How to Write a Song
17/01/22 08:10
Three chords, maybe four, a minor seventh, nothing more. That’s how it begins then the heartache starts. Is this tune an old familiar friend in disguise? There are only so many notes, so many sequences that can be strung together to form a melody, that the chances of cloning an existing idea are very high.
When that happens it can be a bitter blow but there is always quackery to fall back on. Slow the chord sequence down, speed up the rhythm or syncopate the piece like crazy till it doesn’t know which way is up.
Once that is sorted it’s time to tackle the lyrics. This requires copious bits of paper to scribble on, a capacious waste basket, at least one pen that suddenly runs out of ink and lots of fresh coffee.
Like a good suit, every song always has a jacket (verse) pants (chorus) and possibly a waistcoat. (The bridge or key change) The tune and words need to fit together. If the suit jacket (the lyric) is too wide in the shoulders, short in the sleeves or the pants (the rhythm) is baggy round the bum, it will look like a cheap suit on a shifty preacher. If the suit fits - wear it. The singer and the song will do all the work for you.
Finding a good lyric is like hunting for your glasses when you can’t see where you left them. One way to start writing a song is to fill a whole page with ideas then cross out all the clichés, clunky rhymes, discard any crazy mutating analogies and let the metaphors go. Metaphors need the freedom of wide open sentences. Given space to grow, they will, like a pampered guest take over completely, stifling whole paragraphs with their demand for constant attention.
Once that job is done, take the piece of paper, fold it into the shape of chicken and throw it out the window. The onset of guilt about littering the garden will make you go outside and put it in the rubbish bin, creating the perfect opportunity for some theatrical but nevertheless therapeutic muttering.
A new sheet of blank paper, another cup of coffee and thirty minutes spent contemplating your navel produces nothing. (Apart from the sudden revelation that gathering and recycling navel fluff might be the answer to global warming)
Then you do find a way in - a line that sings. This opening leads to a second line then a third and suddenly it’s all happening. A verse is forming, a chorus appears. A second verse stumbles blinking into the light. You sit back with a smug look on your face and read it through. Then you realise it is not brilliant, it is not beautiful. It is not a bell. It is the clanger inside the bell. The words lack any original charm and clash together like sumo wrestlers dressed in metal underwear. You sigh heavily and the crumbled sheets of paper are lopped into the rubbish basket.
Once that is sorted it’s time to tackle the lyrics. This requires copious bits of paper to scribble on, a capacious waste basket, at least one pen that suddenly runs out of ink and lots of fresh coffee.
Like a good suit, every song always has a jacket (verse) pants (chorus) and possibly a waistcoat. (The bridge or key change) The tune and words need to fit together. If the suit jacket (the lyric) is too wide in the shoulders, short in the sleeves or the pants (the rhythm) is baggy round the bum, it will look like a cheap suit on a shifty preacher. If the suit fits - wear it. The singer and the song will do all the work for you.
Finding a good lyric is like hunting for your glasses when you can’t see where you left them. One way to start writing a song is to fill a whole page with ideas then cross out all the clichés, clunky rhymes, discard any crazy mutating analogies and let the metaphors go. Metaphors need the freedom of wide open sentences. Given space to grow, they will, like a pampered guest take over completely, stifling whole paragraphs with their demand for constant attention.
Once that job is done, take the piece of paper, fold it into the shape of chicken and throw it out the window. The onset of guilt about littering the garden will make you go outside and put it in the rubbish bin, creating the perfect opportunity for some theatrical but nevertheless therapeutic muttering.
A new sheet of blank paper, another cup of coffee and thirty minutes spent contemplating your navel produces nothing. (Apart from the sudden revelation that gathering and recycling navel fluff might be the answer to global warming)
Then you do find a way in - a line that sings. This opening leads to a second line then a third and suddenly it’s all happening. A verse is forming, a chorus appears. A second verse stumbles blinking into the light. You sit back with a smug look on your face and read it through. Then you realise it is not brilliant, it is not beautiful. It is not a bell. It is the clanger inside the bell. The words lack any original charm and clash together like sumo wrestlers dressed in metal underwear. You sigh heavily and the crumbled sheets of paper are lopped into the rubbish basket.