Line Order Part 2, or One of the Innumerable Reasons Why Billy Joel is Awesome

            Previously, High School Musical demonstrated more than adequately how not to arrange lyrical lines for maximum effect, but it would be unfair not to give an example of how to do this well. First, I feel that I must preemptively apologize for my love of all things Billy Joel. While for a large part this obsession is sentimental, I maintain that Mr. Joel is one of the best pop lyricists of all time. If you are not a fan, by all means don’t stay silent. Just be aware that this is an issue on which I will not be swayed.

            The example I wish to draw from Joel’s oeuvre is the song “Christie Lee” from the album An Innocent Man:

On the first interlude, Joel starts with the setup line “The man knew the Burn like the Bible/you know the man could blow an educated axe.” The heavy and obscure music slang is bizarre at first glance, especially for those unfamiliar with the relevant lingo. He also ends the line with a lyrically troublesome word, “axe,” and one is left to wonder whether he couldn’t have chosen a more easily rhymable word.

But when the second line comes, the reasoning behind the contortion not only becomes clear but pays off in spectacular fashion: “He didn’t see that Christie Lee was a woman/who didn’t need another lover/all she wanted was the sax.” Not only does he hit us with the rhythmic rat-tat-tat-tat and slightly slanted internal rhyming of “another lover,” but he then goes straight for the kill with that rarest of inventions: a pun that doesn’t come off as lame. Had he thrown the clever line out first, the lyric would have ended on a sour note as it would have been all too clear that Joel was desperately trying to make room for his wit. As it is, Joel wisely lets the lamer line build lyrical tension in the first line, and then throws his one-two punch in the second.

You can argue the merits of Joel's comic concept all day, but I include the lyric as an example of a verse that, given its concept, is as ideally arranged as it can be.

Sound Lyrics, or Ga-Ga Ooh-La-La

           While further pondering the points of overlap between poetry and lyrics, I realized that in my previous post I had failed to cover an important idea: sound lyrics. That is, lyrics that are written almost exclusively for the way they sound. Let’s start with an extreme example:

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah!
Roma-Roma-ma-ah!
Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!
Want your bad romance.

            If you can understand that, stay away from me.

But, of course, Gaga doesn’t use those odd vowel sounds to convey meaning, she uses them because they play with the ear. Syd Barrett used the same method to craft the lyrics to early-period Pink Floyd songs like “Astronomy Domine.” Alright, you say, but that’s Lady Gaga and Syd Barrett, does anyone relatively sane use this technique? As a matter of fact, yes…

            “Stairway To Heaven” is and for a long time has been one of my all-time favorite songs, but let’s look at some of the lyrics:

If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now,
It's just a spring clean for the May queen.

            As profound as those words might have seemed when I was 15, when viewed with an ice-cold eye they don’t make a lick of sense. But, of course, Robert Plant doesn’t use those odd sentences to convey meaning—he admits that the lyrics to the song were almost entirely improvised—they work because the sound of the words alone is so evocative. Inspired by a trip to Wales, they strike just the right tone to become something approaching a musical instrument in their own right. Paul McCartney often does the same thing, most famously in the grating "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da."

            I mention all of this because it constitutes a major oversight on my part. In their sound lyrics, pop songs edge closer to poetry than I had given them credit for. Such lyrics (along with those by greats like Roger Waters or Bob Dylan) hew very close to the poetic tradition. However, I still assert that most lyrics (yes, including most pop lyrics) tend more toward the theatrical than the poetic.

            Thanks for the feedback on the last post and I look forward to treating such issues at greater length in the future.

A Division of Forms, or Poetry is Poetry and Lyrics are Lyrics and Never The Twain Shall Meet

            You would be justified in regarding statement contained within the secondary title above with a certain degree of skepticism. After all, poetry and lyrics do bear some striking superficial similarities. Both are often rhymed. Both are often rhythmic. Both can achieve an elegance virtually unmatched in prose.

            The problem is that there the similarities stop. Once you begin looking at concrete examples, any claim of equivalency between the two forms instantly deflates. Let us take for our example one of the most well-known poems in the American repertoire: Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.”

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

A lovely poem, I think you will agree, but try writing a melody for it. Rhythmically, of course, it is possible to do so, but tonally it is impracticable. Try setting the poem’s ending to music; you will fail miserably. Like much of Frost’s poetry, it relies on stark understatement for its effect. Adding music would be, at best, an egregious redundancy. It does nothing for the poem that the poem does not already do for itself, and better.

            But there is a more fundamental difference at work here. Poetry, by and large, is intended to be read. In revealing its meaning it burns slowly. The poet is permitted to be elusive and even vague, safe in the knowledge that the reader will be able to read a troublesome line repeatedly and eventually divine its meaning. The lyricist does not have this luxury. Lyrics are a much more immediate art form by virtue of being almost exclusively heard rather than read. When you only have one shot at communicating your meaning to an audience, you had damn well better say what you want to and say it clearly.

            So there is a divide in the required level of clarity in either form, but I would also argue that on a more fundamental level, while poetry is predominately an independent art form, lyrics must by definition be collaborative. Lyrics are not meant to stand alone, nor should that be your goal as a lyricist. The lyrics and the music must combine to create a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts. Neither side is at the mercy of the other; rather, the relationship is markedly symbiotic. Each complements and improves the other, and far from rejecting the notion of lyrics as art, this fact affirms it. The measure of a great poet is in the words alone, but the measure of a great lyricist lies in how entirely the words are wrapped up with the music. It is this symbiosis that defines and establishes lyrics as their own artistic entity.

Line Order Part 1, or One of The Innumerable Reasons Why "High School Musical" is Terrible

            We’ve all been there; you’ve thought of a brilliant little line that works perfectly with your rhythmic scheme. The only problem is that the final word of the line has almost no perfect rhymes. As we must take perfect rhymes as a ground rule (I will talk more about this in the future), damage control is now the main priority. Say you manage to put together a workable but by no means particularly good line out of one of the two or three rhymes for your problem word. You now have two lyrical lines, one of them getting along swimmingly, the other still floating but otherwise dead in the water (like an overextended metaphor). This is what I mean by damage control: we must find a way to reduce emphasis on the lame line.

            There are plenty of musical ways to do this. If you construct your melody carefully, you can imperceptibly but very effectively move the emphasis away from a particular word or syllable, but there is a much simpler and much more effective way of achieving this effect: simply place the lame line first. The central problem is that you are saddled with accommodating your good line. The greatest lyrical emphasis always falls on the last line of the verse, and so that is the place where you must deposit your clever line so as to avoid the (admittedly correct) impression that you are accommodating it.

            A terrific example of how not to do this comes from my old enemy, High School Musical. In the closing number, insufferably titled “We’re All In This Together,” we are forced to swallow the lines “Together, together, together everyone/Together, together, come on let’s have some fun.” We will leave alone for the moment the imbecilic redundancy of the “together” portion of the lyric, favoring instead the rhymes “everyone” and “fun.” The word “fun,” in general, is a word that should be used in lyrics seldom, if ever. I am hard-pressed to think of a lyric sporting that word that is not diminished by its presence. “Everyone” is the better rhyme by far. It is multi-syllabic (always good for a second rhyme), its natural rhythms match those of the music reasonably well. Though the song itself is beyond salvation, think of how much better that verse would be, were the lyrics “Together, together, c’mon, let’s have some fun/Together, together, together everyone.” Still not good, perhaps—there is little to be gained in dressing the wounds of a corpse—but still markedly better.

Next time: A positive example, courtesy of Mr. Billy Joel.

Concept, or My What A Guy That Gaston

            I’ve heard all too many musical numbers that were very obviously written for no better reason than that someone must have said, “we’d better put a musical number here.” If ever you find yourself doing this, stop immediately and think long and hard about concept, which I assert is the single most important element in a good song lyric.

            I will illustrate the importance of concept through a pair of examples from animated musicals. To give you a spot of background, during the late 80’s and early 90’s the musical fueled a remarkable resurgence in Disney’s economic and artistic fortunes. Beginning with The Little Mermaid, Disney churned out a series of masterful and hugely profitable films. Inevitably, this success spawned a host of imitators. Some of these were remarkably good, like 20^th Century Fox’s Anastasia. But for every Anastasia, there was a turkey like Rock-a-Doodle, and for every Rock-a-Doodle there was a merely mediocre film like The Swan Princess. It is this last film that I am interested in, as I wish to concern myself here not with sheer incompetence but with a lack of inspiration.

            For our example let’s look at the respective villain songs from The Swan Princess and Beauty and the Beast. At this point, you are probably not thinking, “oh, I can clearly see the distinction between the two songs.” More likely you are thinking, “what the hell is The Swan Princess?” or, at best, “what the hell was the villain song from The Swan Princess?”

            I shall enlighten you. The villain song from The Swan Princess is a jazz number called “No More Mr. Nice Guy,” a song in which the evil wizard Rothbart indicates the general malevolence of his intentions. You think I’m being glib, but no. That is literally all the song is about.

Gosh, it's such a hoot to see them quaking
When I'm king they'll treat me with respect
I can't wait to watch their poor hearts breaking
So much for politically correct
Up 'til now I've pulled my punches
I intend to eat their lunches
No more Mr. Nice Guy, not for me
If you think that I'm hard-hearted
Well, let me by, I haven't even started
No more Mr. Nice Guy, no siree
Soon as my witchcraft has zinged them
I'll gain control of the kingdom
As for Odette, well that's tragic
'Cause I'm going back to that old black magic
Good behaviour is so much duller
Time to show my one true colour
Baby, Mr. Nice Guy's history
Vengeance is what I believe in
I don't get mad, I get even
Odette can't get to the ball 'cause I won't bring her
So I'll zap up a date who's a real dead ringer
Up to no good, I love plottin'
'Cause I'm so good when I'm rotten
No more Mr. Nice Guy, wait and see (wait and see)
I'll become that nasty, naughty, very spiteful
Wicked, wayward, way delightful
Bad guy I was born to be
Lying, loathsame, never tender
Indiscreet repeat offender
No more Mr. Nice Guy, that's not me

There is close to no mention of his actual plan, no idiosyncracies that might distinguish him from other villains, and no indication that the lyricist had any substantial idea as to why the song existed at all. In short, there is a reason why you’d forgotten it existed.

Compare this to the universally beloved and instantly recognizable “Gaston” from Beauty and the Beast.

Gosh it disturbs me to see you, Gaston
Looking so down in the dumps
Ev'ry guy here'd love to be you, Gaston
Even when taking your lumps
There's no man in town as admired as you
You're ev'ryone's favorite guy
Ev'ryone's awed and inspired by you
And it's not very hard to see why
No one's slick as Gaston
No one's quick as Gaston
No one's neck's as incredibly thick as Gaston's
For there's no man in town half as manly
Perfect, a pure paragon!
You can ask any Tom, Dick or Stanley
And they'll tell you whose team they prefer to be on
No one's been like Gaston
A king pin like Gaston
No one's got a swell cleft in his chin like Gaston
As a specimen, yes, I'm intimidating!
My what a guy, that Gaston!
Give five "hurrahs!"
Give twelve "hip-hips!"
Gaston is the best
And the rest is all drips
No one fights like Gaston
Douses lights like Gaston
In a wrestling match nobody bites like Gaston!
For there's no one as burly and brawny
As you see I've got biceps to spare
Not a bit of him's scraggly or scrawny
That's right!
And ev'ry last inch of me's covered with hair
No one hits like Gaston
Matches wits like Gaston
In a spitting match nobody spits like Gaston
I'm especially good at expectorating!
Ptoooie!
Ten points for Gaston!
When I was a lad I ate four dozen eggs
Ev'ry morning to help me get large
And now that I'm grown I eat five dozen eggs
So I'm roughly the size of a barge!
My what a guy, that Gaston!
No one shoots like Gaston
Makes those beauts like Gaston
Then goes tromping around wearing boots like Gaston
I use antlers in all of my decorating!
My what a guy,
Gaston!

Rothbart’s song is merely a villain song, which is a category and not a concept.“Gaston,” on the other hand, is a grand, chauvinistic hymn of self-praise. In other words, it has a concept. Why do I make such a big fuss about this? Because the lyrics to “No More Mr. Nice Guy” are not that bad. They’re nothing special, certainly, but they’re not that bad either. So why is it not a good song? Concept, concept, concept. Even strong lyrics will falter if used in service of a song with an identity crisis, just as even imperfect lyrics can still be bound together by a terrific concept to form an irrefutably great song like “Gaston.”

Concept, concept, concept.

Nonsense Lyrics, or How To Deny a California Girl

When I warn people to avoid writing lyrics that don’t make sense, most brush it off. We tend to assume that our internal sense of what does and does not make sense will hold steady through thick and through thin. But the rigors of perfect rhyming, correct emphasis placement, and syllable counting can play tricks on our common sense.

While it may seem unfair to place such an easy target in my cross hairs, I will use the example of Katy Perry’s “California Girls” (I omit the idiotic alternate spelling “gurls” deliberately). The beginning of the chorus’s first verse, “California girls, we’re unforgettable,” is unforgivably bland but can at least lay claim to the distinction of making sense. The same cannot be said for the second verse of the chorus, which sports the line “California girls, we’re undeniable,” a statement that is, to put it kindly, unintelligible. A fact can certainly be undeniable, a person can be undeniably something, but what the hell does it mean that a person is undeniable? That we are not able to deny their existence? Is this a trait specific to California girls?

That is not to say that musical theater lyricists are exempt from criticism. As Stephen Sondheim has pointed out in the past, Oscar Hammerstein’s lyrics are full of vaguely evocative but utterly mystifying lines like “when the skies are brighter canary yellow” or “like a lark who is learning to pray,” imagery more reminiscent of a particularly vivid acid trip than, say, a tropical beach or the Alps.

One of the major characteristics that distinguish lyrics from poetry is the constant burden of clarity. The ability to convey meaning is one of the pillars of lyric-writing, and so nonsensical lyrics not only confuse the audience but also betray their medium. And if ever your skies are a brighter canary yellow or you are struck with the desire to deny the existence of Katy Perry, call 911.

Scratch that. The second one is perfectly normal.

Pet Peeves: A Girl in the World with a Life of Strife

Few lyrical tendencies irritate me quite so much as the persistent but ultimately fruitless attempt to pretend that “girl” rhymes with “world.” It doesn’t. “Girl” rhymes with “curl,” “pearl,” “whirl,” and “hurl,” plus a handful of others. If none of those suit your purposes, then you might want to give consideration to not ending a line with a word as dull and exhausted as “girl.”

            Even pop lyricists I quite admire, like Billy Joel, have on occasion been guilty of this offense. But the rhyme, apart from offending the ear, is simply lazy. No matter how noble your intentions, you are still resorting to a rhyme that has been used countless times before, never to great effect, and that is not actually a rhyme, for no better reason than that “girl” is hard to rhyme with. If it is indeed that hard to rhyme with, then at least have the good sense not to use it.

            Similar rules apply to “life.” It’s no use complaining that “life” is hard to rhyme with. As a lyrical device it is vague and meaningless, a vain attempt to invest more grandeur in an idea than it truly merits. If none of the rhymes for the word (knife, rife, wife, etc.) suit your needs, do not bend over backwards to make the most abused rhyme (strife). Instead, reconstitute what is obviously a flawed lyrical line until it no longer ends with a word as utterly insipid as “life.”

            Also try to avoid using the following: “heart,” “soul,” “fun,” “I love you,” and really just the word “love” in general. In fact, try avoiding the concept of love wherever possible. There are other, far less distasteful emotions out there. Try one.