So Not a Lyrics Person
Lately I've been skimming through Jimmy Webb's 1999 book Tunesmith, following a friendly argument with a singer about the process of songwriting and the place of music theory in a songwriter's toolkit. (By "skimming," I mean mainly flipping around in those minutes between going to bed and falling asleep.) If you aren't familiar with Jimmy Webb, he's one of the most successful songwriters of his generation, having penned many of what I call the Modern Placename Standards, including "Galveston," "Wichita Lineman," "By the Time I Get to Phoenix," and "MacArthur Park," along with several other classics like "Highwayman" and the extensively commercialized "Up, Up, and Away."
As Webb freely admits in the book, the music business has changed considerably since he started on the songwriting path—and his career has unfolded differently from that of the Silver Age, Golden Age, and Tin Pan Alley songwriters who preceded him. Pure songwriters are virtually unheard of these days (same with pure singers); post-Beatles performers tend to create most of their own material; musical theater is in decline; most jingle work is unrewarding both artistically and financially; record companies are no longer in the business of developing artists—in short, all the well-known reasons why there only seems to be room in the industry for a handful of actual songwriters.
Despite being a piano player—and therefore inherently untrustworthy—Webb offers a readable description of his songwriting processes, while citing examples of successful writers who do things entirely differently. As I suspected, Webb doesn't attempt to provide a thorough background in music theory—an impossible task for one book—but he makes a strong case for songwriters developing their skills at substituting chords, altering voicings, moving the bass around, adding and removing tones, etc. He even includes a few of J.S. Bach's-isms, just so aspiring songwriters can't say they've never heard of them before. I felt a little vindicated: clearly, Webb would be on my side in my argument with this theory-challenged singer.
But reading along, the book has brought home to me (again) that I don't have an ear for lyrics. When asked "What's more important, the words or the music?" I always answer "the music." My parents used to keep a small console radio playing in the kitchen all day long, pushing thousands of hours of easy listening into my head. (My mother still runs a radio all day, although it's moved 20 feet to the family room.) I tried to understand the words to some of the songs, but between the ages of four and maybe nine, I didn't have the tools to sort some of them out—and hearing the songs from a low-volume radio one, two, or three rooms away probably didn't help. The lyrics I thought I heard often didn't make sense, or—curiously, given my parents' attitudes towards course and crude language—seemed downright offensive even to my naïve ears. I found myself silently agreeing with my parents (and my grandparents) that music "these days" had gone to pot, and I paid less and less attention to lyrics. If they weren't going to make any sense anyway, what's the point? As I got older and was heard more "classic" and contemporary rock and pop music—as well as the dulcet strains of AC/DC and Judas Priest—my propensity to mis-hear and (mostly) ignore lyrics continued. In fact, it probably got worse.
Several examples include Webb's classics. For instance:
As Webb wrote it | As I remember it |
---|---|
Up Up and Away | |
Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon? | Would you like some pie my beautiful baboon? |
By the Time I Get to Phoenix | |
By the time I get to Phoenix she'll be rising She'll find the note that I left hanging on her door | By the time I get those feelings she's devising What kind of boat the tide left mainly on the shore |
Wichita Lineman | |
And I need you more than want you, and I want you for all time And the Wichita Lineman is still on the line | And I pee more than I want too, and I want to all the time And the itchy tall pine, man, it's just killin' time or And the viche sois's fine, man, I'm spillin' the wine or And the bitchy squaw's mine, man, she's peelin' the lime |
Just so I can thoroughly embarrass myself, here are a few other lyrics I mis-heard. In some cases, I wasn't aware my versions were incorrect until many, many years after I thought I'd sussed them out.
As written | As I remember it |
---|---|
Blowing in the Wind, Bob Dylan | |
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind The answer is blowing in the wind | The ants are my friend, they're blowin' in the wind The ants are blowin' in the wind |
Guantanamera, Diaz/Marti, by way of Pete Seeger (I think) | |
Guantanamera Guijira Guantanamera | Won Ton Apparel I need Won Ton Apparel |
Get Back, Lennon/McCartney | |
Jojo was a man who thought he was a loner But he knew it wouldn't last Jojo left his home in Tucson Arizona For some California grass | Jojo was a man before he was a woman 'cause he grew a wooden mast Jojo left his Mom in Tuscon Arizona Forced some gal to buy him gas |
What a Wonderful World, Louis Armstrong | |
I see skies of blue, clouds of white Bright blessed days, dark sacred nights | Icy skies so blue, the crowds are white Dwight dressed days, Mark ached at night |
Love Hurts, Boudleaux Bryant | |
Love hurts, love scars, love wounds and mars | Loves yurts, loves cars, loves moons and Mars |
Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out, Bruce Springsteen | |
Tenth Avenue Freeze Out | Dead Elephant Freestyle |
Suzie Q, John Fogerty | |
Oh, Suzie Q Baby I love you Oh, Suzie Q | Oh, Rubik's Cube Maybe I'll shove you Oh, Rubik's Cube |
Born on the Bayou, John Fogerty | |
Born on the Bayou | Norm's gonna buy you |
Big Shot, Billy Joel | |
They were all impressed with your Halston dress | They were all impressed with your fulsome breasts |
Piano Man, Billy Joel | |
And the piano, it sounds like a carnival | Damn the piano, its hounds like a cannibal |
Only the Lonely, Roy Orbison | |
Only the lonely know the way I feel tonight | Only baloney goes the way I feel is right |
Veteran of the Psychic Wars, Bloom/Moorcock | |
You see me now a veteran of a thousand psychic wars My energy is spent to last and my armor is destroyed I've used up all my weapons and I'm helpless and bereaved Wounds are all I'm made of | You see me how I'm bettin' on a cow's end sidekick ward My inner gee is penned at last and my armoire's filled with toys I fused up all my leopards and I shelve eventually Runes and Ali Baba |
Heavy Metal, Sammy Hagar | |
Head bangers in leather Sparks fly in the dead of the night It all comes together When they shoot out the lights | Ted handles the weather Mark cries in his bed at night And Paul runs forever Then they turn out the lights |
Lunatic Fringe, Tom Cochran | |
Lunatic Fringe In the twilight's last gleaming This is open season But you won't get too far | Lemme take Fritz To the Twilight Zone screening It's smokin' treason When you honk at new cars |
No, I have no idea what I was thinking either, except that by the time most of these became fixated in my brain, I had absolutely no expectation that lyrics should be sensible, intelligable, or logical. And this list is off the top of my head. There are many, many more examples.
I know, I know. Follow Zappa's lead: "Shut up and play yer guitar."
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