What I Learned Recording a Simon & Garfunkel Tribute Album

Through the windows of our Chevy station wagon, vast landscapes unfolded before us: endless plains, golden cornfields, towering mountains, dusty small towns, motorcycle convoys, serene lakes, even the frozen expanse of the Mississippi River. Music became the backdrop to these experiences. I’d wait impatiently for my turn to pick a cassette from the suitcase-like box in the front seat. With the world whizzing by, we sat and listened, the car becoming a moving concert hall.

It was the late 1970s. My family had embarked on a year-long journey across America, traveling by car from our East Coast home to the Pacific Northwest and back for my father’s work. At the time, I didn’t fully grasp what a profound gift these long trips would be for my musical formation and sensibility.

Trapped in that Chevy, I became immersed in the textures of sound—absorbing the records of The Beatles (and their solo works), The Rolling Stones, Chuck Berry, Peter, Paul & Mary, Janis Joplin, Judy Collins, Chubby Checker, Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, and countless others from the '50s and '60s. One album that particularly stood out was Any Day Now by Joan Baez, a full collection of Bob Dylan covers. I found it fascinating that an artist would dedicate an entire double-length album to another’s work.

But the album that imprinted itself most deeply was Simon & Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits. Their angelic harmonies and poetic lyrics seemed to mirror the locations and emotions of our travels—the New Jersey Turnpike, Pittsburgh, the longing to be homeward bound, the rhythmic drizzle of the rain on the car window, the loneliness and boredom of the road. These songs wove themselves into my nine-year-old mind, giving me an early sense of the power of musical storytelling.

Music as an Anchor in Uncertain Times

Forty years later, I found myself captive again—but this time, not in the back of a Chevy, but in a Brooklyn apartment during the pandemic lockdown. The world outside was no longer a blur of scenic landscapes but instead flashing ambulance lights and the relentless sound of sirens carrying the sick to Wyckoff Heights Medical Center down our street. As always, I turned to music for solace.

By this time in my life, I had developed into a multi-instrumentalist, spending hours layering guitars, drums, bass, and keyboards in my home studio, building songs from the ground up. The isolation of lockdown became a catalyst for creation. I wrote and recorded a mini-album reflecting on the surreal experience of a city shut down. My brother Mark, a seasoned musician in the NYC tribute band circuit, lent his vocals to a few tracks. I also reconnected with my high school rock band, and together—though miles apart—we remotely recorded and released an album of new material.

During this period of hyper-focused creativity, I also mixed and mastered four records from my '90s band, Poolsville, preparing them for digital re-release. Then, on a whim, I decided to record a cover of “I Am a Rock” by Simon & Garfunkel. The song seemed eerily fitting for the times—"An island never cries…" I meticulously layered the parts, shaping a tightly focused tribute. Pleased with the outcome, I recorded a few more songs by the folk duo. But eventually, the project was shelved as life began returning to some version of normal.

The Tribute Circuit & A Shift in Perspective

Over the years, I’ve watched many of my talented musician friends thrive in the artist tribute circuit. Performing the music of legends has sharpened their skills and connected them with built-in audiences. In a world where live music venues increasingly favor predictable draws over original acts, tributes have provided a sustainable way for musicians to engage listeners.

I've always viewed myself as a songwriter first—an outsider to the tribute trend. The economics of the music industry have made it near impossible for artists to sustain themselves through original recordings. Still, I rarely performed unless it was to workshop my own songs—songs that, more often than not, remained largely unheard.

Yet, I couldn’t deny the appeal of tributes as both a musical discipline and a means of connection. There’s something powerful about fully inhabiting another artist’s sound—learning their phrasing, their instrumental nuances, their feel. Watching young musicians, especially women content creators, absolutely nail classic guitar solos and drum parts on social media fills me with joy. It made me wonder—are tributes becoming a modern equivalent of classical music performance? A way to keep rock’s legacy alive while continuing to push musicianship forward?

Rediscovering the Simon & Garfunkel Project

In November 2023, I dusted off those early Simon & Garfunkel recordings from lockdown. To my surprise, there was something worth revisiting. I recorded a couple more tracks, and they turned out—not perfect, but interesting. A few more followed. Soon, I had the makings of a ten-song album.

As word spread among friends, suggestions poured in: What about “Hazy Shade of Winter?” What about “The Only Living Boy in New York?” The tracklist kept growing. I studied the original recordings, learned instrumental parts from YouTube tutorials, and disappeared into my upstate studio for marathon recording sessions.

By 2024, I had stopped listening to anything but Simon & Garfunkel—or, more specifically, my own recordings of their songs. I became consumed by the details, spending endless hours refining arrangements. Acoustic songs like “Kathy’s Song” and “For Emily, Wherever I May Find Her” were the hardest to get right. Other tracks, like “At the Zoo,” “Fakin’ It,” and “Cecilia,” came together in marathon 6-10 hour sessions.

I hadn’t planned on this becoming a full-fledged album. But by the time I stepped back, I had recorded 32 Simon & Garfunkel songs—nearly 60% of their catalog. I played every instrument and sang every part, with a couple rare exceptions. Some songs had only two or three tracks. Some had over forty. At times, my obsession brought about biblical Noah’s Ark-level delusion. I began feeling anxiety that if I didn’t add a particular song onto the collection, if I left it behind, that I’d lose the opportunity to ‘preserve the memory’ of that song. It was as if the act of performing and recording all of the parts myself was akin to keeping the songs and memories attached to them alive within myself. 

What I Learned from Tribute Recording

There’s something transformative about inhabiting another artist’s sound so completely. I imagine this is what tribute performers experience—the gradual sense of ownership that comes from living in someone else’s music. Some songs, I rearranged and made my own. Others—like “Sounds of Silence,” “I Am a Rock,” “Mrs. Robinson,” “America”—I couldn’t bear to alter. Recreating them, imperfections and all, felt like the best tribute I could offer.

Recording this many Simon & Garfunkel songs forced me to confront an old fear: Would I lose my own voice in the process? Would my focus on tribute work replace my own songwriting?

I don’t know the answer yet. And perhaps it doesn’t even matter. But I do know that Preserve Your Memories aims to be more than just a tribute album. It’s more like a deeply personal, handmade playlist—not unlike the mixtapes we curated on cassette tapes in the ‘80s for friends and crushes. Perhaps in the future, we won’t just create playlists—we’ll record them ourselves. The tribute record, then, becomes a new evolution of that tradition.

There’s a large catalogue of cover albums out there to discover, but two in particular — Blonde on the Tracks by Emma Swift and Petra Haden Sings: The Who Sell Out — inspired me to embrace this journey.

"Time it was and what a time it was, it was," Paul Simon wrote in the song “Bookends,” a meditation on memory. This project has allowed me to reconnect with the times of innocence, longing, and discovery of my youth, while expressing the lived experience of my over 50 years. I hope it inspires others to preserve their memories—through music, through tribute, through creation. Because when all is said and done, recordings—like photographs, like memories—are often all that’s left you.

May they always be a blessing.