I’ve been writing songs for, oh, 30 years and change. Lots has changed about my songwriting in that time – I used to write for piano, and now I write mostly for guitar; I used to write a lot more songs of maudlin yearning (like ya do); I used to worry, in my dry spells, about whether I’d ever write another song (believe it or not). But one thing remains constant: I have no idea how it works.
Don’t get me wrong – I understand a good deal about how the process proceeds. I come up with an idea (usually by mishearing someone at an open mike, or something), and scribble it down. Perhaps I’m still at the open mike, and the idea generates some momentum, and I write a verse or so before the next performer begins. Or maybe later, I come back to it, in my scribbled notebook, and decide to flesh it out. Next comes the free writing – I generate immense fountains of crap, and filter out what look to me like the promising bits (after washing them thoroughly, of course). Once I have enough lyrics to convince myself that I’m not going to completely hamstring myself by writing some music, it’s time for the guitar noodling. And eventually, if that goes well, out comes the thesaurus and rhyming dictionary, as we reach the “sock sorting” period, where I’m just trying to fill out the structure. And in the middle, nowadays, there’s frequent pondering about my protagonist’s message, or character, or state of mind. And then, at the end, there’s the dancing around the room bit – unless it stinks (although usually, if it stinks, it takes me a day or so to realize it).
So that’s how the process proceeds. How it WORKS, on the other hand, is a mystery to me. Why did I mishear what I misheard? Where did that little guitar riff come from? And what about those promising gems I dug out of my free writing waste dump? What were they DOING in there? In other words, I have a set of mechanics that I’m reasonably certain will result in a song – but the origin of any of the components is shrouded in mystery.
But lately, I’ve been kind of tickled by the degree to which I’ve learned to steer this particular boat blindfolded. I’ve been setting out to do things, and somehow, in the end, succeeding in doing them. And these things have been kind of subtle, but I’ve succeeded anyway.
For instance, I’ve just finished a song about my fraught relationship with Mother Nature. Those of you who have been following my ouvre for oh, these many years may remember a line from “Edith and Elmer”: “I’m honor-bound to remind you that your idea of the great outdoors is being more than fifteen feet from an electrical outlet.” That’s me. I love the great outdoors – as long as it’s sufficiently packaged and sanitized for my protection.
What I’m particularly proud of with this song is how the chorus emerged. I started off with a chorus I didn’t like much. It was too gloomy, essentially. The song is reflective, but it’s also reasonably upbeat, and the chorus didn’t really fit. So one day I sat down and tried a few other things. I had a good idea of what I wanted – fairly light, but wise – but no idea, really, how to get there. And somehow, after a couple of false starts, I found exactly what I was looking for. I don’t really know where it came from – but I’m fairly confident that, subconsciously, knowing what I was looking for – and having the faith that the ideas would come – made a big difference.
This doesn’t always work, of course. My writing notebook is full of songs which died on the vine. But every so often, I get a fleeting sense that, while songwriting remains essentially magic, it isn’t random. You can check out “The Great Indoors” at http://www.sambayer.com/songs/the_great_indoors.html; tell me what you think.