Kodachrome
Paul Simon
The opening piano chords carry a specific late-adolescent ache — that particular nostalgia for a past that is barely past, for the vivid colors of childhood memory already beginning to fade. Simon wrote this in 1973 as a loving complaint against black-and-white thinking, but the song operates on more levels than its surface argument. There is a cocky looseness to the recording, a band clearly enjoying themselves — the electric piano comping behind Simon's voice has the texture of a Sunday afternoon, relaxed and slightly hazy. Simon sings with a wryness that stops short of cynicism; he genuinely mourns the loss of color, of brightness, of the way things looked when the world was still saturated. The chorus is one of rock's great throwaway hooks, a melody so simple it feels inevitable. Underneath the wit about Kodak film is something more serious: the fear that growing up means accepting a diminished, grayer version of experience. The saxophone that winds through the arrangement gives it a sophistication that keeps the song from tipping into pure nostalgia. It belongs to a generation that came of age in the sixties and spent the seventies wondering what happened to all that promise. Put this on a playlist about growing up, about the specific sadness of realizing you are no longer the person you planned to become.
medium
1970s
warm, slightly hazy, polished
American rock / singer-songwriter
Rock, Pop. Soft Rock. nostalgic, wry. Begins in cocky youthful wit and gently reveals underneath it a real fear of growing up into a grayer, less vivid version of life.. energy 6. medium. danceability 5. valence 5. vocals: wry male baritone, relaxed and slightly sardonic, genuine beneath the cool. production: electric piano, saxophone, band arrangement, Sunday-afternoon looseness. texture: warm, slightly hazy, polished. acousticness 4. era: 1970s. American rock / singer-songwriter. A playlist about growing up — the specific sadness of realizing you are no longer the person you once planned to become.