Why I write story songs

People ask why I write in this genre. The honest answer is that my poetry is the point, and this is the form that lets it do the most.

Theater of the mind

I write lyrics to put you somewhere. Here are some of the pictures I've left in my songs, grouped by the kind of work each one does.

Weather and land. A snowy owl cuts through the squall, the Selkirks at my side. Snow was falling sideways and I butted out. Simcoe chop's a pounding while the maples burn red. It was bluebird high and twenty below. The North got in early, put its frost in my bones. I never say how I feel. The weather and the landscape do it for me.

The senses. The sizzle of the thick cut on the flat top. Piano from the parlour carried to the street. An old mix tape playing the Dead. Bougainvillea nights. You can hear the first three and smell the last. When a line reaches a sense other than sight, the scene feels lived in.

Hands at work. Set the pin in the latch. Pulled the wool on, stiff and cold. He pulled his hat down and turned her toward the valley. Hung up the six-gun for a fountain pen. These are small, physical moments, and they work because they're ordinary. A hat pulled down tells you a decision was made without a word, and the six-gun for a fountain pen sums up a man's second life.

A little humor. Seven little dudes in speedos. Fences and Fang the Great Dane the only things in their way. I'm busy missing trains on purpose. A picture like this can get a smile before the song turns serious, and the song hits harder for it.

The fight. The Garden lit up, blood on the mat. Dempsey crouched low 'n rolled the jab. A pistol pressed so close it set his coat aflame. Ringside in Gotham with the newspaper men. Four quick images give you the arena, the cost, the move and the crowd. The coat on fire is a detail you can't unsee.

The old frontier. Grasshoppers rattled off the buffalo skulls. Long horns all yeller in the morning sun. A palomino's ears glowing like roses. Blacktop lay where the old dirt ran. Each line is small and exact, and the odd detail is what makes a place feel real. The last one tells you a century passed without saying so.

The epic, in one line. Burned the fleet in the harbor. Heredia locked the silver and the gold behind the stone. Cartagena remains, and we're already gone. Five hundred years fit into three lines. The last one flips the camera from the city to the people who passed through it.

None of these lines explains a feeling. Each hands you a picture and trusts you to do the rest. That's the theater of the mind: I set the stage with a few exact details, and the listener's imagination builds the rest.

The instruments are the supporting cast

In pop and rock, the instruments often step to the front. The riff, the drums and the production carry the moment, and the words ride along. Those songs are often better for dancing and grooving, and I love that they exist. But when the words become the sidekick to the melody, a lot of songs start to sound alike. The picture gets lost.

I'm adding music to my poetry, not the other way around. The guitar sets the ground and the other instruments add color, then they get out of the way. Their job is to make the picture easier to see.

The voice paints the scene. The music is the light on it.

More like rap than you'd think

This is the comparison that makes it click for me. A good rap verse is a scene carried by the words, with the beat as support. A good story song works the same way. The sound is different, but the priority is the same: the lyric comes first, and the listener leans in to catch every line.

Why I'm happy to have the melody handed to me

Being a lyricist is a real role. Songs have always had a seat for the person who writes the words, from Bernie Taupin writing for Elton John to Robert Hunter writing for the Dead. I've taken that seat, and as a storytelling poet it's fun and tremendously rewarding. When a line lands, it takes me somewhere else, and it takes the listener there too. I find that transcendent.

I didn't write the melody, and I'm at peace with that. The poetry is mine. The music came to me, and I'm delighted to have it. I've never been drawn to flat spoken word. It doesn't hit me as hard as the same lines with music under them, and it's never felt as transcendent. A melody lifts a line without changing a word of it.

The words came first, and the music is how they reach people. That's why the genre suits me. The melody carries the poem, the poem stays the point, and I don't need to have written every note to stand behind every line.

And I'll get to playing these songs myself. When I do, the words and the melody will live in my own hands and voice.

What it asks of me

When the words carry everything, there's nowhere to hide. A weak line can't be covered by a big chorus or a loud guitar. So I cut, rewrite, and look for the one concrete image each verse is about. It's the discipline I learned from Guy Clark, Prine and Townes, and it's why I keep coming back to it.

Why I'll stay

I don't need a perfect name for the genre. Story song, ballad, whatever you like. The promise is what matters: you'll be taken somewhere, you'll remember what you saw, and you'll leave with an idea to carry. That's the kind of song I want to write.