Writing Lyrics - For Others, And For Yourself

By Lorraine Feather

I didn't start writing lyrics until I was in my twenties. My father wrote about jazz for a living, and the first lyrics I remember latching onto as a kid were those created by Jon Hendricks and Annie Ross for their vocal trio Lambert, Hendricks and Ross. They were wild, funny, soulful and rhythmic-vocalese, crafted to fit the melodies of jazz soloists like Miles Davis and Count Basie. It didn't occur to me that I'd ever attempt putting words to music, though I did write stories and poems as a kid, and writing was the only thing I was good at in school. Many years later, as a singer, I started fooling around with lyrical ideas to jazz compositions. When I got hired to be in a vocal trio called Full Swing, the brainchild of producer Richard Perry, it seemed like my best shot at getting something on a record.

Learning To Write, And Rewrite

The concept of the album was swing music with a modern feel. Steve March (Mel Torme's son) and Charlotte Crossley (of Bette Midler's Harlettes) were the two other singers. Richard was interested in our doing something with a piece of Tommy Newsom's, and I worked secretly on putting words to it. When I was done, I sang Richard the song. He told me he didn't care for the title or the concept at all, then went into great detail about what he thought it should be about, while I furiously took notes. I had no idea that this scene would be replayed in various forms for the rest of my professional life. The emotions would become familiar too: I was shocked and hurt that he didn't like what I'd done, but this was replaced quickly by a determination that'd he'd love what I came up with next, which luckily, he did. It doesn't always go that way.

I wound up co-writing dozens of songs for the group and its shifting personnel over the next few years and three albums, and started to find my voice as a lyricist, discovering that-understandably- I was most comfortable in a jazzy motif. I think it's incredibly important to focus on what you do best. During the period when I was first working on songs to pitch to other singers, I contributed lyrics to an untold amount of stuff that never saw the light of day. It was great experience, but of course some of the songs were godawful, and it took many years for me to realize that any efforts on my part to come up with a smash hit for teens were unlikely to be fruitful. I continued to adapt music that had existed before, and work on original songs too. Barry Manilow recorded "Big Fun," one that I'd created for the group with my pal Eddie Arkin, and other artists began covering songs with my lyrics. I was beginning to find out that I could write for other situations, also finding out what it means to collaborate.

Working Well With Others

They graded us for it when I was a kid, but being able to work well with others takes on a new meaning when you're co-writing songs. I can't do what you see in old movies about Tin Pan Alley: the songwriters side by side at a beaten-up old upright, tossing ideas back and forth. I soon learned that many composers liked working in private as much I did, tweaking the song when we did get together, often returning to our own caves after the meeting to refine what we'd done. As with any other relationship, chemistry plays a part in the success or failure of a creative team. Often there's a period of adjustment, and if you have many collaborators you find out what works best in different situations.

With Eddie Arkin, with whom I've written many songs for projects of my own, I generally write the lyrics first and hang out with him while he tries out various melodies and chords, going "Wait, what was that?" when I hear something I like, or just shutting up and letting him find his way to something that works for both of us. When Mark Watters and I did a piece for Jessye Norman to sing for the opening ceremonies of the '96 Olympics, it was very free flowing. I wrote a section of lyrics as a verse; Mark changed it to an introduction, then gave me a verse melody. We got together periodically but did most of our work on the phone, bouncing ideas around.

It's an adventure to brainstorm with someone toward a common creative goal. Whatever your m.o. is when you write, there should be a feeling of trust. Each of you needs be able to say, "I don't know about that line, do you think maybe you could?" without the other person getting huffy. It's really helpful if you can share a good belly laugh.

Some composers dislike having the lyricist change their phrasing at all, add or subtract anything. You find this out pretty quickly. Sometimes, of course, the shoe's on the other foot; I don't mind it when my co-writer suggests a different way to say something, as long as we both have veto power!

Writing For Tv And Film

I entered the television arena through a side door, working with Rick Rhodes and Tom Scott on a cut for Tom's album and then doing songs for soaps with Rick and Dominic Messinger. I learned that TV executives have to make up their minds without much dilly-dallying. Some writers hate being rushed. For me, knowing that someone's depending on me to finish my work in a hurry is kind of stimulating and flattering.

The first kids' show I did was Disney's Dinosaurs, with Ray Colcord. It was a delightfully sarcastic show, really for adults too, and I gave Ray a lyric called "Poor Slobs With Terrible Jobs." It started "We're poor slobs with terrible jobs/Boy, we're living crummy lives/An hour to munch on a wriggly lunch/Courtesy of our scaly wives?" (Some watchers found this song offensive and wrote in to say so, but I digress.) I told Ray that I heard the song as a shuffle, the words unrolling slowly. He conceived it, however, as a rapid-fire tarantella, a maniacal production number. It remains a favorite of mine. Not all children's projects are as dark as Dinosaurs, but you can usually make use of qualities that adult songwriting doesn't encourage-you can be funny, outrageous, theatrical. When what you do plays a role in moving a story forward, the toughest situations are when the script keeps changing. I've had to rewrite something for a different character, a different scene?sometimes a song is just dumped.

I'm not a fanatic about perfect rhymes in every case, certainly not in pop writing, but on children's projects I try to use them-not match up "forever" with "together," or "again" with "friend." It's a theatrical, visual medium that has showcased the talents of masterful lyricists like Steven Schwartz and Howard Ashman, both of whom came from the world of theatre armed with considerable skill. Rhyming precisely can be a challenging discipline, like ballet.

Writing On Spec

When you step into the work-for-hire universe, doing things for free begins to feel irksome and downright unnatural. Here are my own entirely personal rules for writing on spec, refined over years of trial and error, and sometimes broken even so:

1. Be sure that both you and your co-writer are willing to take the chance. It may be a situation that matters more to one of you than the other. Suppose a new game show is looking for a theme, something "edgy," you're told. You have a cohort who's great at edgy themes; you don't seem to have the knack, and the idea of trying to come up with what they want, fills you with ennui. Best to let your buddy look elsewhere.
   
   
2. When you create something for an artist's album project and it's rejected, don't despair. It can spring to life again when chosen by another. Joe Curiale and I once wrote a song called "This Too Shall Pass." Carl Anderson was thinking of recording it for an album of his on GRP , and demoed it; it didn't make the cut for his album, but years later we sent it to Phyllis Hyman, who did a gorgeous recording of the song for her 1995 BMG release.
   
   
3. In TV/film/video, when they pay your demo expenses, it magically increases your odds of getting the gig. Conversely, doing it totally for free greatly raises the probability that you will be asked to rewrite the thing four times and then they'll pass on it. I can think of several examples immediately, all for cartoons-one for MGM, one for Universal, one for Disney, and one unsigned TV project called, I forget, Smileville or Happyville possibly. In this order, it went: expenses paid, not paid, paid, not paid. The four results: Got the gig, didn't /asked to rewrite twice, got it, didn't. See?!
   
   
4. Regarding the above: Even if your expenses are being picked up, knowing that five other songwriting teams are competing with you can be disheartening and distracting. Forget about them. Make it your goal to do something wonderful, worth far more than the pittance you're being reimbursed. For me, the experience of relaxing and allowing my imagination to drift while I work on lyrics, is harder to achieve if I keep contemplating the image of us songwriters all thrashing around madly like little piranhas fighting for a scrap of?whatever piranhas eat. I also try not to return calls from anyone who uses the expression "food chain" in relation to the music business until the song is done.
   
   
5. If you do a song on spec for animation and it's very specifically about whimsical rabbit-creatures from Neptune, be aware that you will never, ever be able to use the song for anything else unless you rewrite it.

Writing For Yourself

There are writers who revel in stretches of unemployment-if they can afford to!-and like having long periods to recharge in between bouts of work. I find that I get antsy after a few weeks. If you're a performer or player, doing something all your own can be exhilarating, and if you've been working on a project with extensive guidelines and constraints, the creative equivalent of eating an entire chocolate cake after a strict diet (Sorry, I'm making a note not to use any more references to food after this one).

My two main activities for the last year or so have been writing for a TV show called Make Way for Noddy, and doing my own album. The TV lyrics were geared toward littler kids and needed to use a simple vocabulary, teach lessons gently and represent an uncomplicated view of life. In Toyland, you see, life is uncomplicated. Anyway, it can be lovely to do a job like this and make it your own, especially when you have a good relationship with the others on the creative team, which I do.

In doing your own album/symphony/opera/puppet show, all bets are off. You can make it be whatever interests you, possibly geared toward a specific market, or just a wondrous folly that may never see the light of day. As The Artist, when doing a "self-inflicted" project I can choose subjects that other singers might find uncommercial, or throw in words that sing well but have two or three more syllables more than a TV producer would appreciate. On a bad day, you may wonder why you're torturing yourself when nobody may be waiting for you to finish or cares if you do. It's still exciting to give yourself that kind of freedom.

I simply love the whole process of writing lyrics, and consider myself very lucky to have discovered such an engrossing way to spend my time. Even when I'm staring at a page of crossed-out scribbles with only ten words remaining unscathed-even when I'm hunched over the really big dictionary poring over the 18 different definitions of "light," I love it. The bottom line is that you're always writing for yourself. You want to feel proud of what you've done, even amazed by it now and then; you hope that your words will flow, make sense, and take the listener along on a great ride.