What's In a Song?
by Gillian Linman
It was the last week of finals; in fact, it was the second to the last day of finals - the eighth of May to be exact - and I had anything on my mind but finishing some last minute papers. Why, you ask? Well, because I was on my way to a concert of sort; a "rare acoustic solo performance," as it said on my ticket. And the headlining solo performer, much to my chagrin, was Ben Gibbard, singer/songwriter extraordinaire from Death Cab for Cutie, The Postal Service, and, most importantly, from my hometown of Seattle. Joining him were David Bazan, the lead singer from Pedro the Lion (and also a fellow Seattlite), and newcomer Jonathan Rice.
As we took our seats - "we" being two of my friends, my mom, (yes that's correct I said mom; she's cool like that) and myself - I was quite unaware what I was in store for. And in this instance I am not referring to the show necessarily, but rather what the show spurred within me.
You see, the concert was, for lack of a better term, "unplugged." With no band, no special effects, and no distracting backdrops, one musician stood alone onstage with his instrument, rather vulnerable. Exposed, even. For the first time, I felt somewhat connected to the performers, as if they were each telling me a story song by song. A story of hurt, a story of love, a story of mistakes, even a story about talking shit. It was as if, through these stories, they were becoming more like real people and less like performers.
However it wasn't just the stories themselves that struck me, but rather the way in which each of the performers expressed these stories. I suddenly became intrigued as to what their particular part was in this story, what kind of tone they used to convey emotion, and how they then articulated these emotions (whether literally or metaphorically) to tell the story in a meaningful and pertinent way. I even became interested as to the significance of the story in the first place. All in all, I was mesmerized. Mesmerized by the fact that someone could take such a short piece of writing such as a few lines of poetry, or of prose, and create such a beautiful rhythmic story, which we call lyrics.
But lyrics, as ironic as it sounds, are only half of the real story. What showcases the lyrics, what essentially breathes life into the lyrics, is the music. The right combination of notes, that one unbelievable riff, that melodic sequence that captures the attention of a room - this is all the music. I found myself paying close attention to particular note sequences I found interesting, or perhaps how intricate or simple the patterns of music were throughout a song.
It was only after my ridiculous analysis of each and every song, that I soon realized the desire in me to create this wonderful work of art. Thus, it seemed I was left with no choice; I too must now write a song, tell a story - produce that unreal melody. It was as if all those years of piano lessons, and even of choir, suddenly all made sense. I play the piano, I sing (but most often in my car, alone, or in the shower), I can play all of three chords on a guitar, I am going to do it.
And so the saga began. It was a rainy, cold Friday afternoon and with nothing but a piano and a notebook I began my attempt at writing a song. After fooling around on the piano for what seemed like hours, I finally pieced together some chords I liked and was actually pleasantly surprised with myself and how musically suave I was. Granted it was only four great chords I came up with, but still.
The task then came to put lyrics to my music. I am a writer, I thought, I have notebooks filled with my mumble and jumble, and overall nonsense; this should be relatively easy, thought I. I mistakenly thought my lack of experience would be balanced and even overcome by this overwhelming desire I felt to write, however, this was anything but the case. After trying and ultimately failing to write some sort of picturesque love song (let's just say the pages of my notebook were filled with lines such as, "I want you to kiss me just a little too much" among other such riveting segments), I went for something sad. As it were, something to do with my dad, and the rather painful relationship we have. The lines came a little easier to me, and in a couple of days I had what some would consider a rough outline of a song; the bare bones, if you will.
I was excited, but I guess a little disappointed too. I was not truly happy with the song, and was fairly certain that I would play it for no one, due to my lack of confidence and the overall frustration I felt with myself for not being able to create some powerful piece of music. But then somehow it happened! Well, people heard it, I mean, and only because I begrudgingly taught a bit to my sister who then played it for anyone and everyone.
I was especially upset when she played it in front of four of my friends who are all exceptionally good songwriters and musicians. In the end though, I suppose I was rather relieved she did it, and not me, because if it weren't for her, they probably would have never heard it, and I'll be honest, I kind of did want them to hear it. I mean what's the point of writing music if you are not going to share it with others, get feedback, and even help.
After sharing my apprehension about the song and writing music in general with one of my friends, he told me the importance of being comfortable in my own skin, (my own "writing" skin that is). "Just write, and write and write, and it will come together," he said, "Sometimes something you think is ridiculous could be amazing."
And so I came to this conclusion: I might not write the best of songs yet, I might never even become the greatest songwriter that ever lived, I might never even be nominated for a Grammy, but what I do know is that the desire to make music is within me and if I constantly belittle myself, call what I create crazy nonsense, and never have the confidence to play what I write, I won't be doing anyone, anyone favors, especially myself. And you know, one day I think I would like to be the one onstage, alone with my instrument and my fears, exposed and vulnerable, but also certain that right there is where I want to be.
