And the Moon Rose Over An Open Field

If you’ve ever watched The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, you’ve seen him quiz his guests with the The Colbert Questionnaire. It’s 15 questions that range from “Best Sandwich” to “Describe the Rest of Your Life in 5 Words”. And then there’s the question that brings us to today’s column. “You get one song to listen to for the rest of your life - What is it?”. 

Most people who know me would predict an R.E.M. song or maybe something from Aimee Mann. However, my answer takes us back to before I was born.

I first heard Simon & Garfunkel’s “America” while lying on the carpet of my childhood basement, probably no older than nine or ten. The stereo system—big, wooden, and sacred—piped out that gentle guitar and Paul Simon’s voice, full of yearning and wonder. At that age, I didn’t fully understand what it meant to "look for America," but the imagery in those lines about Greyhound buses, New Jersey turnpikes, and the quiet ache of being young and unsure was felt. “America” wasn’t just a song—it was a mood, a moment, and a map of a country I was still too young to comprehend.

Written by Paul Simon in 1968, “America” was part of Bookends, the fourth studio album by Simon & Garfunkel and one of their most thematically rich. The song blends delicate acoustic guitar with swelling melodies that rise and fall like a cross-country journey itself. Simon’s lyrics were inspired by a real-life road trip he took with his then-girlfriend Kathy Chitty, and the specificity of the details—“playing games with the faces,” “counting the cars”—makes the song feel alive and cinematic. “America” marked a deeper, more reflective turn for Simon & Garfunkel. It fused their signature harmonies with a quietly epic emotional scale, and over the years it has come to represent not just a journey across a country, but into our very souls.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?list=RDEo2ZsAOlvEM&v=Eo2ZsAOlvEM

“America” at the time, captured the searching spirit of a country grappling with war, shifting ideals, and a general weariness. But rather than anger or cynicism, the song offered vulnerability. It spoke to those who felt lost even while in motion, to those who were trying to stitch meaning from love, geography, and a string of bus tickets. The strength of the song lay in its subtlety—a poetic road trip that mirrored the inward journeys so many Americans were forced to take during that turbulent time.

In 2026, “America” still can resonate for many. We’re again a nation on edge, traveling different highways—digital, ideological, generational—while trying to understand who we are and where we’re going. The quiet heartbreak in the line “I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why” feels timeless, especially now, when so many feel disconnected from one another, and from a shared sense of identity. For me, listening to “America” today reminds me of the boy on the carpet hearing it for the first time, and the man I am now, still trying to find his place in this beautiful, complicated country.