On the Value of the Original Song

Yesterday I received this link to a beautiful film based on the song
"Stand by Me".

The filmmakers took on-the-street performances of this inspiring classic from all over the world and combined them to make one larger performance, creating a visual metaphor for how popular music connects people of every race and circumstance.

Meanwhile, at an open mic I attend semi-regularly, the number of original songs has declined. Twenty years ago, many people sang their own material, but now they're more likely to sing standards by Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, Jimmy Webb and James Taylor. Speaking of James Taylor, he recently put out an album of covers.

In a troubled world that needs to bring people together, excellent songs loved by all are immensely valuable. Songs that are, um, not so excellent, aren't so important. Value Village bins are overflowing with independent recordings of original songs...songs that are often immensely valuable to the person who wrote them, but not worth much to others.

That is, not unless they contain the same stuff as "Stand by Me".

What stuff is that? What's in that song that makes it so valuable?

By now, its near-universal brand recognition adds to its value, for sure. But from the beginning, it contained some essential ingredients: a universal theme, an uplifting melody, a simple and clear message of truth, beauty and reassurance.

Like gold, that stuff holds its value in any economic climate. It's always in high demand. Old songs may contain them. New songs can too.

And when they do, they offer something else that's especially valuable today: empowerment.

We empower ourselves and our communities when we respond creatively to the world as it unfolds...when we bring to light new joy, new insight, new strength...and when we do it in real time.

It can happen in a song, in a blog, in a film, in a speech.

It's the creative response that brought "Stand by Me" to us in the first place.

Happy writing!

Song as Teacher

Over the last few days, I've been taking inventory. Looking at my song catalogue, counting CDs...assessing next steps.

It's quiet around the house right now, and yet my mind is busy with anxious thoughts. Should I book more gigs...or fewer? Intensify my music endeavors...or quit them? Did I do the right thing, making all those recordings? Maybe if I write a few more, better songs...send them to a few more, more influential people?

The house is tidy, but the mind is cluttered with maybes, ifs and whens.

Tomorrow morning though, I'll be singing a song in a church. It's not a religious song, but it's a spiritual one. It's called "Room to Love".

Quiet days, they seem to fill up in so many ways...
With all my worries and my power plays...
When I just need room to love.

Did I actually write that...that I just need "room to love"? Really, me, the one so apt to worry?

It seems that when I write songs--good ones, anyway--I understand what I completely miss at other times. There's something about the form of the song--the fact that it needs to express something truthful and valuable--that leads me to understandings I would not have arrived at otherwise.

In this case, the thing I keep missing is the need to preserve space in my life and in my mind...space away from the anxious worries that seem never to be solved.

Of the many million things we wish for, we only need a precious few.

I'm singing that at church tomorrow because the sermon is about finding meaning in non-material things: a good message for a pared-down holiday season in a time of economic distress.

But what do I "wish for"? In addition to material things, perhaps I also wish for a sense of "where this music career is going", a promise of recognition or a lasting feeling of accomplishment. A confirmation that my efforts are not for nothing, that the songs and recordings are in some way valuable.

Those may be the things I wish for. They may not be the things I need.

The things I need, in fact, are the things I already have. A loving family. Supportive friends. Good health. Food and shelter. Creative work and the joy it brings. Strength and willingness to help others. The song knows what I need, even if sometimes I don't.

When a song is the soul speaking to itself, it can teach the lessons the writer needs to hear.

All too often, I get distracted by the commercial dimension of songwriting. Is the song making me any money? Gaining me any recognition?

I might want the song to do that. But I don't need it to.

I need it to teach me. And it does.