People often ask me about the process that goes on when I sit myself down and write a song. I don't really know what to explain to them, really. There's no formula, no trick or book for beginners on the topic. On second thought, there are a lot of all of those things out there, but stay clear from those things because all they're going to teach you to do is draw a smiley face on a white piece of paper. It's different for everybody, however.
For me, I go fishing. I cast a line and let it sit. Sometimes I'll drink a beer while my pole sits idle over the dock and I'm reclined with my hat over my eyes doing nothing but letting the air gently pass over me like a blanket made from the fabric of space. Sometimes, depending on the mood, I'll roll up my sleeves and jump in, punching a couple of fish unconscious until I find the one that looks nice mounted on the wall, leaving the rejects adrift for the birds. But most of the time songwriting is a gentle line sat secretly across still waters, waiting for the slightest tug to trip my interest. In the meantime I'll do other things; I'll play cards, or wash the dishes or look up how long it takes to drive from Beijing to Paris. Sometimes the point is not to focus so hard. Sometimes the most interesting things you can see are the ones you're not staring at directly, and the fish never come when you're yelling at them.
Songs are strung together fragments, if you want to know the truth of it. Little pieces of piano parts or words or rhythms you feel that you glue together like a lego tower. Sometimes they all come together at once in the same brand-new package and you have the pleasure of following the instructions and building it all up in one sitting. Other times you find old pieces that never quite fit, and click those together with a new piece you stole from your best friends house, and click that with the awkward piece you found in an old jacket pocket in the closet. And suddenly the old drum rhythm that never worked for any other song fits nicely over your pretty piano melody, which happens to make a nice bed for the words that came to your head while you were driving. And before you know it, a song is born.
That's only the creative side of the spectrum, the actors and the set on the nicely lit stage. If you want both halves of the sphere, I'll let you all about the real grit, the technical nightmare and chaos that is orchestrated backstage, the coal shovelers who keep the whole boat afloat.
I wrote a new song, and finished a new mix. There's an announcement to be made in the next couple of days, but I'll wait a bit longer when it's ready. For now, enjoy the weekend.
For me, I go fishing. I cast a line and let it sit. Sometimes I'll drink a beer while my pole sits idle over the dock and I'm reclined with my hat over my eyes doing nothing but letting the air gently pass over me like a blanket made from the fabric of space. Sometimes, depending on the mood, I'll roll up my sleeves and jump in, punching a couple of fish unconscious until I find the one that looks nice mounted on the wall, leaving the rejects adrift for the birds. But most of the time songwriting is a gentle line sat secretly across still waters, waiting for the slightest tug to trip my interest. In the meantime I'll do other things; I'll play cards, or wash the dishes or look up how long it takes to drive from Beijing to Paris. Sometimes the point is not to focus so hard. Sometimes the most interesting things you can see are the ones you're not staring at directly, and the fish never come when you're yelling at them.
Songs are strung together fragments, if you want to know the truth of it. Little pieces of piano parts or words or rhythms you feel that you glue together like a lego tower. Sometimes they all come together at once in the same brand-new package and you have the pleasure of following the instructions and building it all up in one sitting. Other times you find old pieces that never quite fit, and click those together with a new piece you stole from your best friends house, and click that with the awkward piece you found in an old jacket pocket in the closet. And suddenly the old drum rhythm that never worked for any other song fits nicely over your pretty piano melody, which happens to make a nice bed for the words that came to your head while you were driving. And before you know it, a song is born.
That's only the creative side of the spectrum, the actors and the set on the nicely lit stage. If you want both halves of the sphere, I'll let you all about the real grit, the technical nightmare and chaos that is orchestrated backstage, the coal shovelers who keep the whole boat afloat.
I wrote a new song, and finished a new mix. There's an announcement to be made in the next couple of days, but I'll wait a bit longer when it's ready. For now, enjoy the weekend.