RHYTHM IS EASY (RHYMING ISN’T)
Rick discovers a lyricist with a very unique talent…
“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.
“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?”