In 1985, when South Africa was still under apartheid, a car drove into the black township of Soweto with an unusual passenger — one of the world’s most famous singer/songwriters — concealed in the back seat.

Paul Simon had been invited to Soweto by Sipho “Hotstix” Mabuse, a black South African pop star at the time, but told he would have to take precautions.

“[They] said, ‘You’ll have to hide under a blanket in the back seat’ — which I did,” Paul Simon says in the new book, “Days of Miracle and Wonder: Paul Simon and the Trials and Triumphs of Graceland” by Ashley Kahn (Atria, Aug. 11).

Kahn describes the dangers and controversies Simon had to navigate to record “Graceland” with the South African musicians who lent it a uniquely joyous sound, brilliantly contrasting with the character of Simon’s introspective lyrics.

The classic album, which celebrates its 40th anniversary this month, won a Grammy for Album of the Year and spent 10 months on the Billboard Top 20, making it the best-selling album of Simon’s career.

But to work with South African acts like Ladysmith Black Mambazo, the Boyoyo Boys and General M.D. Shirinda, Simon had to put his reputation on the line — and potentially put the other musicians in danger.

Inspired by a bootleg cassette of radiantly upbeat South African music known as mbaqanga, Simon asked a record company contact to make introductions to various artists there, who were living under horrific restrictions at the time.

They were also rightfully weary of being ripped off, and Simon would later learn that the musicians held a meeting with their local union to vote on whether to work with him.

(According to Simon, Sex Pistols impresario Malcolm McLaren had recorded with some local musicians there, and used that material on his 1983 debut album, “Duck Rock,” without paying or crediting the musicians.)

To assuage their fears, Simon agreed to pay them triple scale for US rates, plus ensure they received credit on the finished album.

The musicians, correctly believing the project could help expose their music to the world, voted to work with Simon. 

But that was just his first obstacle. In opposition to apartheid, both the music industry and the world at large had enacted massive boycotts against performing in the country, and many believed this extended to playing and recording with South African musicians.

Simon sought advice from producer Quincy Jones and singer/activist Harry Belafonte. 

Belafonte supported the idea, especially since as a white man, Simon could enter the country more safely than Belafonte could.

Jones told Simon to make sure everyone involved was well-paid and actually wanted him there.

Then, when Simon eventually landed in South Africa, a British journalist was waiting for him at the airport.

Hilton Rosenthal, the South African producer who served as Simon’s guide through the process, knew the man and made a deal with him.

“I said, ‘Look, if you want to do South African music a disservice, publish your story now and you might blow the whole project up,’ ” Rosenthal says in the book. “I’ll talk to Paul and get you an exclusive for the release of the album.” 

Fortunately for Simon, the journalist agreed.

The sessions were exciting for Simon but a bit uncomfortable for the musicians, who faced restrictions — including on using public transportation — and curfews due to apartheid. 

Once sessions reached sunset, “there would be an uncomfortable time when the players couldn’t concentrate until they knew there might be a car to take them home,” Simon says in the book.  

Later, when Simon flew several of the musicians to New York for additional recording, one of the first questions one of them asked was when they would have to register with the police.

It would all prove to be worth it. In addition to being a massive success for Simon, the project had great significance for acts like Ladysmith Black Mambazo, helping them launch an international career that has earned them five Grammy Awards.

The act’s members were so moved by the whole endeavor that they gave Simon a Zulu name: Vulindlela —“He who opens the gate.”

But in the wake of the album’s success, Simon faced a barrage of questions about whether he had done the right thing, from the possibility of appropriation to why the album’s lyrics didn’t address apartheid head-on.

“The controversy surrounding ‘Graceland’ became a constant Hydra-like presence,” writes Kahn. “At any point, one of the various issues — appropriation, exploitation, the boycott — might raise its head, even as another was addressed.”

But Simon defended his project, seeing it as a triumph not only for himself, but for his now-renowned South African collaborators.

“It’s almost as if you can’t make a significant contribution unless you make things political,” he says in the book. “But I think we’ve made more of a contribution than anybody so far, and we didn’t do it that way. We did it another way.”