Anxious Affection in the Post-9/11 City: A Groovy, Cynical Romance at the Airport Checkpoint
The artistry of Donald Fagen, whether as half of Steely Dan or as a solo architect, has always been defined by a delicious, cynical elegance—a mastery of cool jazz harmonies wrapped around tales of moral ambiguity and cultural malaise. His 2006 album, Morph the Cat, stands as the final pillar in his celebrated trilogy of personal works, a late-career masterpiece that grappled with themes of middle age, mortality, and the lingering, post-9/11 paranoia gripping New York City. The album itself was a critical success, finding a strong, loyal audience, peaking at No. 26 on the US Billboard 200 and reaching a higher mark of No. 35 on the UK Albums Chart. Deep within its sophisticated tracklist is a perfect example of Fagen’s brilliance: “Security Joan.”
As an album track, “Security Joan” was not released as a commercial single and therefore does not hold a traditional chart position. This fact, however, makes it all the more treasured by the initiated—a six-minute narrative groove that reveals the enduring power of his songwriting. Key to its enduring appeal is the immaculate musicianship that defined the entire album: the sleek, funky bass lines of Freddie Washington, the razor-sharp drums of Keith Carlock, and the slick, layered horn charts that give the track its undeniable, head-nodding pulse.
The story of the song is a classic Fagen drama: a mundane, bureaucratic setting—the airport security checkpoint—is transformed into a stage for awkward, yet potent, infatuation. The narrator is an anxious traveler who, while enduring the invasive, yet necessary, post-9/11 screening process, develops a crush on the powerful, enigmatic airport guard who is frisking him. The power dynamic is flipped and then romanticized; the narrator views “Security Joan” as the cool, competent figure of authority who holds his fate—and possibly his desire—in her hands. He is simultaneously terrified of being flagged as a potential threat and captivated by her icy command: “I’m not a terrorist / Just a common garden variety creep / A simple man with a taste for danger / And a promise I mean to keep.”
The ultimate meaning is a poignant exploration of the need for connection in a world defined by suspicion. Fagen, reflecting on the heightened anxiety of the mid-aughts, used the airport as a microcosm for the larger, fearful society. In a time when everyone was suddenly a potential suspect, the song suggests that romance and intimacy become a form of psychological shelter, an extreme, dark-humored reaction to the pervasive sense of dread. The ultimate fantasy for the narrator is not escaping security, but merging with it—to be so closely screened, so thoroughly analyzed by Security Joan that the line between scrutiny and affection is blurred. It’s a testament to how even the most clinical, modern anxiety can be filtered through the lens of human attraction, leading to a profound, if hilariously twisted, moment of longing.
For listeners who came of age with The Nightfly or lived through the golden era of Steely Dan, “Security Joan” is an emotional echo chamber. It stirs deep, reflective nostalgia not for the past, but for the precise moment we, as a culture, began to live under the shadow of a new kind of perpetual alert. It remains a sophisticated, darkly witty jewel in Fagen’s solo crown—proof that even in the face of mortality, the human spirit, with its complex mixture of dread and desire, can still find an irresistible, funky groove.