Writing Lessons from Singer-Songwriters
David Corbett
On one of my initial panels as a first-time novelist, when asked what authors inspired me in my writing, I replied, “I was probably influenced as much by Steve Earle and Steely Dan as anybody I rea…
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Writer Unboxed
On one of my initial panels as a first-time novelist, when asked what authors inspired me in my writing, I replied, “I was probably influenced as much by Steve Earle and Steely Dan as anybody I read.”

I stand by that.

I started my creative life as an accompanist for two superb women vocalists on the coffee-house circuit (billing myself as “The World’s Most Adequate Guitarist”), and then joined a bar band and toured the Midwest, performing in such famed musical Meccas as Kokomo, Indiana; Ypsilanti, Michigan; and Lima, Ohio. (Best compliment I ever got: “Who’s the guy who sings like a chick, he’s really good.”)

Music has always had a profound effect on me (my paternal grandfather was a music teacher). My first obsession was folk music, and I was particularly fond of revival stalwarts like Judy Collins, Tom Paxton, Odetta, Pete Seeger, and Dave Van Ronk.

It was from them, especially the traditionalists, that I gained an appreciation for the story song, especially old ballads such as “Pretty Polly,” “Barbara Allen,” and “John Riley.”

But the songs I came to love most deeply were written by the musicians themselves, which made them more personal. And looking back, I can see that I learned a number of writing lessons from those efforts.

Granted, in general songs bear a greater resemblance to poetry than narrative, and they have the twin advantages of rhyme and music to bring their messages home. What I’ll be talking about here are songs that do indeed tell a story with the familiar beginning-middle-end structure.

NOTE: If you’re unacquainted with the songs I mention below, I’ve provided links to their Youtube videos.

Tom Paxton: “My Son John”

This Tom Paxton original from 1966 really affected me, possibly more than the traditional ballads, because of its relevance to the Vietnam War and my own close relationship with my father:

My son, John, was a good boy, and good to me

When we had hard times, well, he stood by me

We were in work and out of work and on the go

If he had complaints, I never heard a-one

He would pitch in and help me like a full-grown man

My son, John. John, my son

My son, John, went to college and he made his way

Had to earn every penny, but he paid his way

He worked summers and holidays and through the year

And it was no easy struggle that he won

But he laughed at the ones who thought he had it hard

My son, John. John, my son

My son, John, got his uniform and went away

With a band playing marches, he was sent away

And he wrote me a letter when he had the time

He was losing his buddies one by one

And I prayed and tried not to read between the lines

My son, John. John, my son

My son, John, came home yesterday, he’s here to stay

Not a word to his father have I heard him say

He seems glad to be home, but I can’t be sure

When I asked him what he’d seen and done

He went up to his bedroom, and he closed the door

My son, John, John my son

He went up to his bedroom, and he closed the door

My son, John, John my son

This is a classic example of less is more, in that it’s not made clear what the son has “seen and done”—that’s left to our imagination, and it’s all the more powerful because of that, especially after the long buildup showing the relationship between father and son and the profound respect the former has for the latter.

Also, the last two lines are repeated, which provides a haunting effect—something hard to duplicate literally in fiction. Instead we have to find ways to repeat an imagine or an idea indirectly so that the association is made unconsciously—for example, the use of water, fish, glass, and eyes in the screenplay for Chinatown. (For more on how to employ this technique, see John Truby’s discussion of symbol system in The Anatomy of Story.)

The Beatles: “Norwegian Wood”

Speaking of less-is-more—the first song that I realized was an actual short story was “Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)” from Rubber Soul by The Beatles:

I once had a girl

Or should I say

She once had me

She showed me her room

Isn’t it good

Norwegian wood

She asked me to stay

And she told me to sit anywhere

So I looked around

And I noticed there wasn’t a chair

I sat on a rug

Biding my time

Drinking her wine

We talked until two

And then she said

“It’s time for bed”

She told me she worked in the morning

And started to laugh

I told her I didn’t

And crawled off to sleep in the bath

And when I awoke

I was alone

This bird had flown

So I lit a fire

Isn’t it good

Norwegian wood

Above and beyond the double-entendre in the first verse, or the twist ending, with its menace only enhanced by its ambiguity, this was my introduction to minimalism—nice preparation for my future reading of Raymond Carver. The actual story is incredibly spare, but no less evocative for that. And the tension between the man and the woman is palpable, despite the seemingly romantic setup. That tension lies in the details: Who had whom?… Why tell him to sit when there isn’t a chair:… He’s “biding his time” and at last gets rewarded with “It’s time for bed,” only to be laughed at and the “crawling off” to sleep in the bath. It’s hard to imagine establishing such an atmosphere of sociable hostility in so few words, but Lennon pulls it off.

(Interesting side note: one commentator from a conservative Catholic magazine presumed the song was about a straight man trying to pick up a lesbian. The same writer opined that “Strawberry Fields” was about a man on acid stumbling onto a dead body at a party, and “I’m Only Sleeping” was about masturbation. For some more interesting background on this song and its meaning, go here.)

Townes Van Zandt: “Pancho and Lefty”

As the sixties gave way to the seventies, the folkies morphed into singer-songwriters, exemplified by such luminaries as Tom Waits, Joni Mitchell, Paul Simon, Rickie Lee Jones, John Prine, Sandy Denny, James Taylor, Phoebe Snow, Steve Goodman, and my two personal favorites, Randy Newman and Leonard Cohen.

But it was “Pancho and Lefty” by Townes Van Zandt that had the biggest impact on me at that time. Emmylou Harris introduced me to the tune. It’s been covered by a great many others, including Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard, though for my money, except for Emmylou and Townes himself, no one’s done it justice like Jason Isbell and Elizabeth Cook.

Living on the road my friend

Is gonna keep you free and clean

Now you wear your skin like iron

Your breath as hard as kerosene

You weren’t your mama’s only boy

But her favorite one, it seems

She began to cry when you said goodbye

And sank into your dreams

Pancho was a bandit boy, his horse as fast as polished steel

He wore his gun outside his pants

For all the honest world to feel

Pancho met his match you know in the desert down in Mexico

Nobody heard his dyin words, ah but that’s the way it goes

All the Federales say, they could’ve had him any day

They only let him slip away, out of kindness I suppose

Lefty can’t sing the blues all night long like he used to

The dust that Pancho bit down south ended up in Lefty’s mouth

The day they laid poor Pancho low, Lefty split for Ohio

Where he got the bread to go, there ain’t nobody knows

All the Federales say, they could’ve had him any day

They only let him slip away out of kindness I suppose

The poets tell how old Pancho fell, and Lefty’s livin in a cheap hotel

The desert’s quiet, Cleveland’s cold

And so the story ends we’re told

Pancho needs your prayers it’s true, but save a few for Lefty too

He only did what he had to do, and now he’s growing old

All the Federales say, they could’ve had him any day

They only let him go so long, out of kindness I suppose

A few gray Federales say, they could’ve had him any day

They only let him go so long, out of kindness I suppose

First, who knew a song could have a prologue? And like any good prologue, it acts like an overture, providing an atmospheric/thematic setup without introducing any information that will be presented in what follows. Better yet, it’s in second person, creating a mysterious ambiguity: which of the two characters in the song is the singer addressing? And then it ends with the eerily evocative, “And sank into your dreams” (with a minor chord change to emphasize the haunting effect).

Next, one by one we’re introduced to the two eponymous characters, with their stories laid out briefly by no less dramatically for that. Each has its elements of both irony and pathos. The couplet, “The dust that Pancho bit down south ended up in Lefty’s mouth” is one of those lines you never forget, a reminder that stories need a little poetry, too. (An equally haunting couplet is “The desert’s quiet, Cleveland’s cold/And so the story ends we’re told.”)

The ending concludes with equal attention to both characters. The Judas character normally only earns our contempt, but the song tempers that judgment with, “He only did what he had to do” (though we’re left wondering why he had to do it). And the poignant, “And now he’s growing old” lets us know that Lefty no more escaped the consequences of his actions than Pancho did.

Finally, the ending refrains, instead of repeating exactly, have the last one altering “All the federales” to “A few gray federales,” suggesting it’s not just Lefty who’s getting ever closer to death, while the legend of Pancho remains alive.

Incidentally, introductory sections to songs like the “prologue” mentioned above were by no means unusual in the days of Tin Pan Alley. A classic example is “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” written by Harold Arlen and Yip Harburg for The Wizard of Oz. Their version included an intro section that was dropped in the film:

When all the world is a hopeless jumble

And the raindrops tumble all around

Heaven opens a magic lane

When all the clouds darken up the skyway

There’s a rainbow highway to be found

Leading from your windowpane

To a place behind the sun

Just a step beyond the rain

This omission was a sign of things to come—these introductory verses were usually dropped from songs when singers performed them in subsequent years, and composers stopped writing them. To hear how this song sounds with the introduction, try this version by the young French singer Marie Oppert.

Robert Earl Keen, Jr.: “The Road Goes On Forever”

By the 1980s three singer-songwriters had pretty much become the focus of my interest in the genre: Steve Earle, John Hiatt, and Robert Earl Keen, Jr. And for my money, there are few story songs better than “The Road Goes On Forever:”

Sherry was a waitress at the only joint in town

She had a reputation as a girl who’d been around

Down Main Street after midnight, brand new pack of cigs

A fresh one hangin’ from her lips, a beer between her legs

She rides down to the river to meet with all her friends

The road goes on forever and the party never ends

Sonny was a loner, older than the rest

He was goin’ in the Navy but couldn’t pass the test

So he hung around town, he sold a little pot

The law caught wind of Sonny and one day he got caught

But he was back in business when they set him free again

The road goes on forever and the party never ends

They soon ran out of money but Sonny knew a man

Who knew some Cuban refugees that dealt in contraband

Sonny met the Cubans in a house just off the route

With a briefcase full of money and a pistol in his boot

The cards were on the table when the law came bustin’ in

The road goes on forever and the party never ends

The Cubans grabbed the goodies, Sonny grabbed a jack

He broke a bathroom window and climbed on out the back

Sherry drove the pickup through the alley on the side

Where a lawman tackled Sonny and was readin’ him his rights

She stepped out in the alley with a single-shot .410

The road goes on forever and the party never ends

They left the lawman lyin’ and they made their getaway

Got back to the motel just before the break of day

Sonny gave her all the money and he blew a little kiss

“If they ask you how this happened, say I forced you into this”

She watched him as his taillights disappeared around the bend

The road goes on forever and the party never ends

It’s Main Street after midnight just like it was before

Twenty-one months later at the local grocery store

Sherry buys a paper and a cold six-pack of beer

The headlines read that Sonny is goin’ to the chair

She pulls back onto Main Street in her new Mercedes Benz

The road goes on forever and the party never ends

Note the up-front introduction of the characters, much like “Pancho and Lefty.” The depiction of Sherry in particular is vivid because of the “brand new pack of cigs/A fresh one hangin’ from her lips, a beer between her legs.” The language and imagery combine to let us know exactly who she is, even before we get to the iconic river rendezvous with her friends. That attention to detail continues with Sonny’s inability to get into the Navy, his playing eightball (not just pool), the quart of Bombay gin, the single-shot .410.

The song also has a perfect cause-and-effect development with its share of twists, right up until the final line. And bringing the story back around at the conclusion to where it began is a classic story-telling device, showing how, after all that’s happened, things remain the same, just different.

Finally, it has that special something a song has that’s hard to duplicate in fiction: the echoing refrain. I mentioned above how you have to find subtle ways to do that in short stories and novels, but even the ablest translation of the technique in fiction would have a hard time duplicating the specific nuance given the use of those exact same words—The road goes on forever, and the party never ends—at the conclusion of every verse, not to mention the twist at the end.

John Hiatt: “Tennessee Plates”

John Hiatt was probably the best musician of this group, but his lyrics were equally fine. One of his earliest tunes, “Tennessee Plates,” was an excellent example of his gift for phrasing, his humor, and his fondness for outré characters:

I woke up in a hotel and didn’t know what to do

Turned the TV on and wrote a letter to you

The news was talkin’ ’bout a dragnet up on the interstate

Said they were lookin’ for a Cadillac with Tennessee plates

Since I left California baby, things have gotten worse

Seems the land of opportunity for me is just a curse

Tell that judge in Bakersfield my trial will have to wait

Down here they’re lookin’ for a Cadillac with Tennessee plates

It was somewhere in Nevada, it was cold outside

She was shiverin’ in the dark, so I offered her a ride

Three bank jobs later, four cars hot-wired

We crossed the Mississippi like an oil slick fire

If they’d known what we was up to they wouldn’t ‘a let us in

We landed in Memphis like original sin

Up Elvis Presley Boulevard to the Graceland gates

See we were lookin’ for a Cadillac with Tennessee plates

Well, there must have been a dozen of them parked in that garage

There wasn’t one Lincoln and there wasn’t one Dodge

There wasn’t one Japanese model or make

Just pretty, pretty Cadillacs with Tennessee plates

She saw him singing once when she was seventeen

And ever since that day she’s been living in between

I was never king of nothin’ but this wild weekend

Anyway he wouldn’t care, hell he gave them to his friends

Well this ain’t no hotel I’m writin’ you from

It’s the Tennessee prison up at Brushy Mountain

Where yours sincerely’s doin’ five to eight

Stampin’ out my time makin’ Tennessee plates

This might be the most hilarious tale of car theft in the annals of songwriting. Again, the inventive phrasing (“We crossed the Mississippi like an oil slick fire”…”We landed in Memphis like original sin”) kicks things along nicely. And the comedic twist ending is something of a Hiatt trademark. (For another example, check out “Trudy and Dave.”)

Steve Earle: “Copperhead Road”

As mentioned at the outset, Steve Earle was particularly influential, and he was especially gifted in writing story songs: “Number 29,” “Tom Ames’s Prayer,” “Billy and Bonnie,” “Johnny Come Lately,” “Billy Austin,” and so many more. But it was “Copperhead Road” that hit me hardest, because it came out as I was writing my first novel, also about a character in the marijuana trade:

My name’s John Lee Pettimore

Same as my daddy and his daddy before

You hardly ever saw Grandaddy down here

He only came to town about twice a year

He’d buy a hundred pounds of yeast and some copper line

Everybody knew that he made moonshine

Now the revenue man wanted Grandaddy bad

He headed up the holler with everything he had

It’s before my time but I’ve been told

He never came back from Copperhead Road

Now Daddy ran the whiskey in a big block Dodge

Bought it at an auction at the Mason’s Lodge

Johnson County Sheriff painted on the side

Just shot a coat of primer then he looked inside

Him and my uncle tore that engine down

I still remember that rumblin’ sound

The sheriff came around in the middle of the night

Heard Mama cryin’, knew something wasn’t right

He was headed down to Knoxville with the weekly load

You could smell the whiskey burnin’ down Copperhead Road

I volunteered for the Army on my birthday

They draft the white trash first ’round here anyway

I done two tours of duty in Vietnam

And I came home with a brand new plan

I take the seed from Colombia and Mexico

I plant it up the holler down Copperhead Road

Well the D.E.A.’s got a chopper in the air

I wake up screaming like I’m back over there

I learned a thing or two from Charlie don’t you know

You better stay away from Copperhead Road

Here again, the devil is in the details: a hundred pounds of yeast and some copper line … a big black Dodge bought at an auction at the Mason’s lodge, Johnson County Sheriff painted on the side … the rumbling sound of the engine … the smell of whiskey burning as revenue agents destroy the family still … drafting the white trash first. That and the escalating violence, its specific nature, build tension to the very end. (This escalation of tension is amplified by an uptempo switch before the final verse and chorus that kicks the song into overdrive–again, not technique easily accomplished in fiction, but shortening sentences and paragraphs, using harder, earthier words can get you some of the way.)

The Steely Dan Influence

As I mentioned at the outset, Steve Earle and Steely Dan were particularly strong influences. The Dan’s musicianship and their attitude had more of an effect than their lyrics, which for the most part lacked the beginning-middle-end structure of the standard story song.

But their word play was a definite influence, with its caustic irony, its ambiguity, its use of hip lingo, and its obscure musical references (“Even Cathy Berberian knows/There’s one roulade she can’t sing”) as well as its literary ones (the band’s name is a nod to William Burroughs, who used the term to describe a specific type of dildo).

But it’s one of their more story-like songs, “Sign in Stranger,” that influenced me to the point I used it in a mashup with “Godwhacker” as a jumping off point for a story that was included in an anthology titled Die Behind the Wheel, a kind of fiction tribute to the band’s music.

The song reveals Donald Fagen’s and Walter Becker’s fondness for science-fiction—and their own unique take on the genre:

Have you heard about the boom on Mizar 5?

People got to shout to stay alive

They don’t even have policeman one

Doesn’t matter where you’ve been or what you’ve done

Do you have a dark spot on your past?

Leave it to my man he’ll fix it fast

Pepe has a scar from ear to ear

He will make your mug shots disappear

You zombie

Be born again my friend

Won’t you sign in stranger?

Do you like to take a yo-yo for a ride?

Zombie, I can see you’re qualified

Walk around collecting Turkish union dues

They will call you sir and shine your shoes

Or maybe you would like to see the show?

You’ll enjoy the cafe D’Escargot

Folks are in a line around the block

Just to see her do the Can-Can-Jacques

You zombie

Be born again my friend

Won’t you sign in stranger?

Love or leave her, yellow fever

Sure, it’s all in the game

And who are you?

Just another scurvy brother

You zombie

Be born again my friend

Won’t you sign in stranger?

Clearly, this is no straightforward story in any conventional sense, but that lack of linearity gives it an evocative power. And what are Turkish union dues, or the Can-Can-Jacques, why “zombie”—who knows? Who cares? There’s a mischievous freedom here that I’ve too often been reluctant or afraid to embrace, too intent on “doing it right” to let go and allow my imagination to grab the wheel.

Coda

Like a number of mathematicians I knew in college, a lot of writers are frustrated musicians. And there is much to be said for trying to duplicate in our writing the whole music-plus-lyric experience of a great song.

Absent the backing soundtrack, however, we’re left with only words to create the atmospherics and nuance that melody, harmony, rhyme and rhythm offer. It’s difficult but not impossible, as some of the songs I’ve mentioned above make clear. By sticking to character, story, and repeated imagery or motifs—and letting logic take an occasional back seat to an inventive turn of phrase—we can replicate if not exactly duplicate the effect of a musical composition. And never forget the rhythms in language itself—it can often prove just as effective in conjuring meaning as the mot juste.