I think I remember the process of what usually happened when I slapped something together: first, I would find a neat chord progression on my guitar, and then I’d make some weird, shrill singing noises with my voice for a while to find a melody. This is a hugely embarrassing yet suprisingly effective process. I had a real knack for finding catchy hooks, and I had a lot of fun doing it.
Then, I would spend about five minutes writing words. Immortal, immortal words.
Let’s check out bits of this little gem I just found nestled amongst the tabs of popular songs in the bottom of my guitar case. Witness the magic of “Spanish Senorita,” written around the time I was a freshman in high school:
Nevermind that at that point in my life I had never actually met a real, living person who spoke Spanish—I had written a fuckin’ song and I was gonna sing it. I needn’t have ever actually touched (or talked to) a woman to know real love.
There’s a recording of this song floating around somewhere on my hard drive at home, but I’m too scared to listen to it. I don’t want to remember. I don’t think I developed any kind of taste in anything until I was, oh, a sophomore in college. (C’mon, I’m from the country. It took me a long time to catch up with everybody.)
But I feel better looking at the lyrics of the Lil’ Wayne and Rihanna songs currently on top of the charts, and it makes me think maybe I missed my calling:
Powerful stuff. In light of that, I think “Spanish Senorita” has aged rather well.
The fact is that most song lyrics are woefully inartful when they’re separated from the music, at least compared to the bewildering aesthetic and cognitive shit-show that constitutes most poetry. Lyrics often convey only a simple message, and lack the general elusiveness that characterizes most literary writing.
Then, I would spend about five minutes writing words. Immortal, immortal words.
Let’s check out bits of this little gem I just found nestled amongst the tabs of popular songs in the bottom of my guitar case. Witness the magic of “Spanish Senorita,” written around the time I was a freshman in high school:
Spanish senorita… I hear you calling my name
What is it now?
Spanish senorita… What is this game?
You tempt me now.
Nevermind that at that point in my life I had never actually met a real, living person who spoke Spanish—I had written a fuckin’ song and I was gonna sing it. I needn’t have ever actually touched (or talked to) a woman to know real love.
There’s a recording of this song floating around somewhere on my hard drive at home, but I’m too scared to listen to it. I don’t want to remember. I don’t think I developed any kind of taste in anything until I was, oh, a sophomore in college. (C’mon, I’m from the country. It took me a long time to catch up with everybody.)
But I feel better looking at the lyrics of the Lil’ Wayne and Rihanna songs currently on top of the charts, and it makes me think maybe I missed my calling:
You look so dumb right now,
Standin' outside my house,
Tryin' to apologize,
You’re so ugly when you cry,
Please, just cut it out.
Powerful stuff. In light of that, I think “Spanish Senorita” has aged rather well.
Spanish senorita… I bid you farewell
You’ve broke my shell, like them.
Spanish senorita… time to mend
This is the end.
℘
The fact is that most song lyrics are woefully inartful when they’re separated from the music, at least compared to the bewildering aesthetic and cognitive shit-show that constitutes most poetry. Lyrics often convey only a simple message, and lack the general elusiveness that characterizes most literary writing.
Even opera—which seems to have some kind of irrevocable membership in the country-club pantheon of “high” art—has libretti that are dreadfully cliché at worst, and cheesily straightforward at best.
But it’s not fair to separate lyrics from music, because that’s taking away half (or most) of the message.
But it’s not fair to separate lyrics from music, because that’s taking away half (or most) of the message.
What does “Stormy Weather” mean when you take away Billie Holliday’s nuanced delivery? What is “Satisfaction” without Mick Jagger bouncing around that little guitar hook in the background (“dah, dah… dah dah dahhhh…”)? And for that matter, what’s a Wagnerian hero tenor without his 100-piece orchestra?
Taking lyrics out of context is like taking a great piece of literature and then trying to determine its quality by looking at its one-paragraph synopsis on Wikipedia. You'll just realize that most books are basically about people screwing and dying, kind of like songs are all about love/breakups, and that’s not very original, is it? But that’s life. Everyone feels pain, everyone smiles. Unoriginality at the foundation of art is inevitable because life is unoriginal at its foundation.
So when you separate story from storytelling, lyrics from song—message from delivery—you miss that crafty flight from inescapable cliché, and I think that process of evasion is actually the foundation of anything we consider “artsy.”
Taking lyrics out of context is like taking a great piece of literature and then trying to determine its quality by looking at its one-paragraph synopsis on Wikipedia. You'll just realize that most books are basically about people screwing and dying, kind of like songs are all about love/breakups, and that’s not very original, is it? But that’s life. Everyone feels pain, everyone smiles. Unoriginality at the foundation of art is inevitable because life is unoriginal at its foundation.
So when you separate story from storytelling, lyrics from song—message from delivery—you miss that crafty flight from inescapable cliché, and I think that process of evasion is actually the foundation of anything we consider “artsy.”
It would be like writing a generic speech for Barack Obama and also having it read by President Bush, circa 2007; one delivery would have been full of the transcendent rhetoric of hope, while the other would be a tired re-tread from a lame-duck politician who is six months from being a persona non grata.
The point is that content matters, but the delivery counts just as much; lyrics are just a vehicle for expression, and lyrics by themselves are like intercontinental flights that don’t have any passengers.
In conclusion: you are allowed to write crappy lyrics if you’re W.A. Mozart, Rihanna, or Barack Obama.
In conclusion: you are allowed to write crappy lyrics if you’re W.A. Mozart, Rihanna, or Barack Obama.
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