Is This Song Worth Making?

Hey, if you’re new here maybe check out this Songwriting Project post first, to see what the hell old Rick is on about.

As an indie musician, I have a lot of freedom when it comes to which songs I choose to make. No one’s going to tell me not to make a song because it won’t get put on playlists, or it’s not right for the album, or it’s not the direction the label thinks I should go, or because it’s unseemly for a guy in his fifties to sing about ‘daddy’ . . . or whatever. No one else cares what I make (in a good way).

So it’s up to me. Which is cool, and amazing, but also a little scary. The wrong choice is nobody’s fault but mine.

I don’t finish everything I write.

The idea that this might be controversial blows my mind a little. But I think it is.

I don't recommend anybody finish everything they write. A lot of that stuff’s junk and we all know it. My process, as you’ll see, is taxing and costs money. When I choose to make a song, it means there’s something else I’m not making. So I owe it to myself to be a little circumspect when new material tempts me.

But I am going to make this song. I’ve already decided. So, what made me choose to go ahead with the song?

Let’s look at some pros and cons. Mostly, each one of these is both those things.

It’s a Country Song

It’s a bonafide, God-willin’-and-the-creek-don’t-rise country song. It’s baked into its DNA. It’s even in C—that country-est of keys. I’m not going to be able to turn it into something else and I’m not going to try.

That’s ok. I bristle a little at the “country” descriptor being applied to all of my songs, but it’s generally accurate. I make a lot of songs that owe a lot to country music. So if the boot fits (and here it definitely does) … scoot it.

This also sounds like the kind of country music my old man might have liked, so—bonus.

About Those Lyrics

Lyrics are important to me and are often where I start when I’m writing a song. In this case, I’ve got a full verse and something like a chorus (maybe even a pre-chorus, if you’re into that kind of thing.)

A few things stand out here.

First, this line:

“I didn’t stop to think that you were long gone.
I figured maybe you had just dropped by.”

That line is not what I’d call a “crusher.” It’s kind of an aside, but it does a cool thing.

It shares an experience I’ve had, but don’t hear people talk about much.

When I would catch these glimpses of my dead father, my brain would—for a split second—force it all to make sense:

He’s here because he drove up to surprise me (even though he’d stopped driving years before he died.)

He’s been visiting and it just slipped my mind.

He’s . . .

It only took a split second for my logical brain to win out. But for just a moment it’s clear that my subconscious wants this to be true just as much as I do. As a creative and anxiety-prone person, I often think of my subconscious as an enemy—to be feared and outsmarted. This makes me remember it’s part of me too. Just like all those parts of me that come from my dad.

So I dig this little line. It’s small but maybe someone else will relate to it.

Second, there’s this line:

“You taught me an answer’s just another question, given enough time”

This is a “crusher.” It says something cool, in a cool way. And it sounds like my “voice.” That voice part is important to the way I write—it has to sound like me (at least to my ear.) If that sounds random and super-subjective, it is. Go poking around in your head and I’m sure you’ll find some of these as well.

Truth is, this line alone sold me on moving ahead with the song.

It’s clever and I have a weakness for clever. It’s not without issues, though. It’s super-wordy, it requires a very specific, unnatural phrasing, and has to be delivered so fast the listener may not even understand it. These are mostly not new issues for me.

My work is wordy. If you’ve ever received an email from me, you know this. You’re reading my blog.

My phrasing is weird. Blame Dylan, or Donald Fagen maybe, but I consider my phrasing a ‘feature’ not a ‘bug.’ It does make it harder to sing with me, or for me.

So, it’s not ideal and in a way I’m self-aware enough to see coming.

But it also says a thing that’s true and I don’t think I’ve heard said in that way.

The most important thing my dad ever taught me—such that I think it permeates every decision I make—was that life, and the world, are complicated. “I don’t know, buddy. Maybe.” wasn’t a dodge from my father. It was an admission that he really didn’t know.

If you got a simple, satisfying black or white answer to something, then you probably didn’t ask enough questions. It’s a fundamental way of looking at the world—his and mine.

And finally, this . . .

“Daddy why’d you leave this old world behind?”

My dad and I were close. Mom passed away when I was little and he mostly raised me as best he could. As he got older he became more distant and insular. His hearing started to go and he leaned into it—happy I think, for less input from this world.

Anyway, there’s no way to squeeze into this song the complex weave of emotions this line, kind of, sort of hints at. And sometimes, for me anyway, that’s enough. It’s a pretty snappy line you can kind of breeze right past, but it’s more meaningful to me and it’s nice to have it here.

So, on with the show

That’s enough for me. Honestly, more than I often have when I decide to go “all-in” on a song. So, I’ll make a go of this one. Can’t promise it will end up being a hit, but I’ll make an effort to talk about it as I go. So, we’ll find out about it together.

Thanks for being with me.

URJ