In 2026, we think of Paul Simon as a treasured titan of rock and pop music. First as a member (and driving creative force) of ‘60s-defining duo Simon and Garfunkel. Then with a storied solo career that, at age 84, still finds him recording new material and touring.
But in 1984, the then 42-year-old was—how shall we put it—not in a great place.
The string of ‘70s hits had dried up, his marriage to actress Carrie Fisher was on the brink of dissolving, and he was adrift creatively.
But that summer on long car drives he carried with him a dubbed compilation cassette of South African “township jive” music that a friend had passed along. And he couldn’t stop listening to it. Over and over and over. And he wanted to hear more.
That cheap cassette would eventually lead Simon on a multi-country and multicultural odyssey that would result in the greatest success of his solo career. Creating an album that sold more than 16 million copies, won a shelfful of awards (including both Album of the Year at the 1987 Grammys and Record of the Year in ’87 and ‘88) and became a benchmark of world music collaboration.
Music journalist Ashley Kahn was a production manager for the album’s tour and even managed Simon’s breakout South African musical collaborators who launched a worldwide career of their own—vocal group Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Kahn digs deep in the book Days of Miracle and Wonder: Paul Simon and the Trials and Triumphs of Graceland (320 pp., $30, Atria Books).
Graceland is celebrating its 40th anniversary this year. And its hit tracks like “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes,” “You Can Call Me Al,” “The Boy in the Bubble,” and “Graceland” are burned in the collective musical consciousness.
It’s easy to forget just how controversial a subject it was even getting the record made at all. Remember, South Africa was still under crushing apartheid rule, and there had been both formal and informal cultural “boycotts” of doing any business with or within the country (in 1985 Little Steven’s “Sun City” protest song would shine a huge light on the subject).
So, plenty of people had plenty to say about Simon breaking the “boycott” while making multiple trips to the country to meet with musicians and record, while also bringing some to the U.S.
Then there were those wary of his intentions: Would this be another white guy coming in, “stealing” music, and leaving Black writers and musicians with no credit or compensation?
Simon silenced some of those allegations early, by paying musicians triple U.S. scale for their services. For him, capturing this music of South Africa—which felt like him very much akin to the sounds of early rock and roll—and adding his own spin, became an obsession.
He could not only bring this music to a far wider audience but engage in sort of a cultural exchange program that could help bring about eventual political change. Though it wasn’t foremost on Simon’s mind.
Cultural appropriation before the phrase existed? No, Kahn argues. It was cultural collaboration. And it gave many of the more than 50+ individual players on the record—especially the South African ones—entirely new and vibrant careers. Kahn also reminds readers that the Everly Brothers, Linda Ronstadt, Los Lobos, and Rockin’ Dopsie also appear in places on Graceland.
And that the title track is not literally about visiting Elvis Presley’s home in Memphis, Tennessee. But a metaphor for one making a spiritual pilgrimage in the heart and mind for resolution and grace after a probable romantic breakup.
There are also plenty of stories about the individual tracks and how they mutated. It turns out that wholly improvised solos on bass (Bakithi Kumalo) and pennywhistle (Morris Goldberg) on “You Can Call Me Al” become the song’s hallmarks. And the video (the song’s third try at one) with Simon and comedian Chevy Chase would play ad infinitum on MTV.
The Graceland worldwide tour—which focused on both material from the record and individual songs/sets by various players within rather than Simon’s hits— would bring the show to hundreds of thousands. With Simon adding South African exiled musicians Hugh Masekela and Miriam Makeba to the mix.
And while there was still anger and protests from some corners to Simon wholly for “breaking the boycott,” the Simon would patiently explain and defend himself in countless interviews. A concert video filmed in Africa also extended the music and the message.
Eventually, Simon and the band would reunite years later to play a now-free South Africa under the gaze of no less an apartheid fighter than Nelson Mandela, soon to become the country’s president.
Ultimately, the appeal of Days of Miracle and Wonder will depend upon the level of reader’s interest in Paul Simon, the Graceland album, music recording production, or a very specific slice of music history. But as a writer, Kahn gets the whole story down.
