These columns usually come from my own observations, or from my recall of an experience, but readers will occasionally prod me into subjects of their own interest or even suggest a slant that hadn’t occurred to me. Recently, one such commentator, known as Taff, raised some interesting queries about the craft of song-writing, and about delivering a song, that led to the two ideas I’m touching on today. I should warn that most of what follows are actually subtleties, or technical matters, which can often produce yawns in the general public, so if boredom ensues put the blame on Taff.
My friend’s query about the nature of “the precious and natural gift” inherent in outstanding song-writers’ creations, leads me to note that to unravel the work of such artistes is to find how astonishingly different the ingredients of the gift are in the thousands of persons so blessed.
In all the millions of popular songs produced, covering decade after decade, it is similarly astonishing to realize that all of that work rests on only 7 notes of the musical scale; every one of those hundreds of thousands of songs, only 7 notes. The permutations are possible because of the factors of varying note selection, sequence, duration, phrasing, repetition, etc, and, interestingly, by the razor-thin differences in the variations themselves.
In exactly the same way, and for the same reasons, the differences between writers displaying the “gift”, while also being razor-thin as well, make for distinct and unique aspects in what they produce. It’s difficult to make this clear without using audio demonstrations, but these differences, slight as they are, and generally unrecognizable to the non-musician, are what gives the song its stamp, its personality, so that a musician can see in an Elton John melody a particular style of using simple chords in unusual placings; or Lord Kitchener’s ability to write melodies suiting the layout of the musical scale on the steel pan. In this unravelling, it is important to note that these differences are so subtle that they can sometimes escape even the musician until examination, however caused, reveals them.
It’s only when, for instance, you break down the foundation reggae drum pattern used in several of Bob Marley’s songs that you discover that it departs from convention in the unusual, almost jagged, pattern of the “high hat” cymbals – that, in fact, it is the combination of the drum-like bass against that multi-note “high hat” that produces the catchy reggae pulse. If I can put it this way; it’s a small difference that makes a big difference. Here’s an illustration:
Some years back, I performed at a show in Barbados along with the Mighty Gabby. We had this mutual admiration thing going, so I called him from Cayman before the show and suggested we do a song together. We decided on You Can’t Get – one of mine that the Bajans love. We didn’t rehearse; we just got up there with two acoustic guitars. Only a few seconds into the tune I wanted to say to Gabby, “What the hell are you doing, bro?” Gabby’s approach, I mean the guitar feel of what he was playing, was different from mine – those tiny differences I was talking about – and I had to adjust, or we wouldn’t mesh. But it was such a subtle adjustment that most audiences would not recognize it. Indeed, I’m sure if you were to ask Gabby, he would say while I was adjusting to him he was also adjusting to me – that’s how razor thin it is. That’s how differently the gift presents itself; there are these flimsy variations in how you hear and what you hear and what you present that combine to make that distinctive thing that is your song or your sound.
Taff was also curious about the matter of “delivery” of material. In his words, “Can anyone else deliver their work like a Sparrow, or Sinatra, or a Nat King Cole, or even a Martins for that matter? Can anyone else be a Bond like a Connery?” The answer is “no” because just as his/her particular variations stamp a particular songwriter, so, too, the same kind of variations (tone; phrasing; pauses; etc) are there in that completed combination that says “Sparrow” or “Nat King Cole” or “Martins.” It is a differentiation resulting from subtleties producing a particular sound. In a hotel lobby in St Lucia a few years ago, I was asking the receptionist how to get to a particular place. As we were going through the route on a map, she suddenly stopped, looked up, and said, “I know that voice; you’re Dave Martins, right?” She recognized the stamp.
Of course, there can be imitators, but all that is happening there is that the imitator has learned the differences in those unique voices, and their delivery, and is simply replicating them. The sound is unique to the performer, and anyone who imitates him/her well is simply mimicking a gift already proclaimed and known.
A good example is the currently popular Michael Bublé whose vocal style, and even choice of material, reminds one of Frank Sinatra, but listen to just one song all the way through and it is immediately apparent that this is not Sinatra; the clipped enunciation of Ol’ Blue Eyes isn’t quite there; the phrasing that pushes the beat isn’t as tight; unlike Frank, Bublé doesn’t swagger. Those descriptions show how subtle these differences are and yet how significantly they produce a separation between the two singers.
And so, too, with the songs. You can try to write in Kitchener’s style, with the emphasis on steel pan runs and cascading melodies, and you may succeed to a degree, but the subtlety is so fine that you will inevitably lose your way and veer off into the nuances of your own gift, whatever they may be. You can study Elton John songs until the cows home, but you can never consistently produce songs in his genre because you’re not operating with the same gift he has. Whether writing music, or performing it, that’s the story. One may attain a somewhat similar sound, but no else can “be” a Sparrow or a Frank Sinatra or a Billie Holiday; such musical gifts are like fingerprints – unique to the owner.
