

Zulu lyrics, means...

"It's not usually..."

"But in our days..."

"We see those things happen."

"The women, they can take care of themselves."

We decided to put.

Ladysmith Black Mambazo at the end of the track.

And they had never sung with musicians before.

They always sang a cappella.

We were there, maybe, not even two hours' time.

And then, Paul Simon said, "You're at the end." He said, "Let's do this..."

Yeah, and everybody was having a good time.

After that, we went to do "Saturday Night Live."

And everybody was very nervous about that,

they said, "That audience there, they are very mean."

We didn't care because we believe what we have is that,

"If we sing for you, if you like it, you like it, if you don't, you don't."

And we went on the show,

and we sang these songs that weren't out on a record yet.

Do you think people are going to like this when you do it?

I'm not sure. That's why I have this expression.

If it doesn't work, we'll just cut it.

Ladies and gentlemen, Paul Simon with Ladysmith and Black Mambazo.

And then we sing the song. We perform it with confidence.

Everyone was kind of in awe.

It wasn't like anything that was on the show before.

And you felt it in the studio.

You knew what was happening in the country, and it was just...

The cheering and the sound in the studio from the audience,

it was so loud that I kind of lost my place in one of the things.

It was really surprising. 'Cause nobody had ever heard it before.

Them being on the show was a revolution in taste.

It was the synthesis of two cultures.

And the obvious affection that they had for Paul and that Paul had for them

was the perfect moment.

When we finished the song, everybody stood up.

They clapped and then they even stomped, whistling and all those things.

And everybody was very happy for that.

Ladysmith Black Mambazo became the hippest act on the planet.

And everybody wanted Ladysmith Black Mambazo.

They became international stars and remain so.

So, almost two years after I first went to South Africa, the record finally came out.

It was met with immediate praise.

There is so much despair coming out of South Africa,

so many haunting images of death and oppression.

Sometimes hard to remember that life there does go on, in all of its forms.

The celebration of the black life of South Africa

can be heard in this country

in a remarkable album called Graceland.

Rather than diluting one of the most vital, pop-music subcultures in the world,

that of black South Africa, he transforms it.

He works a real synthesis. That's very hard to do.

All artists who have long careers periodically hit dead ends.

And if you're gonna keep a career going, you have to keep being a kid again.

And that's in a way what he did with Graceland was to be a kid again.

To be back at three chords, to be bouncing around,

to be making joyous danceable music.

It's my favorite album of all time.

Second favorite, Stevie Wonder, Songs In The Key Of Life.

There was all of this music that had so much vibrancy

and life and excitement and rhythm and everything.

It just sort of opened up a space inside of you.

For myself, my deep and now abiding interest in South Africa

was stirred by first listening to Graceland.

Simon's work Graceland recently won a Grammy for Album of the Year.

I think Graceland came at the right moment.

It was the perfect storm, you know.

The words are amazing, you know?

The Boy in the Bubble and the baby with the baboon heart.

Come on, now. That's great, you know.

The rhythms are great, the music is great, the lyrics are great.

It just has a great sound that the instruments,

the instrumentals that he is using, you know, that thing that goes...

I mean, come on, man. It's classic.

But somewhere around three weeks after it came out, the first criticism came.

Which I was completely unprepared for.

And the criticism was,

"You broke the UN cultural boycott."

Paul Simon has run into political problems in South Africa.

The African National Congress protested Simon's recording in South Africa,

a violation, they said, of the UN's cultural boycott.

The album had the controversy around it.

It was very vexed going to South Africa at that time.

And you got the feeling that Paul Simon had gone in there on a stealth mission

and collaborated with the South Africans.

I mean, he was collaborating, it turned out, with the right South Africans.

But the whole project seemed a little odd.

A lot of the press picked it up in the United States,

Rolling Stone amongst them, and kind of saw an opportunity

to beat up on a famous guy who, like, maybe made a mistake.

And so they were all,

"Paul Simon didn't ask permission from the UN"

"and is on the blacklist from the UN."

The intensity of the criticism, really did surprise me.

And part of the criticism was,

"Here's this white guy from New York, and he came in and he ripped off"

"these poor innocent guys."

There is an aspect in this album that bothered me initially.

You have this rich white guy

singing on top of these South African singles.

To demonstrate how his work melded with that of the South Africans,

he first played the track of a popular local band.

And then, the same tune after it had been Simonized.

To me, at the time it seemed kind of like the tourist picture,

"Here's me in front of the Taj Mahal in my T-shirt, waving."

And that bothered me at that time. At this point it doesn't.

I think he was right. And he was ahead of me.

He was saying, "We can make this amalgam work. We can make this combination work."

And, I think a lot of people at that time had this knee-jerk reaction

of rich privileged white guy, poor country, must be bad.

How can you justify going there, taking all this music from this country?

It's nothing but stealing.

It ain't nothing but stealing.

How can you just go and tell me, "| went there..."

Graceland is a collaboration.

You don't believe that it's possible to have a collaboration?

It's always an interesting debate, you know.

It's happened all the way through history,

particularly through black history.

Do you believe that collaboration is possible between musicians?

- Between you and them, no. - Why?

You don't understand.

Why, because I'm white and they are South African?

With the Beatles, we actually recycled American black music

to Americans.

We came over and we were really doing

a lot of Motown.

But a lot of white kids hadn't heard Motown.

You don't understand the music at all.

Well, you are saying something that they, these musicians, in fact, disagree with.

I accepted Paul's music and what he'd done the minute it came out.

I had no resistance to that.

I am a fan of his and I like very much, so much, that he has done.

And to have that album in particular,

which was filled with moments of great genius

and delight.

A lot of that welcoming, however, was under the understanding,

or at least the belief, that he would square what he was doing

with the powers who led the resistance to apartheid, which was the ANC.

It never dawned on me that that was not the case.

And I did not know that that was not the case until Paul called

and we met in my home.

And he explained to me

that he had this crisis, or this obstacle before him.

Harry said, "You should talk to the ANC."

So when I met with the ANC,

I said, "Hey, I have no fight with the ANC, we have no fight with the ANC."

"We support the ANC. We'd be willing to do concerts for you."

And they said, "Look, here's the problem."

"You went to South Africa, but you didn't ask us."

"And the way we're structured is"

"you have to ask the ANC if you're gonna do anything."

So I said, "Really? Is that the kind of government you're going to be?"

"So does that mean we have to show you what kind of lyrics we're going to write?

"Or if the musicians' union decides to vote this way

"and you don't like the way they vote, then you'll change it around?"

"I mean, that's just the government that just..."

"You're going to fuck the artist like all kinds of governments."

"What are we talking about here?"

What was their response?

The guy's response was, "Hey, personally, I agree with you."

"But that's what policy is."

When you have a boycott, it's not flexible.

And for many people, that was the issue.

"Is Paul Simon bursting the gates of the cultural boycott open?"

Say no to apartheid! Say yes to freedom!

We were part of this international sanctions campaign,

which was cultural and sports and business and military,

and in all of those areas.

It wasn't about, "Well, we have a military embargo."

"But this American tank, that one can go through."

It was complete, and it was complete for a reason.

Because you can't ask of everyone what you don't ask of one.

Hugh is here! Here comes Hugh now.

Hi, Hugh. How are you doing?

I'm doing good, man.

Hugh Masekela is one of the great South African musicians.

He's an international star and he was a political exile.

Hugh connected up with me in London and we began to talk about touring.

And I don't think that I could have done it without him.

B flat, so that's one...

Paul had just come from South Africa.

And he said, "Listen, I just did this thing"

"and I'd really like to take it all over the world. Are you interested?"

I said, "Of course."

And I said to Paul, "lt'd be good",

"then to pull in like a Miriam Makeba," because I was anticipating the troubles also.

And here now is Miriam Makeba.

Miriam Makeba became the most visible African artist in the 1960s

when nobody had heard of artists from South Africa.

She was the first artist to really break out hard.

And she was the first person to conscientize not only the world,

but America, especially, about what was happening in South Africa.

Would you not resist if you were allowed no rights

in your own country?

We'd been away from home by that time, me and Miriam, over 25 years in exile.

So I spoke to Miriam, she's interested.

And I knew it was going to be great.

We were going to be like pigs in mud with all that was gonna happen.

By the time he did the "Graceland Tour,"

and then you saw the physical presence of Africans and whites

and the melange, the mixture of races and cultures,

that was, I think, a supreme moment.

He wanted to demonstrate that he wasn't all the things that was inferred

by the fact that he had broken the boycott.

So by putting Miriam Makeba and Ladysmith Black Mambazo,

and the whole mishpocha, as we say.

Back then, he did a lot to balance social conflict or social contradiction.

And in that context, I think he declared to the audiences that he faced

where his deeper self resided.

"Graceland Tour" was just a godsend. Really, it was beautiful.

Just traveling around the world, seeing all those people.

In South Africa, we had no opportunity.

You know, we could only play in the townships,

couldn't play in town, in the beautiful nightclubs.

You've got dreams but they can never come true. It really destroys you.

But Graceland opened my eyes and set a tone of hope in my life.

I remember when we were on tour, and especially in Europe,

during the winter times,

every time Black Mambazo went on that stage and started singing...

I would feel tears coming, and I'm like, "Here I am,"

"I'm an African boy, I'm in the middle of the snow."

"And people have come to the show."

"There are 50,000 people filled up in the stadium."

And I would be crying, and I'm like, "Damn, we are really seeing the world."

Now, at the time, the boycott stated that.

South African musicians could not play anywhere in the world.

Paul decided that it was a risk he was prepared to take.

Touring with Graceland was actually quite tense at times,

particularly in Europe. Before every concert,

the police would come with bomb-sniffing dogs and go through the whole theater.

We had a couple of theaters evacuated

and shows postponed because of bomb threats,

where they said, "Hey, we think there, you know..."

"You can't go on at 8:00. You're going on at 9:15."

The day he arrived, a hand grenade was thrown at a building

housing sound equipment to be used during the concerts.

A group calling itself The Azanian National Liberation Army

claimed responsibility. More violence was threatened

unless Simon called off the tour.

I remember when we were in London especially,

we performed at the Royal Albert Hall.

I think we were there for about 10 days or so,

and of course we had anti-apartheid movement protesting.

Outside the Albert Hall, leaflets critical of the activities of the star

were presented to his bemused fans.

And Paul Simon has set a very dangerous precedent by going to South Africa,

and we would like him to admit that, recognize it,

and come on board with the cultural boycott.

I remember Thabo Mbeki, now President. Thabo Mbeki phoning me from New York,

and he had met with Harry Belafonte and some other people,

and he phoned me and said, "Look, we think you should, as Artists Against Apartheid",

"be flexible on this issue."

And so I went back and we had a meeting, Artists Against Apartheid,

and I said, "Look, this is the position. And we have to take it into account."

"It's coming from a heavyweight in our movement."

And then they said, "Let's check with ANC London,"

and ANC London in turn checked with Lusaka.

The message came back, "Absolutely not. You're not going to be flexible."

"The boycott remains."

At one point, somebody called the hotel in London

and ordered the South Africans to go back home.

I was in the room with Ray Phiri. And Ray said, "Asante, do you believe this?"

"We face apartheid every day"

"and you're ordering us to go home. Are you crazy?"

I've never seen Ray so angry.

I remember I got a call to the hotel in London.

I've gotta go and see the ANC. I went to a pub

and then I met some of the senior members of the movement

who wanted to know what are we doing there.

And I told them that, "No, we're here to perform."

"Perform with whom?"

"With Paul Simon."

They told me, "Don't you know that there's a cultural boycott?"

And I said, "Okay, tell me like I'm a seven-year-old. Teach me."

"What did I do wrong? I don't understand it. I'm the victim here."

"| live in South Africa. How can you victimize the victim twice?"

Ladies and gentlemen, Hugh Masekela.

That militant approach was at the core of the criticism

that was leveled against me, and had it not been for Hugh Masekela

and for Miriam Makeba and Ray Phiri

and all the South Africans who were on the tour, who said,

"Stop. What are you doing?"

"We wanna be out here. We wanna show our music."

There would be press conferences all the time,

and the press conferences were like just people who were just hoping

that I had made some kind of ridiculous mistake.

But when the shit hit the fan,

Hugh and Miriam, I mean, they could barely be contained.

Hugh would say, "What the fuck did you ever do for South Africa?"

I mean, there were times when we really had to, like, hold him back.

He wanted to... Hugh wanted to be in a fight.

So mostly we were trying to explain

that we were as anti-apartheid as could be, that Hugh was an exile,

that Miriam was not allowed to come back for the burial of her daughter,

that we were very much against the regime.

We used to have furious arguments about the boycott.

'Cause I said, "It's great and it's helping South Africa,"

"but when you start to, like, also ban South African musicians"

"who can't make contact with the rest of the world and they're outstanding artists,"

"it can be hard on people who are already suffering in South Africa."

You can't witch-hunt your people.

This show is gonna be a smash

and is gonna play to many people who've never heard of South Africa.

When I was in exile in Botswana, I had thought

of joining the ANC.

But over the years, I've learned that

if an artist or anybody has really something to say

about their concerns for the wellbeing of people,

then they're in the wrong place if they join a political party

because they have to, like, then follow the strict rules of the party.

And I've never been able to live under rules.

When we went to Zimbabwe, Paul wanted to give South Africans a chance

to witness what we have been giving the people in Europe,

in America, all over the world. So he chose to do it in Zimbabwe.

And a lot of South Africans came over to witness this, and it was beautiful.

Ladies and gentlemen, comrades and friends,

this is "Graceland In Concert, 1987."

She's been in political exile now for 27 years.

They call her Mama Africa, the Queen of South African music,

Miriam Makeba.

The Zimbabwe concert meant a lot to me and to a lot of us

because it was great for South Africans to get together.

Not just black South Africans, but black and white South Africans,

which is something that was never done.

Everybody knew how important this moment is. It was amazing

because Masekela and Miriam, they embraced the whole project

and really made sure we're doing it right.

It's very important to be unified. They really prepped us really nice

and set an example for us.

I think the idea of us singing the South African anthem,

it came from Paul. It was the forbidden one at that time.

As soon as we'd start the song, Paul would step back

because he didn't understand the lyrics, you know.

But I think after two or three days,

we said, "No, Paul, you have to learn the lyrics"

"because we are all one here.

"And this is about you and all of us.

"So you need to learn the lyrics." So we taught him.

To be standing on the stage with people whose lives were scarred by apartheid,

was very, very powerful. I really felt privileged

and honored to be asked to be a part of it.

As Graceland became a phenomenon,

people began to put a very clear human face

on the victims of apartheid.

Suddenly, here's Joseph Shabalala. Suddenly, here's Miriam Makeba.

Here's suddenly, these charismatic, gifted people

and they are revealing a magical world.

And people said, "Oh, my God!"

"What do you mean that that's going on there?"

"This is really a crime."

Not that they didn't think it before, but suddenly it became a very powerful,

emotional realization. And that is what was going on with Graceland.

But you can't forget that all of them who had performed with you out there

returned to a country in which they had no citizenship and no rights.

So as people themselves, it may have been good for them,

in terms of their careers, it may have been a wonderful thing,

in terms of spreading the knowledge of our music,

but they are individuals,

and we were a nation under apartheid.

And so whatever was good for the nation came first,

not what is good for a few individuals.

But what did the artists have to say about that,

because my experience from my own country, and in general,

is that there's a certain hierarchy. At the top are the politicians.

And behind the politicians

are the mysterious people who have money and power.

After that comes the warriors, then comes the economists

who say, "This is how a structure must be."

And somewhere down the list comes the artist.

And when the artist comes in, the politician says,

"We really need you to come and play for this fundraiser."

Or, "We have a very important dinner. We'd like you to come and sing a few songs",

"acoustically after dinner."

"Come and take the love and respect that people have for you"

"and by implication transfer that to this candidate by your support."

The artists are always treated as if we worked for the politicians.

Thank you. Thank you and welcome to this reunion

of the 25th anniversary of the release of Graceland.

These are the musicians who played on the record and toured with us,

and it's been a great joy for me to reunite with them

after so many years.

That was the flaw in the cultural boycott.

Saying, "We won't let you come over here and record"

"and bring what you know to intermingle with what we know"

"so that we can grow, so that we all can grow."

"And so that we all can grow and speak the deep truth that artists speak."

If there's anything that can conquer the world, music.

A song, you don't have to understand the language,

you just have to understand the feel. I mean, it's 13 notes,

and every musician plays, we're all playing around 13 notes.

Music evolved the way the album predicted.

A lot of people make music this way now. This album is early sampling.

This album uses something from elsewhere and puts you on top of it

and is a layered assemblage of places and ideas.

And welcome to hip-hop.

I think when we look at the work of a man like Paul,

you have to put it in the context of a labor of a lifetime.

To articulate... What could we say? The secrets of the human heart and mind.

What loftier ambition could anyone have than that?

Now, you can say, "Well, we should have talked about the protests",

"and this and that and the bad things that happened."

The newspapers do that all the time.

People of far less talent than Paul are very well adapted to do that,

and God bless them, they can do it. But for Paul to be less than himself,

to satisfy a political correctness, to me, would've been a waste,

and he never wastes his talent.

You Can Call Me Al is really the story of somebody like me

who just goes to Africa with no idea

and ends up having some extraordinary, spiritual experience.

"Angels in the architecture. Spinning in infinity. Amen! Hallelujah!"

And starts off with,

"Why am I soft in the middle? The rest of my life is so hard."

It was a self-obsessed person becomes aware.

When Mandela finally was let out of jail, everybody was ecstatic.

Thousands of people gather, waiting for the first words

in more than 27 years, Nelson Mandela.

I greet you all in the name of peace,

democracy and freedom for all.

And then, ironically, we had the pleasure of being invited by the ANC

to come and perform in South Africa at Mandela's invitation.

In the news this morning,

Paul Simon opened his South African tour last night with a concert in Johannesburg.

The UN and the ANC believe that the cultural boycott

should be lifted, and they've made that announcement.

I've never gone into any of these struggles not believing it was going to end.

All oppression has to end.

And I think that art played a huge role in defeating the apartheid system.

All the artists, and I think Paul was one of them.

I think the thing is we are today free.

- Yes. - And the journey to freedom

was not a straight road. And there are those like yourself

who have, in some people's view, a misunderstood legacy

when it comes to the cultural boycott. But that doesn't go to you.

It goes to a political situation which was forced on all of us.

The power of art, it lasts because the political dispute that we had,

- it's just really gone... - That's it.

- But the music still brings people together. - That's it.

So that's it. I make my case on behalf of artists.

And I apologize to you if my lack of awareness

caused you any feelings that I was harming the cause.

- I certainly never meant it. - I know.

- And you know that. Good. - I know.

We let bygones be bygones. We're welcoming to all,

and that includes Paul Simon because we have no malice towards you.

- We do not consider you somebody... - I know that.

Who tried to stop our struggle.

We consider you somebody who fell into the whirlpool of that struggle,

who did beautiful, creative things within it,

but who was subject to the political storms that were raging at that time.

But we love you. You're a brother and you have our respect.

- I'm happy to hear it. - Okay, man.

Thank you.