100th Post Special! Let’s Look to the Future!

Wow, songwriting fans!  It’s been about five months, and what a journey it’s been!  So much arcane trivia from me!  So many requests from you for that song that goes “we walked in a garden, we planted a seed”!

But the fun isn’t over, because there is so much left to do!  So many songwriting questions remain!  So many …

 … Challenges For the Future

1.  When Michael Bolton sings, “Said I loved you, but I lied, cos this is more than love I feel inside.  Said I loved you, but I was wrong …“  which one is it?  He was mistaken about love, or he was deliberately misleading us on the matter?  A lie is not the same as a mistake, is it?  There’s the crucial element of intent, Your Honour.  Frankly, the lying version is a much more interesting idea.

2.  When people sing along lustily to the chorus of Vanessa Amorosi’s “Absolutely Everybody“, are they aware that its entire chorus could be edited down to:

Absolutely everybody,
Everybody, everybody.
Absolutely everybody in the whole wide world
Absolutely everybody
Every boy and every girl
Absolutely everybody.

3.  In the Madness song Our House, “Mother’s tired, she needs a rest. The kids are playing up downstairs“, but later, “Our mum, she’s so house-proud.  Nothing ever slows her down.”  So which is it?  She sometimes needs a rest, or nothing ever slows her down?  Are these the parallel but mutually exclusive realities that inevitably accompany any contemplation of our own childhood?  Or just the sound of Camden ska boys getting rich and not giving a crap?

4.  Is anyone more daggy than Rupert Holmes?  Is anyone cooler than Kate Bush?  The why don’t more people notice that Escape and Babooshka have exactly the same plot?  Sure, there are superficial differences – Rupert narrates in the first person, and Kate’s heroine is deliberately testing her lover – but where’s the medley, cabaret artists?  Where’s the mashup, groovy DJs?

And these are just the tip of the challenge iceberg.  Onward!

A Short Note on Leonard Bernstein

I remembered, as I wrote earlier about And I Love Her, that Leonard Bernstein played (and sang, with more than a little condescension) the song in one of his Young People’s Concerts.  This occasion is often cited as an example of Bernstein’s popular touch, using a new Beatles recording to demonstrate sonata form.  I remember hearing about it while at The School of Music: “Bernstein used a Beatles song to demonstrate sonata form”.  Subtext:  ”Wasn’t Lenny hip?”

Except that And I Love Her isn’t an example of sonata form.  And Bernstein, who was pretty hip, didn’t play it as a demonstration of sonata form.  The popular version of events is a conflation of what happened.  He played it as an example of ternary form (specifically, with the repeated A in AABA), on the way to explaining how that ternary form informs 1st movement sonata form.

If a popular song were in sonata form, it would have some sort of “second subject”, in a key different from that of the first subject, and – this is vital – that second subject would be in the same key as the first later, when they are both repeated.

I know of no song that does this.  It’s a good idea, though.  Might write one.

Alright, alright, Beatles songs in minor and major keys …

Some music teacher somewhere clearly set an assignment on Beatles songs, in minor and major keys, and it’s yielded a lot of fruitless searching of the internet, some of it ending up here.

At first, I thought, “Go read a book, kids.”  Then I took pity on you.  I mean, you might be grownups.  With no access to books.  Who use the internet to do the hard work for you.  I’m sure such adults exist.

Anyway, here are some tidbits that might help.

Songs that are firmly in a major key, and others that are in a minor key, off the top of my head:

Yellow Submarine, Eight Days a Week and Hey Jude are all unambiguously in a major key.

I Want You (She’s So Heavy),  Hey Bulldog and Don’t Bother Me are all minor.

You want more?  Like some songs that start one way and finish another?

And I Love Her – Aah, what a song.  It’s from the album A Hard Day’s Night, and it’s in C sharp minor.  Its progression starts on the IV minor chord (F#m), and each A section ends on the relative major of C#m, namely E major.  This would be sophisticated enough, but on the final instrumental outro, there’s a Tierce de Picardie, ending on a C# major chord.  So, just to reiterate, it’s in C# minor, each A section modulates to the relative major, and the final chord is that of the parallel major.

Happiness Is a Warm Gun (from the White Album) also starts on the IV minor chord, firstly in E minor (so the progression goes Am to Em), and then later in Am (so the progression goes Dm to Am).  Then there’s a bluesy progression in A, using chords based on the flattened third and flattened seventh (namely C and G7), to lead into the final major section, in C major, a doo-wop progression of I-iv-IV-V, or C-Am-F-G7.  If I were bucking for the top mark in the class, I would write something a little pretentious like:

After a short prelude in E minor, this song constitutes, over its entire structure, a progression from A minor to its relative major of C, utilising the tonal ambiguity of a blues progression in A to effect the modulation.  This tonal transition mirrors that of the lyric, from an apparently earnest (if obscure) series of statements, to the cheerfully ironic sentiment of the chorus, reflected in the song’s title.  Bear in mind that this achievement is John Lennon’s, and that he is routinely treated as the less musically sophisticated of the Lennon/McCartney pair.

If you are in the mood to crack a book, I recommend the superb Revolution in the Head by Ian MacDonald.  Don’t forget: quotations do not count in your word tally, and you should cite all your sources.

And writing “wikipedia” is not citing your sources.

Pete

A Songwriter’s Flowchart

Happy Hour

I’ve been toying with the idea of joining together the various rhyme challenges on this blog into a humorous free verse poem, the sort of thing that might be read out over a tinkling piano late at night.  I had my chance last night, when I was a guest speaker at the annual dinner for Canberra Repertory.  Man, those Rep veterans can party.  And just as well, because the entrees didn’t arrive until after 9pm, and my talk, scheduled for after the main course, was in danger of being out of date by the time it was delivered. 

I edited the speech as I ate, and removed the poem from its ending; I’m putting it here.

My talk was about those magically creative moments that happen in theatre, that are the reason theatregoers go back to the theatre, and that are never the most expensive moments in a show.  Those moments are, I proposed, every bit as available to an amateur group as they are to any professional body.  Morever, professional shows in Australia, so often a dogged reproduction of something that worked five years earlier on Broadway, can be less surprising and less creative than many shows produced by amateurs.

I planned to wrap up with a recollection in verse of happy hours I attended after Rep shows, back in the late ’80s, usually at Tilley’s Devine Cafe Gallery, where I drank Strongbow cider (erroneously believing that it wasn’t vile), and tried too hard to impress my elders. 

I took some liberties with events, and made myself much wittier than I am.  My excuse is that I was trying to string together all these words that supposedly cannot be rhymed.  Because if they can be rhymed, what other impossibilities are waiting to be demolished?

Happy Hour

Thomas always promises
“There’s no band like Thomas’s!”
His band? He’s just the drummer.
They play that punky foreign jazz,
their singer’s hair as orange as
a mandarin in summer.

The girls sit listening, prim, knees together,
hands on laps.
The boys all smoke like chimneys
and look in vain for gaps.

Simon chats up Kelly, levels of lust ascending
to a dangerous high,
his dreams of justice ending
with her every sigh,
and he says to me, “Might have an early night.
You should too, son.”
I say “Simon, I think it can be done.
Yes, I think it can be done.”

Theven year-old Thally
whoth jutht lotht a tooth
ith futhing, futhing, futhing
over nothing, nothing, nothing.

Her mother, Sharon, says
“Tokyo’s oakey-doakey,
but only for a visit.
The Vatican City’s pretty,
but too itty-bitty.”
And here it comes … “Oh, Paree!”
(where she discovered absinthe, cheroots and potpourri)
“Are you bored?” she asks. “Have you even been abroad?”

and I say, “Three things I gained while overseas:
a mug, a Japanese fan, vermouth.
Three things I lost while overseas:
my luggage, appetite, and youth.”

She’s miffed, and murmurs,
“I try, but I never find it funny when you make fun.”
I say, “I think it can be done.
Try harder, ‘cos I think it can be done.”

Her new man Joe plays the banjo,
sings of farms and woe,
but he went to Dara,
moved to South Yarra,
and he’s a great writer, he says,
or he could be one.

Me, I don’t challenge
a J. D. Salinger,
not even a would-be one.

So, imbibing plonk,
sold as sauvignon blanc,
I find a gent
I know only as Director, Resident,
holding forth
on his play
about Ollie North.

He says, “A hostage Ollie North
would cost a jolly penny in ransom.
They let him go, July 4th
because he’s so damn handsome!
Do you see?”
And the chorus boys chorus, “Mais oui, mais oui!”
He sees me smirk, and announces
“I find it odd
that those who need one most
have no God.”

I
reply
“It was so like Jehovah,
that putting one over.
Trust him to oblige a
man like Elijah
to take up the prophecy trade.

That small voice, I’m thinking,
would set me to drinking.
I’d probably try gin,
a drink as obligin’
as any that man’s ever made.”

He says, “My dear,
I never knew a career
could be ended before it’s begun.”
I say, “Well, it can be done.
Oh, I know it can be done.”

So later, in the kitchen,
Melissa heats a
pizza
in an oven meant
for the victims of Hannibal Lecter,
according to the government inspector.
I steal a slice, and she asks,
“Will a new album ever top
that one by Dylan,
you know, before Blonde on Blonde?”
I say, “What, Highway 61?”

“Yes,” she replies, then smoke gets in our eyes,
and I think, I guess, why not?
If we all took a shot,
I’m not sure how,
but I think it can be done.

She kisses my neck,
says “Any objections?”
I assure her there are none.

Besides, I think it can be done.
Yes, I think it can be done.

Well, I Wasn’t Far Off

I suggested, in the post immediately below, that a reality TV show be used to cast Prince William in the Spice Girls musical, but Simon Fuller is a far more evil genius than I.  Obviously the show should cast all the girls.  Brilliant!

Title suggestions?  Wannabes?

A Zig. A Zig, Ha.

It is hard to write a jukebox musical.  The reasons are many and complicated, but chief amongst them is the writer’s knowledge that he/she is creating shit.  This knowledge is hard to duck each morning on the way to the computer, and harder still that night, as your lover asks “How was your day?” and the siren song of forgetting is heard from the vodka bottle in the cupboard.

The British do the jukeboxers best, having always felt inferior about the stage musical, despite such lovely efforts as Oliver!  Mamma Mia! was, so the speak, the mother load lode, and it’s been easier every year to re-attempt its stunning achievement of making well-crafted pop songs mildly enjoyable.

So, with news that a Spice Girls musical is on its way, I feel more pity than anything else.  I know the scenario is going to be the hardest part for some desperate playwright somewhere down the line, so I’m offering this one.  We can hash out the royalty details later.

Act One

The girls bound on, full of life, to the sound of Wannabe.  They are here to audition for Simon Fuller (played by Will Young).  They grab bits of costume and props lying around the studio (leopard print, bustiers etc.), to create their signature looks by song’s end.  A girl group is born!

But trouble looms.  Mel C can’t keep a boyfriend, and Posh is worried that she has no talent.  The others buck her up with a stirring rendition of Say You’ll Be There, and this transforms into their legendary concert at Wembley Stadium, attended by Prince William, who flirts with Ginger.  No such event occurred in real life, but that doesn’t matter.  The actor playing HRH William will be found through a reality TV show. 

In a comic subplot, Mel B watches Eddie Murphy movies.  She experiments with cross-dressing.  Posh still worries that she has no talent, but Baby reassures her that it’s all about positivity, and the two “sing” Spice Up Your Life.

William and Ginger’s relationship grows serious, and they serenade one another to the tune of 2 Become 1.  Posh, hanging around football change rooms, joins in and, in a stunning coup de theatre, Mel C is introduced to the joys of Sapphic love by Mel B and Baby Spice.  “Erm, lahk I’ve never needed love before!” she cries.

Act Two

Robbie Williams (playing himself!) disses the girls at one of his concerts.  Stop right now, thank you very much, they tell him, as they storm his stage, and he is converted to the cause of Girl Power.  He flirts with Ginger.  HRH William sees this, and the two stage a dance-off for Ginger’s love.  Simon Fuller joins in. 

Ginger tells the boys she can never choose.  Her 40th birthday is approaching, she explains, and she’s thinking of leaving the group.  Everyone is sad, and sings Viva Forever, with a beautiful basso profundo solo from Posh.

It’s a low-point for the girls, and it tests their bond.  While the others farewell Ginger (Goodbye), Baby wonders aloud if the whole girl power thing isn’t a bit of a crock, given that all the real money is being made by men.  Simon quells her concerns with a stirring speech.  They are, and always will be Spice Girls, he explains.  Friendship Never Ends, he explains.  They can always do reunion tours, he explains.

The girls hug, and are about to part when, in the distance, a crowd can be heard, very quietly singing “Wannabe”.  From the wings, dozens of girls enter, empowered by the Spice Girls message of positivity.  Then Prince Charles enters!  Nelson Mandela enters!  It is a Spice World of grateful fans, confident and joyful, forever spicing up their lives.

Curtain.

A Suggestive Lyric – in progress

I used to MC Monday night cabaret performances at the Street Theatre, but I was so good they had to get rid of me. No, seriously, folks, they decided they didn’t want an MC any more.

Cough.

Anyway, I liked it because it made me write.  I’d sing a little theme song, and then do a piece of specialty material designed to introduce the featured act, be it Janet Seidel, Louise Page or Matthew Robinson.  It was a good challenge and it got me off my rear.

At my time of – ahem – cessation, I was working on a song for Judi Connelli and Suzanne Johnston.  I knew from my own experience that their audience would be knowing, campy and noisy (even though many of them would not be through the rest of the week), so I started a song called Two Women Doin’ It.  A couple of quick gags, a reveal at the end that it’s all, obviously, about singing, and then off.  Bada-bing, bada-bang, bada-boom.

Such songs languish when their original intent is taken away.  Really, where else can a piece of specialty material be, as it were, draped?

So I was very happy when Sue and Sarahlou, two of the sopranos who helped me find out last month if my half-opera is any good, approached me.

Sarahlou:  Peter, we’re singing at the CAPO auction, and we wanted to do something fun.  Do you have anything?  Any ideas?

Me:  We? You mean you two? Two … women?

I finished the lyric yesterday (not that a lyric is ever really finished), so here it is. The music will be a waltz, I think. Play something very proper and Victorian in your head while you read the following.

What could be finer than two women doin’ it?
Doin’ it in front of you tonight?
One above, one below, both of them doin’ it,
What an exquisite delight!

Two men? As harsh as lawn mowers.
Two men? All noisy and thrusting.
Two men? They puff like leaf blowers,
And when they both have moustaches
That’s just disgusting.

We know you’d rather have two women doin’ it,
Doin’ it with all of their might.
It’s a natural thing, two women doin’ it,
Doin’ it, and doin’ it right.

Whether waltz or rondeau,
Whether presto or slow,
Who would forego
Two women doin’ it?
We know you know
A man would only ruin it.
Rest assured that whether you’re applaudin’ or booin’ it,
We’re doin’ it together tonight.

CODA:
For when two rough men
Burst into song
In the depths of a temple
Is just where they belong.
Two women can hit the heighest height
And we’re doin’ it together tonight.

It’s probably too wordy, and needs a couple of gags tightened or cut, but that’ll happen when the tune arrives, I hope.

How will it go down with the CAPO crowd? I don’t know …

How to Tell You’re Screwed, in a Musical

In West Side Story, Tony and Maria meet, dance the cha-cha, and fall in love.  Tony, being a well-raised Polish-American former gang founder, makes an immediate booty call to Maria’s balcony.  They chat a little more, smooch, sing, and make a date to meet at a bridal shop.  There they enact a sort-of-wedding ceremony, making it OK when, later, they have sort-of-sex.  In the famous Act One quintet, anticipating this bout of post-rumble love, they sing:

Tonight, tonight,
Won’t be just any night.
Tonight there will be no morning star.

Stephen Sondheim has been openly critical of his lyrics in this score, but has reserved most of his disdain for such lines as I Feel Pretty’s  ”It’s alarming how charming I feel”.  I’ve never seen him pick on the lines above, but consider:

Of course there will be no morning star tonight.  If it appeared tonight, it would be the evening star.  By definition, Venus can’t appear both tonight and tomorrow morning.  The planet precedes or follows the sun, and cannot do both.

OK, so I’m being a pedant.  Tony and Maria are saying that tonight is a special night, not like those normal nights, that it will never end, and so there will be no morning star.  I’m not heartless; I get it.  But there are large chunks of the year where Venus, occupied with its duties as an evening star, makes no appearance as a morning star, and so those nights are not particularly special.  There are many of them, and they all end.

Granted, this is not the sort of thing I expect a Puerto Rican arriviste and a drugstore stockboy to know, especially while they’re singing.  But I do expect Sondheim, even in his late 20s, to know.  So what’s the young fox lyricist up to?

Here’s my theory.  These characters are toast, and they don’t know it.  How can we tell?  Well, they’re singing about how tonight is so special, and it will never end, but what will really happen is:

• One of them’s gonna die, so for him the night will never end, technically.
• The other’s going to see her lover get shot, so the night will be very, very special, but in all the wrong ways.

I know what you’re thinking.  If this lyric were by, say, Tim Rice, I would dump upon it from a mighty height, then go my merry way.  But because it’s a Sondheim lyric, I’ve been obliged to twist this logic pretzel and eat it, in order to maintain my grovelling obeisance to my Dark Lyric Lord, my Lucifer, my morning star.

True.

I Want To Be Your Oxygen

I want to be your oxygen
You breathe me out and you breathe me in

Toni Pearen endured sniggers over this In Your Room couplet from 1992, although she didn’t write the song.  These lines do not rhyme, of course, unless your accent is midway between Brian Wilson’s and Bob Dylan’s, but the sentiment also seems nonsensical.  Wouldn’t one breathe out carbon dioxide?

Careful thought, however, yields this stunning emotional truth: people do, in fact, inhale oxygen, converting it by the process of respiration to carbon dioxide.  But the efficiency of the system is less than perfect, and so not all oxygen is thus utilised; some of it is later exhaled, having served no purpose at all in the process of breathing. 

Pearen is therefore admitting her desire to be an all-too-familiar female type to the sensitive male: that potentially life-giving element, capable of great things, but not interested in said function.  She prefers merely to go out and in on this windy ride. 

Such candour is exceptionally rare in the context of early’90s pop.

Later,

I want to be your confidante,
That’s all I need and that’s all I want.

This rhymes, but a careful listener knows it is untrue:  the desire to “be your oxygen” has already been stated, and will be stated again, thus making it clear that Pearen, like many young women, ”wants” more than one thing. 

Pearen’s willingness to admit so much is, I submit, particularly devastating in the context of such breezy (oxygen rich?) music.