Writing Lessons from Singer-Songwriters

On one of my initial panels as a first-time novelist, when asked what authors inspired me in my writing, I replied, “I was probably influenced as much by Steve Earle and Steely Dan as anybody I read.”

I stand by that.

I started my creative life as an accompanist for two superb women vocalists on the coffee-house circuit (billing myself as “The World’s Most Adequate Guitarist”), and then joined a bar band and toured the Midwest, performing in such famed musical Meccas as Kokomo, Indiana; Ypsilanti, Michigan; and Lima, Ohio. (Best compliment I ever got: “Who’s the guy who sings like a chick, he’s really good.”)

Music has always had a profound effect on me (my paternal grandfather was a music teacher). My first obsession was folk music, and I was particularly fond of revival stalwarts like Judy Collins, Tom Paxton, Odetta, Pete Seeger, and Dave Van Ronk.

It was from them, especially the traditionalists, that I gained an appreciation for the story song, especially old ballads such as “Pretty Polly,” “Barbara Allen,” and “John Riley.”

But the songs I came to love most deeply were written by the musicians themselves, which made them more personal. And looking back, I can see that I learned a number of writing lessons from those efforts.

Granted, in general songs bear a greater resemblance to poetry than narrative, and they have the twin advantages of rhyme and music to bring their messages home. What I’ll be talking about here are songs that do indeed tell a story with the familiar beginning-middle-end structure.

NOTE: If you’re unacquainted with the songs I mention below, I’ve provided links to their Youtube videos.

Tom Paxton: “My Son John”

This Tom Paxton original from 1966 really affected me, possibly more than the traditional ballads, because of its relevance to the Vietnam War and my own close relationship with my father:

My son, John, was a good boy, and good to me
When we had hard times, well, he stood by me
We were in work and out of work and on the go
If he had complaints, I never heard a-one
He would pitch in and help me like a full-grown man
My son, John. John, my son

My son, John, went to college and he made his way
Had to earn every penny, but he paid his way
He worked summers and holidays and through the year
And it was no easy struggle that he won
But he laughed at the ones who thought he had it hard
My son, John. John, my son

My son, John, got his uniform and went away
With a band playing marches, he was sent away
And he wrote me a letter when he had the time
He was losing his buddies one by one
And I prayed and tried not to read between the lines
My son, John. John, my son

My son, John, came home yesterday, he’s here to stay
Not a word to his father have I heard him say
He seems glad to be home, but I can’t be sure
When I asked him what he’d seen and done
He went up to his bedroom, and he closed the door
My son, John, John my son
He went up to his bedroom, and he closed the door
My son, John, John my son

This is a classic example of less is more, in that it’s not made clear what the son has “seen and done”—that’s left to our imagination, and it’s all the more powerful because of that, especially after the long buildup showing the relationship between father and son and the profound respect the former has for the latter.

Also, the last two lines are repeated, which provides a haunting effect—something hard to duplicate literally in fiction. Instead we have to find ways to repeat an imagine or an idea indirectly so that the association is made unconsciously—for example, the use of water, fish, glass, and eyes in the screenplay for Chinatown. (For more on how to employ this technique, see John Truby’s discussion of symbol system in The Anatomy of Story.)

The Beatles: “Norwegian Wood”

Speaking of less-is-more—the first song that I realized was an actual short story was “Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)” from Rubber Soul by The Beatles:

I once had a girl
Or should I say
She once had me

She showed me her room
Isn’t it good
Norwegian wood

She asked me to stay
And she told me to sit anywhere
So I looked around
And I noticed there wasn’t a chair

I sat on a rug
Biding my time
Drinking her wine

We talked until two
And then she said
“It’s time for bed”

She told me she worked in the morning
And started to laugh
I told her I didn’t
And crawled off to sleep in the bath

And when I awoke
I was alone
This bird had flown

So I lit a fire
Isn’t it good
Norwegian wood

Above and beyond the double-entendre in the first verse, or the twist ending, with its menace only enhanced by its ambiguity, this was my introduction to minimalism—nice preparation for my future reading of Raymond Carver. The actual story is incredibly spare, but no less evocative for that. And the tension between the man and the woman is palpable, despite the seemingly romantic setup. That tension lies in the details: Who had whom?… Why tell him to sit when there isn’t a chair:… He’s “biding his time” and at last gets rewarded with “It’s time for bed,” only to be laughed at and the “crawling off” to sleep in the bath. It’s hard to imagine establishing such an atmosphere of sociable hostility in so few words, but Lennon pulls it off.

(Interesting side note: one commentator from a conservative Catholic magazine presumed the song was about a straight man trying to pick up a lesbian. The same writer opined that “Strawberry Fields” was about a man on acid stumbling onto a dead body at a party, and “I’m Only Sleeping” was about masturbation. For some more interesting background on this song and its meaning, go here.)

Townes Van Zandt: “Pancho and Lefty”

As the sixties gave way to the seventies, the folkies morphed into singer-songwriters, exemplified by such luminaries as Tom Waits, Joni Mitchell, Paul Simon, Rickie Lee Jones, John Prine, Sandy Denny, James Taylor, Phoebe Snow, Steve Goodman, and my two personal favorites, Randy Newman and Leonard Cohen.

But it was “Pancho and Lefty” by Townes Van Zandt that had the biggest impact on me at that time. Emmylou Harris introduced me to the tune. It’s been covered by a great many others, including Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard, though for my money, except for Emmylou and Townes himself, no one’s done it justice like Jason Isbell and Elizabeth Cook.

Living on the road my friend
Is gonna keep you free and clean
Now you wear your skin like iron
Your breath as hard as kerosene
You weren’t your mama’s only boy
But her favorite one, it seems
She began to cry when you said goodbye
And sank into your dreams

Pancho was a bandit boy, his horse as fast as polished steel
He wore his gun outside his pants
For all the honest world to feel
Pancho met his match you know in the desert down in Mexico
Nobody heard his dyin words, ah but that’s the way it goes

All the Federales say, they could’ve had him any day
They only let him slip away, out of kindness I suppose

Lefty can’t sing the blues all night long like he used to
The dust that Pancho bit down south ended up in Lefty’s mouth
The day they laid poor Pancho low, Lefty split for Ohio
Where he got the bread to go, there ain’t nobody knows

All the Federales say, they could’ve had him any day
They only let him slip away out of kindness I suppose

The poets tell how old Pancho fell, and Lefty’s livin in a cheap hotel
The desert’s quiet, Cleveland’s cold
And so the story ends we’re told
Pancho needs your prayers it’s true, but save a few for Lefty too
He only did what he had to do, and now he’s growing old

All the Federales say, they could’ve had him any day
They only let him go so long, out of kindness I suppose

A few gray Federales say, they could’ve had him any day
They only let him go so long, out of kindness I suppose

First, who knew a song could have a prologue? And like any good prologue, it acts like an overture, providing an atmospheric/thematic setup without introducing any information that will be presented in what follows. Better yet, it’s in second person, creating a mysterious ambiguity: which of the two characters in the song is the singer addressing? And then it ends with the eerily evocative, “And sank into your dreams” (with a minor chord change to emphasize the haunting effect).

Next, one by one we’re introduced to the two eponymous characters, with their stories laid out briefly by no less dramatically for that. Each has its elements of both irony and pathos. The couplet, “The dust that Pancho bit down south ended up in Lefty’s mouth” is one of those lines you never forget, a reminder that stories need a little poetry, too. (An equally haunting couplet is “The desert’s quiet, Cleveland’s cold/And so the story ends we’re told.”)

The ending concludes with equal attention to both characters. The Judas character normally only earns our contempt, but the song tempers that judgment with, “He only did what he had to do” (though we’re left wondering why he had to do it). And the poignant, “And now he’s growing old” lets us know that Lefty no more escaped the consequences of his actions than Pancho did.

Finally, the ending refrains, instead of repeating exactly, have the last one altering “All the federales” to “A few gray federales,” suggesting it’s not just Lefty who’s getting ever closer to death, while the legend of Pancho remains alive.

Incidentally, introductory sections to songs like the “prologue” mentioned above were by no means unusual in the days of Tin Pan Alley. A classic example is “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” written by Harold Arlen and Yip Harburg for The Wizard of Oz. Their version included an intro section that was dropped in the film:

When all the world is a hopeless jumble
And the raindrops tumble all around
Heaven opens a magic lane

When all the clouds darken up the skyway
There’s a rainbow highway to be found
Leading from your windowpane

To a place behind the sun
Just a step beyond the rain

This omission was a sign of things to come—these introductory verses were usually dropped from songs when singers performed them in subsequent years, and composers stopped writing them. To hear how this song sounds with the introduction, try this version by the young French singer Marie Oppert.

Robert Earl Keen, Jr.: “The Road Goes On Forever”

By the 1980s three singer-songwriters had pretty much become the focus of my interest in the genre: Steve Earle, John Hiatt, and Robert Earl Keen, Jr. And for my money, there are few story songs better than “The Road Goes On Forever:”

Sherry was a waitress at the only joint in town
She had a reputation as a girl who’d been around
Down Main Street after midnight, brand new pack of cigs
A fresh one hangin’ from her lips, a beer between her legs
She rides down to the river to meet with all her friends
The road goes on forever and the party never ends

Sonny was a loner, older than the rest
He was goin’ in the Navy but couldn’t pass the test
So he hung around town, he sold a little pot
The law caught wind of Sonny and one day he got caught
But he was back in business when they set him free again
The road goes on forever and the party never ends

They soon ran out of money but Sonny knew a man
Who knew some Cuban refugees that dealt in contraband
Sonny met the Cubans in a house just off the route
With a briefcase full of money and a pistol in his boot
The cards were on the table when the law came bustin’ in
The road goes on forever and the party never ends

The Cubans grabbed the goodies, Sonny grabbed a jack
He broke a bathroom window and climbed on out the back
Sherry drove the pickup through the alley on the side
Where a lawman tackled Sonny and was readin’ him his rights
She stepped out in the alley with a single-shot .410
The road goes on forever and the party never ends

They left the lawman lyin’ and they made their getaway
Got back to the motel just before the break of day
Sonny gave her all the money and he blew a little kiss
“If they ask you how this happened, say I forced you into this”
She watched him as his taillights disappeared around the bend
The road goes on forever and the party never ends

It’s Main Street after midnight just like it was before
Twenty-one months later at the local grocery store
Sherry buys a paper and a cold six-pack of beer
The headlines read that Sonny is goin’ to the chair
She pulls back onto Main Street in her new Mercedes Benz
The road goes on forever and the party never ends

Note the up-front introduction of the characters, much like “Pancho and Lefty.” The depiction of Sherry in particular is vivid because of the “brand new pack of cigs/A fresh one hangin’ from her lips, a beer between her legs.” The language and imagery combine to let us know exactly who she is, even before we get to the iconic river rendezvous with her friends. That attention to detail continues with Sonny’s inability to get into the Navy, his playing eightball (not just pool), the quart of Bombay gin, the single-shot .410.

The song also has a perfect cause-and-effect development with its share of twists, right up until the final line. And bringing the story back around at the conclusion to where it began is a classic story-telling device, showing how, after all that’s happened, things remain the same, just different.

Finally, it has that special something a song has that’s hard to duplicate in fiction: the echoing refrain. I mentioned above how you have to find subtle ways to do that in short stories and novels, but even the ablest translation of the technique in fiction would have a hard time duplicating the specific nuance given the use of those exact same words—The road goes on forever, and the party never ends—at the conclusion of every verse, not to mention the twist at the end.

John Hiatt: “Tennessee Plates”

John Hiatt was probably the best musician of this group, but his lyrics were equally fine. One of his earliest tunes, “Tennessee Plates,” was an excellent example of his gift for phrasing, his humor, and his fondness for outré characters:

I woke up in a hotel and didn’t know what to do
Turned the TV on and wrote a letter to you
The news was talkin’ ’bout a dragnet up on the interstate
Said they were lookin’ for a Cadillac with Tennessee plates

Since I left California baby, things have gotten worse
Seems the land of opportunity for me is just a curse
Tell that judge in Bakersfield my trial will have to wait
Down here they’re lookin’ for a Cadillac with Tennessee plates

It was somewhere in Nevada, it was cold outside
She was shiverin’ in the dark, so I offered her a ride
Three bank jobs later, four cars hot-wired
We crossed the Mississippi like an oil slick fire

If they’d known what we was up to they wouldn’t ‘a let us in
We landed in Memphis like original sin
Up Elvis Presley Boulevard to the Graceland gates
See we were lookin’ for a Cadillac with Tennessee plates

Well, there must have been a dozen of them parked in that garage
There wasn’t one Lincoln and there wasn’t one Dodge
There wasn’t one Japanese model or make
Just pretty, pretty Cadillacs with Tennessee plates

She saw him singing once when she was seventeen
And ever since that day she’s been living in between
I was never king of nothin’ but this wild weekend
Anyway he wouldn’t care, hell he gave them to his friends

Well this ain’t no hotel I’m writin’ you from
It’s the Tennessee prison up at Brushy Mountain
Where yours sincerely’s doin’ five to eight
Stampin’ out my time makin’ Tennessee plates

This might be the most hilarious tale of car theft in the annals of songwriting. Again, the inventive phrasing (“We crossed the Mississippi like an oil slick fire”…”We landed in Memphis like original sin”) kicks things along nicely. And the comedic twist ending is something of a Hiatt trademark. (For another example, check out “Trudy and Dave.”)

Steve Earle: “Copperhead Road”

As mentioned at the outset, Steve Earle was particularly influential, and he was especially gifted in writing story songs: “Number 29,” “Tom Ames’s Prayer,” “Billy and Bonnie,” “Johnny Come Lately,” “Billy Austin,” and so many more. But it was “Copperhead Road” that hit me hardest, because it came out as I was writing my first novel, also about a character in the marijuana trade:

My name’s John Lee Pettimore
Same as my daddy and his daddy before
You hardly ever saw Grandaddy down here
He only came to town about twice a year
He’d buy a hundred pounds of yeast and some copper line
Everybody knew that he made moonshine

Now the revenue man wanted Grandaddy bad
He headed up the holler with everything he had
It’s before my time but I’ve been told
He never came back from Copperhead Road

Now Daddy ran the whiskey in a big block Dodge
Bought it at an auction at the Mason’s Lodge
Johnson County Sheriff painted on the side
Just shot a coat of primer then he looked inside
Him and my uncle tore that engine down
I still remember that rumblin’ sound

The sheriff came around in the middle of the night
Heard Mama cryin’, knew something wasn’t right
He was headed down to Knoxville with the weekly load
You could smell the whiskey burnin’ down Copperhead Road

I volunteered for the Army on my birthday
They draft the white trash first ’round here anyway
I done two tours of duty in Vietnam
And I came home with a brand new plan
I take the seed from Colombia and Mexico
I plant it up the holler down Copperhead Road

Well the D.E.A.’s got a chopper in the air
I wake up screaming like I’m back over there
I learned a thing or two from Charlie don’t you know
You better stay away from Copperhead Road

Here again, the devil is in the details: a hundred pounds of yeast and some copper line … a big black Dodge bought at an auction at the Mason’s lodge, Johnson County Sheriff painted on the side … the rumbling sound of the engine … the smell of whiskey burning as revenue agents destroy the family still … drafting the white trash first. That and the escalating violence, its specific nature, build tension to the very end. (This escalation of tension is amplified by an uptempo switch before the final verse and chorus that kicks the song into overdrive–again, not  technique easily accomplished in fiction, but shortening sentences and paragraphs, using harder, earthier words can get you some of the way.)

The Steely Dan Influence

As I mentioned at the outset, Steve Earle and Steely Dan were particularly strong influences. The Dan’s musicianship and their attitude had more of an effect than their lyrics, which for the most part lacked the beginning-middle-end structure of the standard story song.

But their word play was a definite influence, with its caustic irony, its ambiguity, its use of hip lingo, and its obscure musical references (“Even Cathy Berberian knows/There’s one roulade she can’t sing”) as well as its literary ones (the band’s name is a nod to William Burroughs, who used the term to describe a specific type of dildo).

But it’s one of their more story-like songs, “Sign in Stranger,” that influenced me to the point I used it in a mashup with “Godwhacker” as a jumping off point for a story that was included in an anthology titled Die Behind the Wheel, a kind of fiction tribute to the band’s music.

The song reveals Donald Fagen’s and Walter Becker’s fondness for science-fiction—and their own unique take on the genre:

Have you heard about the boom on Mizar 5?
People got to shout to stay alive
They don’t even have policeman one
Doesn’t matter where you’ve been or what you’ve done

Do you have a dark spot on your past?
Leave it to my man he’ll fix it fast
Pepe has a scar from ear to ear
He will make your mug shots disappear

You zombie
Be born again my friend
Won’t you sign in stranger?

Do you like to take a yo-yo for a ride?
Zombie, I can see you’re qualified
Walk around collecting Turkish union dues
They will call you sir and shine your shoes

Or maybe you would like to see the show?
You’ll enjoy the cafe D’Escargot
Folks are in a line around the block
Just to see her do the Can-Can-Jacques

You zombie
Be born again my friend
Won’t you sign in stranger?

Love or leave her, yellow fever
Sure, it’s all in the game
And who are you?
Just another scurvy brother

You zombie
Be born again my friend
Won’t you sign in stranger?

Clearly, this is no straightforward story in any conventional sense, but that lack of linearity gives it an evocative power. And what are Turkish union dues, or the Can-Can-Jacques, why “zombie”—who knows? Who cares? There’s a mischievous freedom here that I’ve too often been reluctant or afraid to embrace, too intent on “doing it right” to let go and allow my imagination to grab the wheel.

Coda

Like a number of mathematicians I knew in college, a lot of writers are frustrated musicians. And there is much to be said for trying to duplicate in our writing the whole music-plus-lyric experience of a great song.

Absent the backing soundtrack, however, we’re left with only words to create the atmospherics and nuance that melody, harmony, rhyme and rhythm offer. It’s difficult but not impossible, as some of the songs I’ve mentioned above make clear. By sticking to character, story, and repeated imagery or motifs—and letting logic take an occasional back seat to an inventive turn of phrase—we can replicate if not exactly duplicate the effect of a musical composition. And never forget the rhythms in language itself—it can often prove just as effective in conjuring meaning as the mot juste.

How have you been influenced by music in your writing? What specific techniques or approaches have you borrowed from that music?