Where do songs come from?

A friend asked me today whether I ever analyse lyrics or written works that attract me.  He quoted some lyrics by Elvis Costello, and said he was fascinated by how whole sets of lyrics or words can be grown from seeds of thought and feeling.  He also wondered whether writing was a skill which you either naturally have, or do not; and pondering the importance of having ‘something to say’.

He is the friend that most provokes me into thought about such things.  Usually, I am going about my business writing poetry and non-fiction articles every morning.  Writing has been a part of my life since I was little, and I can’t imagine life without it.

My education included lots of analysis – of poems and prose, both English and in other languages.  I was encouraged to observe implicit themes, and to analyse the writer’s choices of words. 

Alongside this, I used to escape to the music school, a building with rows of pianos and guitars to practice on.  I would spend hours writing my own songs.  In school holidays, I would save up for music equipment, and experiment with multi-track recording.

The answer to my friend’s question is that I learned to analyse literature at an early age, and it helped me to see the depth in what we can say with words.  But as an adult, once my literature degree was finished, I stopped analysing what I read.  In fact, I almost entirely stopped reading.  I just wrote.

As an adult, I don’t analyse, unless it is to explain or discuss ideas with anyone who is interested in the use of words.  I just like to write poems, articles and songs, and feel uncomfortable if I don’t.  I think that there is something intensely experiential about art.  Yes, there are skills to learn, but they are best learned ‘on the job’, so to speak.

Is songwriting a natural skill?  Yes, I think it is, to an extent.  The understanding of harmony – of what ‘sounds right’ – is a similar skill to an athlete’s understanding of limb placement.  Some brains are more attuned to ‘what sounds right’, and some brains are neither attuned to, nor interested in, making good songs.

A song also has to speak to a moment, to take its place in a time sequence of development.  If one listens to birds, they try out a sound, listen, try out a modified sound, and so on.  What is produced is very much trial and error, and also the product of fashion and relationships.  A bird will sing harder when trying to express something to a mate, friend or enemy.

But pop music doesn’t have to be the preserve of the traditionally talented.  It is notoriously idiosyncratic, and the public love something new and different, that speaks interestingly.  They may not know why a song is attractive for the moment, but their whole mind and body appreciates when they are listening to a ‘good song’.

Having something to say is really important.  Listen to many songs, and you will hear most of the concerns of the human heart.  Why don’t you love me?  Why did you leave me?  I love you.  Love hurts.  I feel so happy.  I feel so sad.  There is a song for every mood, and it is because songs are written FROM moods, in an attempt to resolve and express, or to distill, something about that mood.  And a mood itself is an unresolved state, a mind-body position with latent energy that needs expending.

Sitting down with a piano or guitar is like sitting down to scratch an itch.  The nerves are already jangling in some way… life feels somehow unclean, and my job is to find a stream in which to wash that dirty laundry and make it wearable.  In modern pop, we have choices of rhythm track, bass track, backing tracks, lead melodies, and vocals.  Every choice contributes to a final sound, and one gets used to the process from start to finish.  There has to be some powerful seed in the original idea, which can be very simple, like a burst of birdsong – and ideally it finds its way through to a final mix which constantly works alongside the original idea to support it, reflect it, and make it somehow brighter and more palatable.

The irony of modern pop music is that it deals with some very ugly themes, that pain us hugely, but makes with those themes objects of beauty.  That’s really it.  A person writing a song is really just doing an extended version of what a lover is doing trying to find a next sentence in an agonised moment.  It’s an intense attempt to distil the world of that mood into something intensely shareable.

I’ll always remember writing a love song in my late teens for my then girlfriend.  I recorded it in a studio, and a best friend, who happened to be the DJ, played the song at an event at which both she and I were dancing.  It was for her seventeenth birthday, and I’ll never forget the look on her face when she realised that her present was playing in the background.  I love the fact that creating a song gives you a chance to communicate intense things gently.  It’s a very non-violent, peaceful way to work through mood and feeling.

In my view the best way to write songs is just to start, finish the recording as best you can, and then move on to the next one.  Birds have it right.  There is no time to lose.  Just sing.