Tagged: music

Golden Oldies

To help set the mood for the era we’re writing about, the late 1960s, we’ve been listening to a bunch of music from that time. Or rather, Jen’s been listening to most of it, and Kent has been indulging her when she comes across something particularly cool or particularly weird that she just needs to share.

The music is a mix of incredibly familiar songs and total headscratchers. For every Beatles classic, there’s a Pigmeat Markham or a Peppermint Trolley Co. For every Beach Boys song we know, there are two we were completely unaware of (that, incidentally, sound nothing like the Beach Boys).

Kent has observed that once enough time passes, a decade becomes its own musical genre, and songs that never would have been played on the same station all get lumped together because they’re of a similar vintage. This experiment is like that on steroids. We’ve been listening to Marvin Gaye, The Temptations, Aretha Franklin, The Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Frank Sinatra, Englebert Humperdinck, Tom Jones, and a bunch of artists we’d never heard of. Did you know that Ray Charles had a cover of Eleanor Rigby? Or that The Tijuana Brass had a version of My Favorite Things? We didn’t! But we do now.

A writing partner will ride shotgun in your musical time machine.

Susan Took Bruce by the Hand

  • by jenbecoming reacquainted with Fear
  • kickass title for a prog rock album
  • time is not on our side
  • hungry, sleepy, and cross
  • filled with white-hot rage

Tune in next time part 837      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Susan took Bruce by the hand and tugged him toward the exit. Bruce tried to pry his hand free, but Susan’s grip was iron. As he was dragged offstage, Bruce bellowed back over his shoulder at us, “When I return you will all be becoming reacquainted with Fear! Moon Fear!”

I didn’t want to say anything to Bruce about it, but “Becoming Reacquainted with Fear” would be a kickass title for a prog rock album. I made a mental note.

Fleur stepped up to the recently vacated microphone. “I’m afraid time is not on our side. The children are hungry, sleepy, and cross. Some are even filled with white-hot rage over missing snack time. We must conclude this infant talent show posthaste and declare a winner. I assume my husband has the prize prepared?”

As far as I knew, I was her only husband, and I did not in fact have a prize prepared. Shit.

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Outlandish Though They Were

  • by jenfor four hot, grueling days
  • as a last resort he sat on her
  • the same ratty t-shirt he’s worn all week
  • “Sing it with me!”
  • with the pretentious subtitle

Tune in next time part 827      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Outlandish though they were, the little girl’s shoes were not the whole act. The mother wheeled a miniature synthesizer in front of the child, and she began to play. Her song stretched on and on, for four hot, grueling days, or so it seemed. The other babies grew restless, most especially my son with Fleur. He toddled onto the stage and tried to pull the keyboard away. When that failed he attempted to wrest his half-sister’s chubby hands from the keys. And as a last resort he sat on her. The crowd applauded weakly.

Fleur strode onto the stage and bowed, then waved vaguely at our son. “Please overlook that the Duke is still wearing the same ratty t-shirt he’s worn all week. Regis St Oink Oink is his favorite show, and he refuses to wear anything but his beloved Regis shirt.” The other mothers all nodded knowingly.

My son the Duke stood up and said, “Sing!”

Fleur smiled dotingly. “The Duke would like us all to sing the Regis St Oink Oink theme song.” She pulled a pitch pipe from her pocket and blew a note. “Sing it with me!” she shouted at the audience.

And to my amazement, the entire crowd burst into song, singing the ridiculous ode to the Transylvania Homicide Detective with the pretentious subtitle. It went a little something like this.

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Vinyl Fantasy

The Auxilliary Writing Cave has lots of nice features, such as a fireplace and big, comfy furniture. A thing there that we haven’t brought up is our vinyl collection and — hold onto your butts — functional turntable. Lately we’ve made it a project to listen to all our albums (and EPs and rare 12-inch singles and everything else that the turntable can handle).

Music during writing sessions is something that brings out strong opinions. For us, the formula is that music is always good, but if what we’re doing is editing rather than composing or discussing then it has to be instrumental. For some weird reason, the lyrics don’t interfere with our ability to make up new sentences, yet they very much impede us when we’re trying to make adjustments to existing ones.

Our library of vinyl won’t be setting any records (ha!) but it is pretty big. Takes up about four feet of shelf space. It’s also a blend of Jen’s and Kent’s collections, reflecting their sometimes diverging musical interests. That divergence is actually highlighted when we consider what we have on vinyl specifically, because that format aligns with our teenage phases.

So, in an effort to devise a fair method of going through the whole stack without either or both of us going bonkers, we chose to select from alternating ends of the shelf. Currently we’re in the middle of the Star Wars soundtrack, which was preceded by the rather distracting Looney Tunes collection. We do own actual albums by actual bands, honest. Apparently our filing system has a sense of humor.

A writing partner is someone who’ll flip the record for you once in a while.

To My Dismay, the Lyrics

  • by jenleaping for this dazzling incomparable adventure
  • bright green carbonated beverage
  • If I could promise you just one thing
  • spearheaded by a magician
  • only I can see her

Tune in next time part 707      Click Here for Earlier Installments

To my dismay, the lyrics taped to the stage were those of the “Major-General’s Song” from the Pirates of Penzance. A younger version of me, the me from drama club, would be leaping for this dazzling incomparable adventure, the singing of such a challenging tune in front of a rapt audience. That starry-eyed thespian was long gone, though, and the only way for me to tap into his enthusiasm, and power through this ordeal was to drink a large quantity of every teen’s favorite bright green carbonated beverage. A pianist ran through the intro several times while I flagged down a passing cater-waiter and ordered him to bring me a 2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew. I may not actually be a Major-General, but I am a general General. He took one look at the medals on my sash and darted off to the kitchen. The pianist was quite irked by the delay. Her playing became brisker and pointier and she threw me looks that said, “If I could promise you just one thing, it’s that if you don’t start singing soon I will murder you in your sleep with a stick spearheaded by a magician‘s magic dagger.” Such an outlandish threat! And yet, I thought, underneath the hostility she behaves so wantonly I can see her complete lack of undergarments, even when she’s seated behind the piano.

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The Disco Artist She was Talking About

  • by jenthat’s just how my throat works
  • sky was a vivid tranquillity of green and yellow
  • elegance without pomp
  • A bear!
  • what kind of fish to put in the moat

Tune in next time part 635      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The disco artist she was talking about was Chartreuse’s brother, Deuce. Deuce Pamplemousse had a huge hit with “Hop on my Caboose.” It was an insidiously catchy number, and once you had it stuck in your head, the only way to exorcise it was to sing a snatch of it backwards. I did that now, hoping to banish the tune before it lodged itself deep in my psyche.

“What was that?” Hildegard demanded. “That noise — is that what you call singing?”

“Don’t get so worked up,” I said. “That’s just how my throat works. I never claimed to be a singer.” I took a deep breath and tried to relax and pee.

“But your twin is America’s number one wedding rapper!” She grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around to face her. “Your identical twin!”

“Rapping is not singing.” I tried to remain calm. I looked out the window where the morning sky was a vivid tranquillity of green and yellow over the fresh snow. The sulfurous emissions from the nearby valley did strange things to the sunlight.

I shrugged away from Hildegard and sat on the toilet. So much for the elegance without pomp that standing urination embodied — I was desperate for release and didn’t care how pompous I looked. My innate elegance would have to carry me through.

Hildegard’s eyes widened in alarm. “What are you doing!”

“I told you I need to go.” My voice sounded more pleading than elegant.

“But, as you Americans say, does not a bear shit in the woods?”

“A bear! Are you calling me a bear? I’m not that hairy. And unless you want to witness what an American does in the bathroom, you’ll give me some privacy.” I didn’t actually have to poop, but Hildegard didn’t have to know that. “Give me five minutes, and then we can talk about whatever you want — what to have for breakfast, what kind of fish to put in the moat, who your favorite disco artist is — anything. But please, five minutes.”

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I Had Been on the Academy’s Beatnik Team

  • by jenplease sing that
  • signal when you want me to stop
  • I just don’t feel like giving hugs
  • lasted for two weeks
  • a snow-covered archipelago

Tune in next time part 585    Click Here for Earlier Installments

I had been on the Academy’s Beatnik Team, but it had been years since I’d tapped the skins. To stall I said, “Please sing that request, Captain.”

He slid his sunglasses down his nose and glared at me until I got myself seated comfortably crosslegged with the bongos nestled between my knees. My fingertips tingled in anticipation. “Wave to signal when you want me to stop,” I said, and began. The rhythms came back to me immediately. It was way-out, Daddy-O. You dig?

The captain waved his hand in my face and I finished with a flourish. “You can ride with me,” the captain said, standing. “I just don’t feel like giving hugs or kisses or anything like that.” He went to the railing and untied the boat from the pier.

We left the harbor of the piratical island with no difficulties at all, which was a welcome surprise. Our journey lasted for two weeks, and I never learned the name of either the yacht or her captain. But I did play a lot of bongos.

At the end of our two-week sail we spotted a snow-covered archipelago, unfamiliar to me and to Tessa.

“This is where you get off,” the anonymous captain declared.

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Singing For Our Supper

Something we enjoy here in the writing cave is looking for recurring patterns in what we write. There’s some stuff that we do on purpose to give our story worlds and plots a consistent flavor, and then there’s stuff we’ve noticed recurring in subtle ways even though we never had a meeting and decided it should be in there. We’re fascinated by this, because our stories are all very different yet contain these common threads.

Among the recurring elements in our work is original song lyrics. Not every book has them, but they’re not limited to just the Music Series. The trend began with our very first novel, Miss Brandymoon’s Device.

Writing lyrics is very different from writing prose. It can take as long to come up with a few stanzas as it does to write a couple of pages, for us at least. But it’s fun to shift gears, and it’s good exercise. Both of us have taken our turns as songsmith with great results. What we hadn’t done until this week? Collaborate directly on lyrics.

Crazy, right? We’ve been at this for nine books now, lots of which contain song lyrics, and our whole deal is collaboration. Yet all those lyrics had been written by Jen or by Kent. The new ones were the first time we teamed up to craft the words to a song.

What was different about this case was that we had more constraints to deal with. The words had to come from a certain album, and we’d already nailed down its themes and mood in considerable detail. These lyrics also had to catalyze some specific actions, almost instructing the characters to do a certain thing. Note, this perceived instruction is not at all the meaning intended by the singer. Jen tackled this job, but the phrases she found that fit the desired meanings all felt trite to her. So, over dinner out, she and Kent analyzed the situation, brainstormed imagery, and jotted down a few snippets. And when we got home, Jen cranked out exactly the lyrics we needed.

A writing partner is someone you can still find new ways to collaborate with.

David Byrne on Collaboration

Kent is reading How Music Works by David Byrne, as everyone he knows is already aware because he keeps recommending it. (It’s really good.)

One of the themes expressed throughout the book is collaboration. Now, Byrne is talking about music and lyrics rather than fiction, but it’s remarkable how little that seems to matter. Working creatively as part of a team is subject to some universal rules, it seems.

Of course, a lot of this collaboration theme comes out when he’s telling about how Talking Heads’ music came into existence. Working with bandmates is the fundamental form of musical collaboration. But it comes up again and again in other, less expected ways too.

An especially interesting passage connected to this theme describes the process of creating the songs for the theatrical production Here Lies Love. There were multiple layers of collaborative activity. First of all, the lyrics were inpired by, and when possible directly quoted from, things that Imelda Marcos actually said, making her a contibutor to the process years after the fact. The subject matter and story line were established before any music was even contemplated, providing a set of constraints the he had to operate within. Launching a show takes a long time, and well after the music was “complete” Byrne got notes from the producers of the play, not wanting to change words or tunes around, but a desire for specific character motivations and plot points to be added to the songs. They told him what their story needed, and trusted him to figure out how to make it happen.

This really resonated with Kent, because it felt a lot like how he and Jen find their way through a manuscript. The pre-writing tells us what we need, and then composing the actual scenes is when we make it happen. In our case we both wear both the writer hat and the editor/producer hat, but the analogy is still very strong.

Whatever kind of art you create, teaming up with a partner can make the process more productive and rewarding.

Jason Folded His Arms Flamboyantly

  • by jenchocolate ice cream on his upper lip
  • “No, that isn’t elegant.”
  • only I can see her
  • the rat-faced one
  • I’m pissed off and grossed out

Tune in next time part 287                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

Jason folded his arms flamboyantly across his chest, but his posturing was ruined by the chocolate ice cream on his upper lip. Not that the mimes noticed or cared. They all pretended to clap.

I laid Tesla in the underbrush and moved rapidly to a position in the shadows, but still near enough to Jason that I could pounce on him if necessary.

The woman who had been singing before Jason’s arrival started up again, a bastardized version of Frosty the Snowman this time. As she sang she stepped into the firelight. Her face was obscured behind a thick layer of whiteface and a big red rubber nose. She approached my brother, holding out the ruffled muff of a clown as if it were a lei.

Jason shook his head. “No, that isn’t elegant.” He took a step backward when she insisted. “It will ruin the lines of my cape.” He couldn’t retreat any further without stepping into the fire.

The woman worked her reply into her song. “Remove your cape, you won’t need it anyway.”

Oh shit. This was some sort of mime/clown fertility ritual. I recognized the trappings now that it was too late to do anything about it.

Jason dropped his cape beside the bonfire. The mimes all tied imaginary blindfolds over their eyes. The woman slipped out of her rainbow striped leotard, exposing the robotic unicorn tattoo on her ass.

Tessa!

I murmured to myself, “With the mimes all blindfolded, only I can see her true identity.”

One of the mimes, the rat-faced one on the far right, cocked his head like he’d heard me. And suddenly I didn’t care.

As Tessa and Jason embraced in a greasy smear of makeup and squeaking nose noises, I strode out and said, “I’m pissed off and grossed out in equal measure. What the hell do you think you’re doing, Tessa? I thought we meant something to each other, and here you are naked with my brother!”

Unfortunately my tirade woke Tesla, who jumped to her feet, suddenly reminding me that I’d slept with several of Tessa’s sisters and probably didn’t have any grounds for my outburst.

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