How can something so mellow Sound so scratchy in the wrong hands ? How can a starting fellow Be encouraged to stick to their plans ? And not be lured away By an easy piano with its separate keys – How can we learn to play If we never can go as sweet as we please ? If we must have things like untuned strings, Then the neighbours don’t need to hear. If our notes are bums and our fingers thumbs, Then we need some friendlier gear. Yet the pros aren’t a piglet’s squeal, Or the hinge on a rusty gate – So how can a sound so real, Be a sound so hard to create ?
Back in the Seventies, big cones were rare, And so was the reggae they played. But these days, both are ev’rywhere, When blasting through suburban air From weekend cars who love to share – Just like in the cavalcade.
Yet come the Carnival, out come the gents, As if it were yesterday – It’s not a live show that this presents, They aren’t musicians with instruments – Their only action, in all events, Is simply pressing ‘play’.
Country folk are godly folk, They sing to holy Jesus, Sing how he’s the one they set their heart upon. Yet over Nashville way, no joke, They worship olive trees, yes, Sing to Grecians in their mighty Parthenon. They built a statue of Athena Dressed in gold and ivory, With ancient eyes of blue that never blink. They built a temple to the Virgin, Yet in rivalry – Cos she ain’t the usual Virgin that they think –
Hallelujah, hail Athena ! Sing it loud and sing it free ! You beat Poseidon with his trident, And now Jesus with his trinity. We need a goddess, not a patriarch To stir these sisters free – In the Athens of the South, your spark Lights up your mystery.
Country folk are gawdy folk, They love their rhinestone rings – Yet their churches are just warehouses of prayers. Is Jesus stoney broke That he can’t afford some decent bling In which his shouty preachers flog his wares ? But over at Athena’s place, There’s statues in the pediments Of epic battles fought in ancient times – She may be stoic in her face, But not so harsh and regiment To frown upon our splashing-out the dimes.
Hallelujah, hail Athena ! Sing it free and sing it loud ! Lady Wisdom, Lady with the Owl, Intelligent and proud – We need a goddess to the arts For fans to worship when we hum – A diva moving-up the charts, Who’s number one till kingdom come.
The original statue was sculpted by Phedias in 9563HE. This replica was designed by Alan LeQuire in 11990, using gypsum cement, fibreglass-infused plaster, and gold leaf (not ivory, like the original, but close enough – and surely Phedias would have loved to have access to these…) It is, I believe, based on ancient descriptions and other statues, but I’m sure some original interpretation has been included, and quite right too !
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 lent on it as he noodles a guitar. His cable, I notice, is plugged-into the keyboard, Through sockets at each end shaped like a star. Two blokes lost in the moment, forever – George with his collar now 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 his crossed boots protruding as he leans. 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 – Just a pair of immigrants who met in London’s 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 all their poems so very much greater – When using their step-mother tongue so well. But usu’lly, they’re 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 !)
Rhyming Couplets 