Songwriting and Effable Relationships
*Edited for children
A good friend of mine, whom I trust and whose opinion I put a great deal of stock in, tells me that I write too many songs about f*cked up relationships. She tells me that there are many, many other things to write and sing about, and the fact that 99% of my writing deals with break-ups, broken hearts, and slamming the brakes on love, is not a good use (or at least an over-use) of lyrics and strings and melodies. (Consequently, for those of you keeping track of percentages at home, the other 1% breaks down like this: .5% for dumb-silly songs made up on the fly, .4% for songs that have no words, only whistling or la-la-la’s, and .1% for songs about happy relationships.)
She tells me this because, I think, she is sick of hearing the same song over and over and over, only dressed up with a slightly different strum pattern and chord progression. Also, I suspect, she knows what I know – as far as f*cked up relationships go, there is not much left to say. Fly as far away as the moon, or stand as close as on a doorstep – the message is the same: You don’t love me anymore and, baby, that pretty much sucks. She tells me this, also, because she is a good friend, an honest critic, and as part of her grasping for “Authenticity.”
In light of this authentic observation, then, I try to write a song that has nothing to do with a girl, a boy, or a relationship – although, this only in retrospect. I’m sitting at work, and during one of my eternal moments I jot down the lyric: “40 days later and I’m still the same jackass/ Desert life did nothing for me, over at last.” Of course this little couplet has all the makings of another sad-b*stard love song, but as I’m trying to think of a tune, my friend’s comment sounds in my head, and as I continue to jot down words the song makes a lyrical shift in meaning. Working from the obvious Jesus allusion, I begin to write, in a playfully sadistic manner, insidious reversals of Jesus’ words. I had no idea in mind, only not to write about a girl. I wrote things like, “I’ll turn whatever I want to bread/ or eat the stones instead. I’ll jump from the top of the Empire State/ and tempt my own fate. I’ll take all the power you’ll trade/ that worshiping you made.” And then I started to play on the Beatitudes, “Blessed are the rich, they own all the poor/ Blessed are the full, eating the hungry to the core. Let those who persecute me in my name/ burn forever in a hell of flames.” The chorus simply said, “We, Anti-Christ. We, Anti-Christ. At any price. We, Anti-Christ.”
So on and so forth. Completely unoriginal and uncreative lyrics, but somewhat disturbing to write down. It turned out to be a political-theological-critical rant against America, and the embodiment of religious fundamentalism here (although, I swear, it didn’t start out that way – I was only writing decidedly un-clever reversals of Jesus’ words – only afterwards did I realize I was being descriptive of the U.S., oddly enough). I set the lyrics to some, what I would consider, heavy-grudge chord strumming, and sang it with what started out as a Cobain-esque bellowing – but having recently seen and being influenced by a System of a Down music video, it became an angry screeching voicing of words. I wanted the song to be angry and loud, but acoustic as well – so that another friend of mine, THAT Dave, who knows more about music than Zombies know about walking slow and being dead, could appreciate some nice non-sappy, non-lesbian-vocaled, acoustic guitar. (Dave, do you read this? If not that whole last sentence has very little meaning…)
Anyway, I think I can safely report that the whole experiment was a failure. What the hell? Political songs? Anti-Christ? (Oh, I just realized – given the endemic and epidemic spread of individualism, I should have entitled the song “I, Anti-Christ.” D*mn.) This is not what music is for. This is not what music is for. I’m pretty sure, this is not what music is for. Let me try to explain.
I’ve been reading a collection of essays about music by Nick Hornby, author of the book High Fidelity, which was adapted into a movie, starring John Cusack, and is one of my favorites, if not the magnum opus itself. The essays read as if they were written by Cusack’s character in the movie, Rob Gordon, which is unassailably cool. (Anybody?) Anyway, in one of his essays, Hornby takes up the all-important question: What is the appropriate subject matter for a song? And he says that while songs about trees, and roads, and rivers, and whatnot can be good, the truly great ones are about romance and love. He makes an explicit observation about the nature of love and music that I have known implicitly for a long time – Love, with it’s rollercoaster feelings of ups and downs, highs and lows, is a perfect metaphor for music itself. There is a natural affinity between the two; they belong together; and this is why love songs are the songs that are most likely to endure in the hearts as well as on the radios of those who listen. Music is a pure form of self-expression, to the point that sometimes words only get in the way. And its a form that molds itself perfectly to expressing love and pain and loss. This is why singing about anything other than love is almost artificial.
Hornby writes, “Songs that are about complicated things—Canadian court orders, say, or the homosexual age of consent—draw attention to the inherent artificiality of the medium: Why is this guy singing? Why doesn’t he write a newspaper article, or talk to a phone-in show? And how does a mandolin solo illustrate or clarify the plight of Eskimos anyway?”
Human expressions each have a medium that are best suited for them. And I think music was created out of and for love, and especially when love fails us, or more likely, when we fail love. Music brings comfort. Our greatest songs are written about our greatest pain, because that is when we need our greatest comfort.
If I want to write about how we Americans pledge allegiance to the Anti-Christ, I’ll write a paper, or an essay (and I’m sure I’ll write plenty). But maybe I should save my songwriting for fluttered, frustrated, and especially, f*cked up relationships.
Having said all that, my all-time, desert island, favorite song is John Lennon’s Imagine.
A good friend of mine, whom I trust and whose opinion I put a great deal of stock in, tells me that I write too many songs about f*cked up relationships. She tells me that there are many, many other things to write and sing about, and the fact that 99% of my writing deals with break-ups, broken hearts, and slamming the brakes on love, is not a good use (or at least an over-use) of lyrics and strings and melodies. (Consequently, for those of you keeping track of percentages at home, the other 1% breaks down like this: .5% for dumb-silly songs made up on the fly, .4% for songs that have no words, only whistling or la-la-la’s, and .1% for songs about happy relationships.)
She tells me this because, I think, she is sick of hearing the same song over and over and over, only dressed up with a slightly different strum pattern and chord progression. Also, I suspect, she knows what I know – as far as f*cked up relationships go, there is not much left to say. Fly as far away as the moon, or stand as close as on a doorstep – the message is the same: You don’t love me anymore and, baby, that pretty much sucks. She tells me this, also, because she is a good friend, an honest critic, and as part of her grasping for “Authenticity.”
In light of this authentic observation, then, I try to write a song that has nothing to do with a girl, a boy, or a relationship – although, this only in retrospect. I’m sitting at work, and during one of my eternal moments I jot down the lyric: “40 days later and I’m still the same jackass/ Desert life did nothing for me, over at last.” Of course this little couplet has all the makings of another sad-b*stard love song, but as I’m trying to think of a tune, my friend’s comment sounds in my head, and as I continue to jot down words the song makes a lyrical shift in meaning. Working from the obvious Jesus allusion, I begin to write, in a playfully sadistic manner, insidious reversals of Jesus’ words. I had no idea in mind, only not to write about a girl. I wrote things like, “I’ll turn whatever I want to bread/ or eat the stones instead. I’ll jump from the top of the Empire State/ and tempt my own fate. I’ll take all the power you’ll trade/ that worshiping you made.” And then I started to play on the Beatitudes, “Blessed are the rich, they own all the poor/ Blessed are the full, eating the hungry to the core. Let those who persecute me in my name/ burn forever in a hell of flames.” The chorus simply said, “We, Anti-Christ. We, Anti-Christ. At any price. We, Anti-Christ.”
So on and so forth. Completely unoriginal and uncreative lyrics, but somewhat disturbing to write down. It turned out to be a political-theological-critical rant against America, and the embodiment of religious fundamentalism here (although, I swear, it didn’t start out that way – I was only writing decidedly un-clever reversals of Jesus’ words – only afterwards did I realize I was being descriptive of the U.S., oddly enough). I set the lyrics to some, what I would consider, heavy-grudge chord strumming, and sang it with what started out as a Cobain-esque bellowing – but having recently seen and being influenced by a System of a Down music video, it became an angry screeching voicing of words. I wanted the song to be angry and loud, but acoustic as well – so that another friend of mine, THAT Dave, who knows more about music than Zombies know about walking slow and being dead, could appreciate some nice non-sappy, non-lesbian-vocaled, acoustic guitar. (Dave, do you read this? If not that whole last sentence has very little meaning…)
Anyway, I think I can safely report that the whole experiment was a failure. What the hell? Political songs? Anti-Christ? (Oh, I just realized – given the endemic and epidemic spread of individualism, I should have entitled the song “I, Anti-Christ.” D*mn.) This is not what music is for. This is not what music is for. I’m pretty sure, this is not what music is for. Let me try to explain.
I’ve been reading a collection of essays about music by Nick Hornby, author of the book High Fidelity, which was adapted into a movie, starring John Cusack, and is one of my favorites, if not the magnum opus itself. The essays read as if they were written by Cusack’s character in the movie, Rob Gordon, which is unassailably cool. (Anybody?) Anyway, in one of his essays, Hornby takes up the all-important question: What is the appropriate subject matter for a song? And he says that while songs about trees, and roads, and rivers, and whatnot can be good, the truly great ones are about romance and love. He makes an explicit observation about the nature of love and music that I have known implicitly for a long time – Love, with it’s rollercoaster feelings of ups and downs, highs and lows, is a perfect metaphor for music itself. There is a natural affinity between the two; they belong together; and this is why love songs are the songs that are most likely to endure in the hearts as well as on the radios of those who listen. Music is a pure form of self-expression, to the point that sometimes words only get in the way. And its a form that molds itself perfectly to expressing love and pain and loss. This is why singing about anything other than love is almost artificial.
Hornby writes, “Songs that are about complicated things—Canadian court orders, say, or the homosexual age of consent—draw attention to the inherent artificiality of the medium: Why is this guy singing? Why doesn’t he write a newspaper article, or talk to a phone-in show? And how does a mandolin solo illustrate or clarify the plight of Eskimos anyway?”
Human expressions each have a medium that are best suited for them. And I think music was created out of and for love, and especially when love fails us, or more likely, when we fail love. Music brings comfort. Our greatest songs are written about our greatest pain, because that is when we need our greatest comfort.
If I want to write about how we Americans pledge allegiance to the Anti-Christ, I’ll write a paper, or an essay (and I’m sure I’ll write plenty). But maybe I should save my songwriting for fluttered, frustrated, and especially, f*cked up relationships.
Having said all that, my all-time, desert island, favorite song is John Lennon’s Imagine.
posted by twodollarshoe at 7:27 PM
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