Strange, the oldest folk tunes have no authors known, They’ve just been sung like that forever. I wonder if a single soul created them, Or many voices altogether. Maybe over centuries, they’ve slowly grown, Adding new words to old songs, From bawdy balladry, through cherished hymn, To terrace singalongs.
From London Bridge to Scarborough Fair, Ride a cock horse to the old grey mare, Lady Greensleeves, mistress mine, And over the hills for auld lang syne. We’ll never know, we’re never told – They are too old and we’re too young – Yet still their songs are sung.
Strange, the newest pop tunes come with artist names – We know just who created each. Yet maybe in a thousand years, a few persist Whose origins are out of reach. Carols may be sung to them, or children’s’ games, Or earworms and lullabyes – With half the words forgotten, and their meaning missed, But hanging on in diff’rent guise.
From Ground Control to Billie Jean, Go Johnny, go, come on Eileen. All the lonely yesterday – Sing for tomorrow, we fade to grey. They’ll never know, the trail is cold – We are too old and still of tongue – Yet still our songs are sung.
All the world’s a musical, A song-and-dance in rhyme, A carefree waltz through happy life In endless pantomime. Just drifting by the numbers, As they’re belted to the rafters – So farcic’ly predictable In happy-ever-afters.
The rest of us, we’re not the stars, That’s always someone else – The people with more talent, And the people with more wealth. We rarely even get to join the chorus As they strut – We’re just the understudies To the bit-parts-who-were-cut.
All the world’s a musical, That’s dancing in the street, But some of us will never get to Glimpse the lyric-sheet. But leads become the leads Because they’re who we want to see – There’s few to watch the story of the life Of you and me.
The rest of us, we’re not the stars, We’re just the audience – We go about our daily lives With fading confidence. We try to make a diff’rence, But we struggle to be heard – We’ll never be performers, If we never sing a word.
All the world’s a musical, A life that’s lit by lime – Where strangers sing impulsively, Yet sing in perfect time. The rest of us, we’re not the stars, We barely know the song – But in the end, I guess we shrug, And try to hum along.
Award me no Oscar, Bedeck me no Grammy – Your platitudes bore me, Your clapping is clammy. Nobels are for losers, Don’t grovel and crawl – Your Emmys are empty, And Pulitzers pall. So spare me your trinkets, Your Tony or Bafta – Just pay me with sales, And reward me with laughter. Pray, do not insult me With Knighthoods and gongs – If you wish to do honour, Keep singing my songs.
This, apparently, is the lyric sheet for Lose Yourself by Eminem
Throw your Hands in the Air till it Cuts like a Knife
Musicians’ lyrics are words for music, An afterthought to fill the tune. And that’s what makes them words of int’rest, Knocked-up quick, and none too soon ! Musicians‘ lyrics, they’re corny or woozy, But always organic in self-expression – Their very essence is always the quintest – When forged in the deadline of ending the session. Musicians are never librettists, They never write words to stand alone – They’re woven into the very chords, Their voices are played like a saxophone. Musicians’ lyrics are hard to resist, They’re what turns a tune to a song. They master what poets are groping towards, When the audience all sing along.
Note that this poem is about bands who write their own songs, not about professional songwriters who often have individuals working exclusively on the words. It’s intended as a celebration of those musicians for whom the words are simply less important than the tune.
A statue of two men – one plays a harpsichord, The other one leans as he noodles a guitar. His lead, I notice, is plugged-into the keyboard, His fingers on the neck in a c-sharp bar. Two blokes lost in the moment, forever – George with his collar loosened at the throat, With multiple strings of borrowed beads, And his arms pulled-out from the sleeves of his coat. Jimi, meanwhile, has hitched-up his kaftan on one side, To access the pocket of his jeans – With a periwig perched atop his wild hair, And purple boots (though the colour can’t be seen). A little-bit larger than life-size, of course, But with no cordon or pedestal here – So easy, so pleasing, to reach out and touch them – The impossible past has never felt so near ! The people like to pose and the pigeons like to perch, And the verdigris and lichen are a psychedelic stain. No plaque or explanation – we know who they are, As they’re basked in the sun and they’re washed in the rain. Their eyes are open, but surely unseeing, Pointing at the keys or looking at the sky – Communing with their muse, as if she is their singer, To an audience of shoppers who hurry on by. One wonders what they might ever have talked about, Between the numbers, on languid nights – With George very much the establishment man, And Jimi outspoken on civil rights. From diff’rent eras and diff’rent generations, Baroque versus blues – yet they’re finding a way – The statue, of course, is eternally silent, And leaves it to the viewer to hear what they play.
In truth, Jimi only lived in the flat three months, but it’s still tempting to wonder what they might have said if a mixture of time travel and hallucinogens had brought them together. Both immigrants, both musicians, but there the comparisons pretty much end. Yet sometimes, it’s worth finding some common ground for the sake of a good tune...
Plenty of poets who only learned English later Have plenty of English to tell, Which makes their poems all the greater – Using their step-mother tongue so well. But usually, only in free verse, it must be said, Not often in rhyme – (Unless they are writing in pop instead, Cos that happens all the time !)
Shoegazing wallflowers, Hairy spotty kids – Mopey little herberts, Or chirpy katydids. We were far too cool to dance, And far too lefty-footed, Musoes looking for a cause With ranks in which to put it. But over time, we finally admit That half of it was crap, And pack it up in boxes in the attic, Never looking back. And maybe even grudgingly confess That pop is not that bad, And songs that make us happy Are more fun than songs that make us sad. Until…a chance half-hearing From a car or through a door, Brings us beautif’ly-scored misery In loping seven-four. Suddenly-remembered lyrics Catch a quiver in our throat – And we’re back in adolescent gloom, Re-loving ev’ry note.
Ooh, they’re singing a song… And I think we know this one ? Aren’t we clever ? I say, why not clap along, To show we know this one ? Now altogether ! Ignore the grumps among us Who just think it rather rude – Come on, let’s shout ! I bet the cast will thank us For our effort to intrude And drown them out !
I learned so much of what I know of poetry From the joys of pop – I soaked it up, subconscious, in no hurry, Drop by golden drop. The verse, the chorus, the linking-bit inbetween, And the bridge that would soar – The words were the fuel in the polished machine, In structures as old as lore.
I never knew how I knew it at all, But I knew it all, When I heard the chorus call –
And the songs remained the same, That’s how they’re made, For any old hit you can name – A-B-A-B, occasional C, It’s all a game, Repeat to fade.
I learned so much, I even learned surprise When the form was messed about – I loved it when they threw me, played me wise, From frustration or mischief, no doubt. From starting with the chorus before the verse, Or adding a verse when it ought to end – It felt illicit, and I longed to immerse In my iconoclastic, offbeat friend.
I never knew how I knew it was wrong, But I knew so strong When I heard that rebel song –
Cos the songs can’t stay the same – We need new tricks Not more of what the past became – A-B-A-B, you’re boring me – Let’s change the game, Let’s re- the mix !
Come on, pop, I’m looking to you For something new, To change your key. So come on, pop, don’t let it be, Let’s tear on through This boogaloo ! I need you, pop, to shake the tree, Rejecting their authority, A-one, a-two, A-set-me-free, That’s what you do – So do it for me !
Are you ready, Ready to leap right off this ridge ? Into the space beyond the dials ? Into our hungry ears ? To see what’s at the other end of this bridge, In the unfamiliar miles Of the rainbow pregnant years ? Just because we’ve played three minutes, Who says that it’s time to stop ? To push things past the social limits, Isn’t that the point of pop ?
Though the songs still play the same – They know the score – To tease, not startle, that’s the aim ! A-B-A-B, then jamboree, Until the game Comes home once more.
Examples of unusual song structures that struck me over the years:
OMD often used an instrumental hook as a chorus, as does Seven Nation Army. Del Shannon’s Runaway used an instrumental in place of the second verse. The Byrds’ version of Mr Tambourine Man has a chorus, a verse, a chorus…and that’s it ! Does that make the verse more of a bridge…? Except it feels it lasts too long for that… This feels like a cut-down version of AABA (like many ‘Great American Songbook’ tunes, such as Somewhere Over the Rainbow), where the verses are doing all the heavy lifting with just a single bridge coming in the latter half.
Speaking of verses, repeating the opening stanza at the end of the song is quite common (Nights In White Satin, Annie’s Song), but Paper Planes by MIA repeats all of its four verses as soon as it sings them, so we hear the first verse twice before moving onto the second, which then repeats before the third etc. Killing In The Name uses the same verse (and of course the same chorus) before it’s extended bridge section that you’ll never hear on the radio, and Mr Brightside effectively repeats the entire song in the second half. Not to mention I’m Henery the Eighth I Am…
Sometimes an instrumental would come early, after the first chorus instead of the second (Pipes of Peace, The Importance of Being Idle), followed by a repeat of the chorus which we perceive as the climax, but then proceed with the second unexpected verse while not actually being any longer.
Some songs reduce the chorus to a single line, like The Sound of Silence, or two, like Blowing in the Wind. Perhaps this is less ‘chorus’ and more ‘refrain’. Conversely, songs that could be thought of as all chorus include Love Me Do and There She Goes, and Relax, though each of them does have a bridge section at the half-way point. Other songs, like many by Def Leppard, deny us the chorus the first time through, moving from pre-chorus straight into the second verse.
Metal has often seen songs as more of a symphony, and not just in terms of guitar solos – they often have more lyrics and parts than three-minute pop – for instance, Metallica’s One develops midway into almost a completely different song, and doesn’t even circle back to its origins. Even more medley-esque is Happiness is a Warm Gun, where the parts only feel loosely related. Another song which wanders yet finds its way back home is Bohemian Rhapsody, keeping us on our toes through the journey (or at least it did when first we heard it, way back when).
Some songs seem to introduce the bridge for the first time, but then forget to repeat the chorus, so we have an outro instead, like Immigrant Song, Flash, or What Do You Want From Me.
But best of all are the songs which refuse to keep under five minutes, and not just by repeating the chorus too many times (looking at you, Hey Jude, because you always feels to me like a three-minuter with far too much bloat). Some, like Suede’s The Asphalt World make us think they’re winding down, but the coda turns into an intermission as they kick themselves up once more and regain their momentum. I get this sense from I Feel Love as well, as long as you don’t have the bastardised cut-down radio version.
Of course, not every song can have a bizarre structure, nor should it – but neither should we feel compelled to follow the formula when the song wants to go somewhere different. If only, following AAB, the Rainbow had led us to a C instead…?
Rhyming Couplets 