Simon & Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson”: A Melancholy Echo from a Changing World
Picture the spring of 1968, when the silver screen and the airwaves intertwined, and Simon & Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson” leapt from The Graduate soundtrack to No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 in June, holding the top spot for three weeks. Featured on the duo’s album Bookends, released April 3, 1968, by Columbia Records, it also hit No. 4 in the UK—a folk-pop masterpiece that captured a generation’s unease. For those of us who watched Dustin Hoffman’s Benjamin Braddock fumble through love and disillusionment, or spun that 45 until it crackled, this song is a sepia-toned keepsake—a bridge to a time when the world felt both fragile and infinite, its gold certification a nod to over a million souls who clung to its bittersweet notes.
The story of “Mrs. Robinson” is a tale of serendipity and cinema. Paul Simon started it as a sketch, a fragment called “Mrs. Roosevelt,” until director Mike Nichols tapped Simon & Garfunkel for The Graduate. Nichols heard the unfinished tune during a pitch meeting and latched onto it—its wistful strum fit the film’s older-woman-younger-man tangle like a glove. Rushed into completion in early ’68, Simon rewrote it in a New York hotel room, while Art Garfunkel added his crystalline harmonies at Columbia’s Studio A. Released as a single post-film on April 5, 1968, with “Old Friends/Bookends Theme” on the B-side, it wasn’t just a soundtrack cut—it was a cultural lifeline, born from a deadline and a movie that mirrored our own coming-of-age stumbles.
What does it mean? “Mrs. Robinson” is a tender lament for a woman adrift—a symbol of shattered ideals, hiding her cracks behind a smile. “Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?” Simon pleads, his voice a soft ache, mourning heroes fading into myth, while “God bless you, please, Mrs. Robinson” feels like a prayer for us all—lost in a world that’s moved on. It’s not just her story; it’s ours—the quiet panic of growing up, the pang of seeing youth slip through our fingers. For those of us who lived it, it’s the hum of a VW Bug’s engine, the glow of a theater marquee, the scent of popcorn and uncertainty as we watched Benjamin chase a future he couldn’t grasp.
This was Simon & Garfunkel at their zenith—folk’s poets laureate, weaving introspection into pop gold. The song won a Grammy for Best Contemporary-Pop Performance, its legacy cemented in covers by The Lemonheads and nods in Forrest Gump. For us, it’s 1968 distilled—the rustle of bell-bottoms, the flicker of a dorm-room lamp, the weight of a nation unraveling on the evening news. “Mrs. Robinson” wasn’t just a hit—it was a companion through those tender, turbulent nights. So, lift that needle, let it drop, and drift back to when we all felt a little like Benjamin—searching, stumbling, and singing along.
Great Songs