Occasionally, songs almost write themselves, and I am the secretary who types them out. Oops. That was politically incorrect, I think. Are there secretaries any more? In the 1970’s, all secretaries turned into administrative assistants. Maybe the “s” word is okay again. This was around the same time that “garbage men” turned into sanitation specialists. Don’t ask me what I turned into. I don’t want to think about it.
Back to the song I’m writing. The title I had initially was, “It’s Easier to Blame You.” It had and still has comic potential and serious potential. (I may try for this again another time.) However, that title went away as soon as I sat down at my keyboard with my guitar and a notebook. Suddenly, it was “The Day You Left Me.” That idea got maudlin and unfocused in a hurry. Then instead, I tried “The Day He Left Her.” Better that he left her rather than me, right? The tune of the chorus wrote itself, and the words were pretty decent. However, the verses were unconvincing. Who the heck were these people who were splitting up, and why should we care about them? I was hard pressed to answer. And why did he leave her?
To be effective, songs need to feel real on some level. So this embryonic song is now growing into a musical fetus, but is not yet ready to be born. I’m in a labor of love with it, and it’s worth my time, but like any pregnant mother, I’m not sure how the kid will turn out until it’s ready to emerge into the world. I will consult with other musicians I respect as the song develops, so it can be its best self. In the 21st century, pregnant women get ultrasound photos of their children in utero, when they are only partly baked.
Going back to the 20th century in which I was born, my full-term 9 pound 1 ounce son got very still during labor. Lacking modern day equipment, the obstetrical nurse put her ear on my belly to see if he was still alive, and my baby gave her a good kick. This was diagnostically effective, and a cheap way to know he was still with us. I think my new unborn song has a good chance of making it, morphing into what it’s meant to be, because it is still kicking. I thought it would be a cabbage, but maybe it will turn out to be a meatloaf. Fortunately, I like both.
Susan Rose: Singing Grandma 