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1. To take a quote from High Fidelity, I think their music is "sentimental, tacky crap." I really can't say anything else, since that's a value judgment.
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How is sentimentality a negative trait? Tacky:
1. not tasteful or fashionable; dowdy.
2. shabby in appearance; shoddy: a tacky, jerry-built housing development.
3. crass; cheaply vulgar; tasteless; crude.
4. gaudy; flashy; showy.
I think S&G is plenty tasteful, with beautiful melodies and great lyrics. There's great craftmanship, certainly not shabby. Crass?
Showy? Songs like The Boxer, The Only Boy Living In New York certainly aren't.
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2. All the bad music they influenced. Now, granted, there are plenty of acts that spawn bad music (all the Buddy Holly/Dylan/Pistols/Nirvana ripoffs out there), but I think the "singer songwriter" movement that Simon did a great part to inspire was a serious impediment to rock's development. In the early 70's, instead of the Who and the Kinks, we got James Taylor, Carly Simon, Jackson Browne, and Paul Simon. Yes, Simon and Garfunkel were influential...but in my view, their influence was a bad influence (ask me about Sgt. Pepper someday.  )
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Every act has influenced bad music, from The Beatles to MBV. This isn't about their music.
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3. To steal another quote (I can't remember where I read it); Simon invented "elitist songwriting." Lines like "hear my words that I might teach you" and the whole of The Dangling Conversation give the lie to anyone who thinks that Jim Morrison is the worst wanna-be poet in rock's canon.
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One line from their second single? Sorry, not going to cut it. Most of their lyrics are very down to earth and oftentimes humorous. Wanna be poet? Seems like Simon's the real deal to me.
Its a still life water color,
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.
And you read your emily ****inson,
And I my robert frost,
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we've lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated time
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.
Yes, we speak of things that matter,
With words that must be said,
Can analysis be worthwhile?
Is the theater really dead?
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
Youre a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation.
And the superficial sighs,
In the borders of our lives.