In my last blog, I made a passing reference to my latest choice of reading, Robert Hilburn’s Paul Simon – The Life. It’s a brilliant, forensic, yet emotional, study of one of the greatest songwriters of this era and any other, a master of melody, innovation and exquisite lyricism. As with all good books, it throws up a number of issues that bear further study and investigation. It got me thinking about the importance, or otherwise, of great lyricism.
I love a good lyric. Paul McCartney’s book, The Lyrics, is the nearest thing we will ever get to an autobiography from the great man because, in large part, the lyrics perfectly tell stories of their own. McCartney mastered the art of storytelling back in the early 1960s and his talent remains undiminished even as he enters his 85th year. The Boys From Dungeon Lane is an incredible record, both musically and lyrically. But do lyrics really matter that much? The answer is yes. And no.
I listen to so much music that frankly I don’t have the time to dissect the lyrics from every song I hear. I look at the inner sleeves when they are used for lyrics and sometimes I take them in. Mostly, I am lost in music, as they old saying goes. Which is a shame because many artists today are capable of writing superb little stories and they deserve to be heard. But it’s also true that many songs mean absolutely nothing.
The Beatles’ magnificent John Lennon penned I Am The Walrus is a case in point. Some say that he wrote it purely to take the piss out of people who had over-analysed his earlier work. Whether he did or not, it’s a great sing along, even if the words mean nothing at all. Grunge giants Nirvana gave us some absolute belters like Smell Like Teen Spirit, which is in essence a series of phrases set to music. And arguably Britain’s biggest band since The Beatles sings songs like Champagne Supernova and Live Forever that that mean the square root of fuck all. The words didn’t matter, but Noel Gallagher didn’t care because he has, or had, a decent ear for a catchy tune. And when the fans happily sing along with Wonderwall and Don’t Look Back In Anger, they are not actively trying to work out the meanings, not a bad idea since the words are mere gobbledegook.
The great songwriters, like McCartney and Simon, use their imagination to tell stories that may or may not be real. The listener is invited to decide for themselves the true meaning, if there is one. The stories may be about real life, they may be entirely fictional, they may be a combination of both. When the record label teamed Penny Lane with Strawberry Fields Forever on the greatest double A side of all time – not just by The Beatles but by anyone – the stories were about their native Liverpool. Penny Lane and Strawberry Field (with no s) were places of their youth and are, as much as anything, about a sense of feel than actual memories. And there is genuine affection in each song. Both sound as fresh today as they did when they were first released in 1967. (It is hard still not to feel some bitterness towards Engelbert Humperdinck fans for buying more copies of Release Me than Beatles fans buying Penny Lane’Strawberry Fields Forever which prevented this double-side classic reaching number one.)
For every great lyric, there are probably thousands of crap lyrics. Few acts are immune from engaging in gibberish. The Red Hot Chili Peppers Give It Away is lyrical nonsense, Queen’s dire Radio Gaga even more so and even Beck’s marvellous Loser is essentially a word salad. But we still buy the music, or steal it (legally) via streaming services.
Do lyrics in songs mean less to music fans than before? Probably not. Sometimes I listen to the words, other times I just listen to the music. And in the end, it probably doesn’t matter as long as we’re happy. As Kurt Cobain sang: “A mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido, yeah hey, yey.” Couldn’t have put it better myself.
