RHYTHM IS EASY (RHYMING ISN’T)

Rick dis­cov­ers a lyri­cist with a very unique tal­ent…

Prog - - Intro -

“My wife writes lyrics. She’s so tal­ented.”

I looked up from my copy of Prog and smiled po­litely at the guy sit­ting op­po­site me on the train.

“That’s lovely,” I said. “Who’s she writ­ten for?” “No­body yet,” he replied. “She’s look­ing for mu­si­cians and com­posers to use her work. Would you like to see some of it?”

“Not re­ally. I have peo­ple that I al­ready work with and I write a lot of lyrics my­self...” And with that, I con­tin­ued read­ing my Prog. “She’s very tal­ented…” he added. “Who has she sent her lyrics to?” “No­body yet…” “Well, I sug­gest that would be a good start.” “Who should she send them to?”

I put down my mag­a­zine and replied, “If she doesn’t send them to any­one, how can any­body make a judge­ment?”

“Good point. I’ll tell her that.”

He then started fum­bling in his brief case and an­nounced, “I just hap­pen, by chance, to have a few with me. She’s writ­ten about 1,000 so far.”

I re­alised there was still an­other hour of my jour­ney to go and there were no more stops so I couldn’t even get off and catch a later train. I was stuck with him and I feared the next hour would be a very long one.

“When did she start writ­ing them?” I asked, hu­mour­ing him.

“Last month.”

“She’s writ­ten 1,000 lyrics in four weeks?” “She’s very pro­lific…” he smiled proudly and handed over a wad of pa­pers.

I looked at the first one. It was called I Love My Gar­den and read through the first verse:

‘I re­ally love my gar­den/ I’ve planted it with seeds/ But if I do not nur­ture it/ All I’ll get is weeds.’ “What do you think?” he asked hope­fully. I tried my best to be diplo­matic. “Words and lyrics are very per­sonal; one man’s meat is an­other man’s poi­son. To be hon­est, these aren’t the sort of lyrics that would ap­peal to me, or any­one I know or work with.”

He looked crest-fallen, but was un­de­terred, “There are lots of dif­fer­ent lyrics. There must be one you like?” I skimmed through the pages. There wasn’t. “Sorry, but tell her to keep try­ing. Get her to send them to singers and mu­si­cians she likes.”

“I’ll do that,” he said and added, “Can you give me some ad­dresses?”

“No,” I said po­litely as our train pulled into Liver­pool Street Sta­tion, “I don’t give out per­sonal de­tails of friends.”

“No won­der it’s so hard for undis­cov­ered tal­ent to break into the mu­sic busi­ness,” he mut­tered as he got off the train. “It’s a bloody closed shop.”

This gen­uinely hap­pened to me a few years ago. I have kept my ears open for I Love My Gar­den on the ra­dio, but no­body seems to have picked it up so I’ve de­cided to up­date the lyrics es­pe­cially for this col­umn.

‘I plant words in my gar­den/ Words for me to write/ They help to make the flow­ers grow/ Be­cause they’re mostly shite.’

Now, who can I send it to?

“She’s writ­ten 1,000 lyrics in four weeks?”

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