Well, rock and roll, is all about the interplay between sound and music, so many of the best lyrics have no impact on the page, but when coupled with the right sound say everything.

but here's some especially profound rock verse:


Louie Louie, oh no
Me gotta go
Aye-yi-yi-yi, I said
Louie Louie, oh baby
Me gotta go

Fine little girl waits for me
Catch a ship across the sea
Sail that ship about, all alone
Never know if I make it home

Louie Louie, oh no
Me gotta go
Aye-yi-yi-yi, I said
Louie Louie, oh baby
Me gotta go

Three nights and days I sail the sea
Think of girl, constantly
On that ship, I dream she's there
I smell the rose in her hair.



Okay, let's give it to 'em, right now!

See Jamaica, the moon above
It won't be long, me see me love
Take her in my arms again
Tell her I'll never leave again

Louie Louie, oh no
Me gotta go
Aye-yi-yi-yi, I said
Louie Louie, oh baby
Me gotta go

Let's take it on outa here now
Let's go!!

OK, kidding aside, these are the best lyrics in rock history, these a close second, but they still mean infinitely more with the music behind them.

I always thought that the lyrics to "Stand By Me" stand up beautifully as poetry. If you get rid of the well known chorus stuff.

When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we see
No, I won't be afraid
Oh, I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand
Stand by me, so

If the sky that we look upon
Should tumble and fall
Or the mountain
Should crumble to the sea
I won't cry, I won't cry
No, I won't shed a tear
Just as long as you stand
Stand by me,

Dylan's a fraud. Fraudy Fraud Fraud.
And if not a fraud, he's not as good a wordsmith as the popular press would make us believe.

Give me Leonard Cohen or Simon & Garfunkel for that proper beat poetry sound. And, then give me some more Leonard Cohen. 'cos that guy rocks.

Leonard Cohen is a decent songwriter, but I hate the sound of his voice, and Simon & Garfunkel are an excellent folk-pop outfit and Simon certainly has his moments as a lyricist. But they both plae before the Bard Of Hibbing. And Dylan's love for Kerouac & Ginsberg aside, he's no beat poet, he's a rock and roller. His hero was Little Richard before he had ever heard of the Beats.

Dylan's a fraud. Fraudy Fraud Fraud.

Authenticity has little to do with good music.

Authenticity has little to do with good music.
But it has a lot to do with good poetry.

also, while Dylan could do stuff as surrealistic and ambitious as say 'Desolation Row,' or 'Tombstone Blues,' he could also write perfectly simple straightforward stuff like 'Forever Young,' and 'I Shall Be Released,' and rock out with a vengeance when the mood struck him. Cohen and Simon can't make that claim. Were it not for Dylan, Cohen would probably be an English prof somewhere and Simon would still be doing the teen idol shtick he was doing before him and Artie decided to go folkie.

But it has a lot to do with good poetry.

since when?

It wouldn't kill you to stay on topic just once, would it?

I'm talking about poetry here, jon, songs whose lyrics evoke mood and meaning outside of the music. Going back to my example, the idea of the speaker of "Fortress..." just stymied the awful fight between him and his lover and him trying to make peace between them before it spirals out of control is just fabulous. I never found the meaning of that song before hearing it with the music, but strip that song of it and the meaning becomes crystal clear.

*exasperated sigh*

On preview: *fist bumps with seanyboy*

(also, if a post-Dylan candidate for rock poet is needed, what about Joni Mitchell or John Prine? Plus, old blues singers like Robert Johnson, country guys like Hank Williams and even Brill Building guys like Lieber & Stoller and visonaries like Brian Wilson all qualify IMHO.)

I'm talking about poetry here, jon, songs whose lyrics evoke mood and meaning outside of the music.

Therein lies the rub. Songs are specifically written to meld with music, so often lyrics that make good poems make rather mediocre songs and vice versa.

The Jam's "Town Called Malice" worked out pretty well as a metaphor project in Grade 12. Lots of "The atmosphere's a fine blend of ice" type stuff.

Also, I might argue with jonmc that this is superior...and really, how can Visions of Johanna not be mentioned, with it's absolutely earth-shatteringly good "The ghost of 'lectricity howls in the bones of her face" line. Oh, and I think I really should mention "Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free" too. Bob's a god really. I always end up frustrated talking about him though, cos I end up running into someone who says something along the lines of "yeah, fine, he's great, but I can't stand listening to him try to sing". And, really, Bob's one of my favourite singers ever, nevermind his lyrics. Anyway...

For what it's worth, seanyboy is right, that's a brillilant pile of words right there.

[L]yrics that make good poems make rather mediocre songs and vice versa.

I respectfully disagree. Sure, not every poem should be set to music, and not every song should be stripped of its music, but there are some lyric writers out there whose work exceeds the music it gets set to. Unfortunately, I have few examples other than that Sting song to back me up right now because I'd have to think about it some more and I have a problem with being able to hear lyrics over poor enunciation and slurred words. *eyes richat, cringing*

Oh, wait! "Black is the Colour". Damn fine poem that got turned into an Irish air. It's fucking beautiful on its own, but yes, coupled with the right arrangement, it becomes even more beautiful. The linked one is one of my favorites.

I can't believe that I, of all people, forgot these three songs, which work both on the page and on record.

And of course, there's the original rocker poet, too.

Hansel and Gretel are alive and well
and they're living in Berlin
She is a cocktail waitress
He had a part in a Fassbinder film
and they sit around at night now
drinking schnapps and gin

And she says, "Hansel, you're really bringing me down."
And he says, Gretel, you can really be a bitch."
He says, "I've wasted my life
on our stupid legend
when my one and only love
was the wicked witch."

She said, "What is history?"
and he said, "History is an angel
being blown backwards into the future."

He said, "History is a pile of debris
and the angel wants to go back and fix things,
to repair the things that have been broken
but there is a storm blowing
from paradise
and the storm keeps blowing the angel
backwards into the future
and this storm,
this storm
is called
progress."

-Laurie Anderson, "The Dream Before" (YSI link)

I don't think Maybellene works well as a poem.

Now I have to sit here and think of songs that do. Dammit.

I think that many really good lyrics (Motown stuff, Cole Porter, etc.) kinda come off like doggerel (heavyhanded meter, e.g.) if read on the page. Lyrics and poetry should be judged on slightly different scales, right? I hope so, because there are people who I like as poets even though I can't stand their music, and vice-versa.

If you were in my movie
I'd have you as the doctor
Small black bag
And a big black coat

I'd have you make a house call
To the woman
You could lay your
Diagnostic hand
Upon her belly and her throat

...

Suzanne Vega - If you were in my movie.

Wow, a lot happened between when I wrote that up, dealt with an issue here at work, and then posted it.

And, honest, TL, I understand that he's not everyone's cup of tea as a singer, don't worry.

And, fwiw, I don't know enough about "capital P" poetry to say if Bob's good or not. All I know if that tons and tons of his stuff makes me feel something, even when I don't know exactly what he's talking about. The man can sting words together in a way that freaks me out, more than any other word-putter-together guy I know.

I can quote others...given a little more time!

oh yeah, this may be my aforementioned musical hero's best lyrical (and musical) moment.

(also, I think that putting somebody like Cohen or Simon ahead of Berry Or Springsteen as lyrical geniuses seems to presuppose that the 'poeticness' of a piece of work is more about parlor tricks and vocabulary than effective emotional communication, but that's just me)

also, how come nobody's mentioned hip-hop yet? Joe Famous, where are you, buddy?

also, some damn near perfect lyrics, from a guy rarely called a 'poet.'

jonmc: I agree, Jungleland is a fine, fine poem. It's full of that meaning, extended metaphor, interal rhyme and all those other good things that poets and critics love. And the allusions are great (even if I'm not sure what they mean yet) and the meter's awesome.

So glad you understand what I mean now.

box: Having taken courses in music in college, I don't think it's unreasonable to judge some lyrics on the same scale as one would judge poetry. After all, some of the first composers set psalms to music to create magnificent pieces of beautiful classical music, and those psalms can be poetry in itself.

However, I'm not going to go around and claim that whoever wrote "Sexyback" is the best songwriter. That song's fun and great to dance to, but lyrically, it's a piece of shit.

I dreamed about killing you again last night
And it felt alright to me
Dying on the banks of Embarcadero skies
I sat and watched you bleed

Buried you alive in a fireworks display
Raining down on me
Your cold, hot blood
Ran away from me to the sea

I printed my name on the back of a leaf
And I watched it float away
The hope I had in a notebook full of white dry pages
Was all I tried to save

But the wind blew me back via Chicago
In the middle of the night
And not without fight
At the crush of veils and starlight

I know I'll make it back
One of these days
And turn on your TV
To watch a man with a face like mine
Being chased down a busy street

When he gets caught, I won't get up
And I won't go to sleep
I'm coming home
I'm coming home
Via Chicago

Where the cups are cracked and hooked
Above the sink
They make me think
Crumbling ladder tears don't fall
They shine down your shoulders

And crawling is screw faster lash
I blow it with kisses
I rest my head on a pillowy star
And a cracked-door moon
That says I haven't gone too far

I'm coming home
I'm coming home
I'm coming home
Via Chicago

Coming home
Coming home
Coming home

-Wilco (Jeff Tweedy, lyrics), "Via Chicago"

lyrics that make good poems [often] make rather mediocre songs

I have to agree with this (with my amendation]. There are times when song lyrics originated as poetry, or can be read as poetry, but songwriting is a fundamentally different art form with different aims, structures, and methods. Of course it's related to poetry, but not the same, so any aesthetic criteria applied to one can only be used on the other in kind of a limited way.

I have long since thought Woody Guthrie did pretty well with this one too:

One by one, the teardrops fall as I write you.
One by one, my words come falling on the page.
One by one, my dreams are fading in the twilight.
One by one, my schemes are fading fast away.

One by one, the flowers fading in my garden.
One by one, the leaves are falling from the trees.
One by one, my hopes are vanished in the clouds dear.
One by one, like snowflakes melting in the breeze.

One by one, my hair is turning grey.
One by one, my dreams are fading fast away.
One by one, I read your letters over.
One by one, I lay them all away.

One by one, the days are slipping up behind you.
One by one, the sweetest days of life go by.
One by one, the moment stealing up behind you.
One by one, she'll come and find out you were right.

One by one, I hear the soft words that you whisper.
One by one, I feel your kisses soft and sweet.
One by one, I hope you'll say the words to marry.
One by one, to one by one forever be.

(course, it was sung by Jeff Tweedy on the first Mermaid Ave. record)

[Talib Kweli] (Spoken)
Yea, so we got this tune called "For Women" right
Originally, it was by Nina Simone
She said it was inspired by, you know
Down south. In the south, they used to call her Mother Antie
She said No Mrs.
Just Antie
She said if anybody ever called her Antie
she'd burn the whole goddamn place down
I'm over past that
Coming into the new millenium, we can't forget our elders

[Talib Kweli]
I got off the 2 train in Brooklyn on my way to a session
Said let me help this woman up the stairs before I get to steppin'
We got in a conversation she said she a 107
Just her presence was a blessing and her essence was a lesson
She had her head wrapped
And long dreads that peeked out the back
Like antenna to help her get a sense of where she was at, imagine that
Livin' a century, the strenght of her memories
Felt like an angel had been sent to me
She lived from nigger to colored to negro to black
To afro then african-american and right back to nigger
You figure she'd be bitter in the twilight
But she alright, cuz she done sseen the circle of life yo
Her skin was black like it was packed with melanin
Back in the days of slaves she packin' like Harriet Tubman
Her arms are long and she moves like song
Feet with corns, hand with callouses
But her heart is warm and her hair is wooly
And it attract a lot of energy even negative
She gotta dead that the head wrap is her remedy
Her back is strong and she far from a vagabond
This is the back of the masters' whip used to crack upon
Strong enough to take all the pain, that's been
Inflicted again and again and again and again and flipped
It to the love for her children nothing else matters
What do they call her? They call her aunt Sara.

Woman singing in the background

[Talib Kweli] (+ Background Vocals)
I know a girl with a name as beautiful as the rain
Her face is the same but she suffers an unusual pain
Seems she only deals with losers who be usin' them games
Chasin' the real brothers away like she confused in the brain
She tried to get it where she fit in
on that American Dream mission paid tuition
For the receipt to find out her history was missing and started flippin
Seeing the world through very different eyes
People askin' her what she'll do when it comes time to chose sides
Yo, her skin is yellow, it's like her face is blond word is bond
And her hair is long and straight just like sleeping beauty
See, she truly feels like she belong in 2 worlds
And that she can't relate to other girls
Her father was rich and white still livin' with his wife
But he forced himself on her mother late one night
They call it rape that's right and now she take flight
Through life with hate and spite inside her mind
That keep her up to the break of light a lot of times
(I gotta find myself) (3X)
She had to remind herself
They called her Safronia the unwanted seed
Blood still blue in her vein and still red when she bleeds
(Don't, don't, don't hurt me again) (8X)

[Talib Kweli] (+ Background Vocals)
Teenage lovers sit on the stoops up in Harlem
Holdin' hands under the Apollo marquis dreamin of stardom
Since they was born the streets is watchin' and schemin'
And now it got them generations facin' deseases
That don't kill you they just got problems
and complications that get you first
Yo, it's getting worse, when children hide the fact that they pregnant
Cuz they scared of giving birth
How will I feed this baby?
How will I survive, how will this baby shine?
Daddy dead from crack in '85, mommy dead from AIDS in '89
At 14 the baby hit the same streets they became her master
The children of the enslaved, they grow a little faster
They bodies become adult
While they keepin' the thoughts of a child her arrival
Into womanhood was heemed up by her survival
Now she 25, barely grown out her own
Doin' whatever it takes strippin', workin' out on the block
Up on the phone, talkin' about
(my skin is tan like the front of your hand)
(And my hair...)
(Well my hair's alright whatever way I want to fix it,
it's alright it's fine)
(But my hips, these sweet hips of mine invite you daddy)
(And when I fix my lips my mouth is like wine)
(Take a sip don't be shy, tonight I wanna be your lady)
(I ain't too good for your Mercedes, but first you got to pay me)
(You better quit with all the question, sugar who's little girl am I)
(Why I'm yours if you got enough money to buy)
(You better stop with the compliments we running out of time,)
(You wanna talk whatever we could do that it's your dime)
(From Harlem's from where I came, don't worry about my name,)
(Up on one-two-five they call me sweet thang)

Scratches + Woman singing in the background

[Talib Kweli] (+ Background Vocals)
A daughter come up in Georgia, ripe and ready to plant seeds,
Left the plantation when she saw a sign even thought she can't read
It came from God and when life get hard she always speak to him,
She'd rather kill her babies than let the master get to 'em,
She on the run up north to get across that Mason-Dixon
In church she learned how to be patient and keep wishin',
The promise of eternal life after death for those that God bless
She swears the next baby she'll have will breathe a free breath
and get milk from a free breast,
And love beeing alive,
otherwise they'll have to give up being themselves to survive,
Being maids, cleaning ladies, maybe teachers or college graduates, nurses, housewives, prostitutes, and drug addicts
Some will grow to be old women, some will die before they born,
They'll be mothers, and lovers who inspire and make songs,
(But me, my skin is brown and my manner is tough,)
(Like the love I give my babies when the rainbow's enuff,)
(I'll kill the first muthafucka that mess with me, I never bluff)
(I ain't got time to lie, my life has been much too rough,)
(Still running with barefeet, I ain't got nothin' but my soul,)
(Freedom is the ultimate goal,
life and death is small on the whole, in many ways)
(I'm awfully bitter these days
'cuz the only parents God gave me, they were slaves,)
(And it crippled me, I got the destiny of a casualty,)
(But I live through my babies and I change my reality)
(Maybe one day I'll ride back to Georgia on a train,)
(Folks 'round there call me Peaches, I guess that's my name.)

Edna Million in a drop dead suit
Dutch Pink on a downtown train
Two-dollar pistol but the gun won't shoot
I'm in the corner on the pouring rain
Sixteen men on a dead man's chest
And I've been drinking from a broken cup
Two pairs of pants and a mohair vest
I'm full of bourbon, I can't stand up

Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone

Schiffer broke a bottle on Morgan's head
And I'm stepping on the devil's tail
Across the stripes of a full moon's head
And through the bars of a Cuban jail
Bloody fingers on a purple knife
Flamingo drinking from a cocktail glass
I'm on the lawn with someone else's wife
Admire the view from up on top of the mast

Hey little bird, fly away home
House is on fire, children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
House is on fire, your children are alone

I said hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
House is on fire, your children are alone

Yellow sheets on a Hong Kong bed
Stazybo horn and a Slingerland ride
"To the carnival" is what she said
A hundred dollars makes it dark inside
Edna Million in a drop dead suit
Dutch Pink on a downtown train
Two-dollar pistol but the gun won't shoot
I'm in the corner on the pouring rain

Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone
Hey little bird, fly away home
Your house is on fire, your children are alone

Cohen is a better writer because he can more effectively evoke emotions using nothing more than words. Paul Simon is pretty much dismissed as a writer in some quarters, but I think he's brilliant.

Asking only workman's wages I come looking for a job
But I get no offers
Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue
I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there

...

That's not about parlour tricks and poeticness, it's about words used brilliantly and sparingly to hint at and explain the human experience.

Smokey sings a good song, but you'll have to trust me when I say "Tracks of My Tears" is a pretty awful piece of poetry.

These mist covered mountains
Are a home now for me
But my home is the lowlands
And always will be
Some day you'll return to
Your valleys and your farms
And you'll no longer burn
To be brothers in arms

Through these fields of destruction
Baptism of fire
I've watched all your suffering
As the battles raged higher
And though they did hurt me so bad
In the fear and alarm
You did not desert me
My brothers in arms

There's so many different worlds
So many different suns
And we have just one world
But we live in different ones

Now the sun's gone to hell
And the moon's riding high
Let me bid you farewell
Every man has to die
But it's written in the starlight
And every line on your palm
We're fools to make war
On our brothers in arms

--Dire Straits, "Brothers in Arms"

Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue
I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there

Dave Marsh once wrote a review of that song, where he said 'wonder if he fucked 'em.' Simon has his moments, to be sure, but stuff like 'Me & Julio Down By The Schoolyard,' and 'Kodachrome' has aged better than 'Sounds Of Silence,' which sounds a wee bit precious to these ears.

Smokey sings a good song, but you'll have to trust me when I say "Tracks of My Tears" is a pretty awful piece of poetry.

And therein lies the difference between rock and roll and page poetry. Because, IMHO, as a song 'Tracks Of My Tears' dwarfs all of Simon's and Cohen's output combined.

on preview: Dire Straits? The band that raised mumbling to a high art. Puh-leez. 'Industrial Disease' is the only song of their's I can stand to hear now, and that's mainly for this couplet:

we got two men say they're Jesus/One of 'em's gotta be wrong...

/blatant rock partisan

I will contribute one little bit more...one of the great opening lines ever:

"Held like water in you shaking hands are all the small defeats a day demands."

And, a great mental workout for the writer, a fantastic bit of writing called Plea from a Cat Named Virtute

*both written by John K Samson of the Weakerthans.

(also, Bob Dylan once called Smokey Robinson 'America's Greatest Poet.' People probably thought he was kidding.)

People say I'm the life of the party
Cause I tell a joke or two
Although I might be laughing loud and hearty
Deep inside I'm blue

*chokes... claws at eyes....*

Dave Marsh once wrote a review of that song, where he said 'wonder if he fucked 'em.'
Why did he say that?
Is this some joke I'm not aware of?
Was he being deliberately obtuse, or .... what? What was he getting at?

Joni Mitchell's A Case Of You:

Just before our love got lost you said
I am as constant as a northern star
And I said, constant in the darkness
Wheres that at?
If you want me I'll be in the bar

On the back of a cartoon coaster
In the blue tv screen light
I drew a map of Canada
Oh Canada
And your face sketched on it twice

Oh you are in my blood like holy wine
Oh and you taste so bitter but you taste so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you
I could drink a case of you darling
And I would still be on my feet
Oh I'd still be on my feet

Oh I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
Im frightened by the devil
And I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid
I remember that time that you told me, you said
Love is touching souls
Surely you touched mine
Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time

Oh you are in my blood like holy wine
And you taste so bitter but you taste so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you
I could drink a case of you darling
Still I'd be on my feet
And still be on my feet

I met a woman
She had a mouth like yours
She knew your life
She knew your devils and your deeds
And she said
Color go to him, stay with him if you can
Oh but be prepared to bleed
Oh but you are in my blood youre my holy wine
Oh and you taste so bitter, bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you darling
Still I'd be on my feet
I'd still be on my feet

I think Marsh was poking fun at Simon's sometimes prentensions, by saying 'go get laid, Paul.' But, the review in question was in a book of the 1001 best singles of all time, so it wasn't a negative review.

and if 'Tracks...' isn't your cup of tea, there's always 'I Gotta Dance To Keep From Crying,' another song that dwarfs the output of most 'song poets.'

John Prine's "Angel from Montgomery" comes pretty close for me:

Make me an angel that flies from montgomry
Make me a poster of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this living is just a hard way to go

I liked that one poster on askme (about loneliness) used "Smile all the time. Shine your teeth to meaningless And sharpen them with lies" as his title heading.

The rest of the lyrics are pretty meh, but those lines are nice.

(Has anyone said "Kate Bush")

(Has anyone said "Kate Bush")

I haven't because I'm afraid she'll appear.

Otis, man, that is my very favorite Tom Waites song.

Had a little bit to drink
There's a little thing I want at a do out East
Nothing too emotional, my good miss
I couldn't be serious in a room full of jack-knife eyes
Stop talking 'bout the years - you sound like Louis Burdett

And we roll on to my backshed, play some poker, scratch my head
Look at the sky and spot the planes, where would I go on holidays?
Roll with the punches, down the aisles, and down the street the weeks roll by

I'm chewing ice and grinning, I'm spewing up and spinning
It's billiousness as usual in my corner of the kitchen
Hey you, lose that friend before we go anywhere
What? Someone might see you alone?
Stop bagging out the band, you sound like Louis Burdett

All my friends are fuck-ups but they're fun to have around
Banana chairs out on the concrete, telling stories to the stars
How Gemini's love Wooden Dragons, and how down the street the weeks roll by

The moment the night wears off, the bombsite reappears
They're all asleep but the morning tastes like wine
It tastes like wine in Tempe
I feel so good I just might wake him up
Pat him on the bald head - tell me about a dream Louis, something
Obscene Louis
Your life's an open magazine Louis

I'm stoned in a bookshop, sober in a nightclub
Sex is everywhere but nowhere 'round me
By the time she gets to Marrickville we'll be masturbating
Never rains in Tempe but the planes remind me of family money and the lack down here
Stop talking frustrated, 'cause I sound like Louis Burdett

Most of my friends are very fruity indeed, such fun to have around
Terror, like charity, begins at home
Chris don't like madness, but madness likes him
He's got a finger in his chest saying how it should have been
And we roll on to my backshed, play some poker, scratch my head
Look at the sky and spot the planes, where would I go on holidays?
Roll with the punches, down the aisles, and down the street the weeks roll by
The weeks roll by

The Whitlams, "You Sound Like Louis Burdett"

Oh - The Whitlams. There's a reminder for a song for me to listen to.

My first customer was Megan
She came in for a hamburger with the lot, no meat
"Hey that's a salad roll" I said
And we started going out

My second customer was Susan
She came in for Diet Pepsi, morning tea each day
And I said, "You don't need to be on a diet
Do you wanna come out tonight?"

I said, "I'll bring Gringo, he's got a lot of money
And he'll take us to the bars where they got a view
He'll buy us those beers, they give it to you in bottles
They put lemon on the top and it don't taste too bad
I'm telling you. Telling you."

And Tom Waits - wowzers.

The piano has been drinking
My necktie's asleep
The combo went back to New York, and left me all alone
The jukebox has to take a leak
Have you noticed that the carpet needs a haircut?
And the spotlight looks just like a prison break
And the telephone's out of cigarettes
As usual the balcony's on the make
And the piano has been drinking, heavily
The piano has been drinking
And he's on the hard stuff tonight

Some Kate Bush (For Jon)

I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking

Of all the things we should've said,
That were never said.
All the things we should've done,
That we never did.
All the things that you needed from me.
All the things that you wanted for me.
All the things that I should've given,
But I didn't.

Oh, darling, make it go away.
Just make it go away now.

(This womans work)

Take out the papers and the trash
Or you don't get no spendin' cash
If you don't scrub that kitchen floor
You ain't gonna rock and roll no more
Yakety yak (don't talk back)

Just finish cleanin' up your room
Let's see that dust fly with that broom
Get all that garbage out of sight
Or you don't go out Friday night
Yakety yak (don't talk back)

You just put on your coat and hat
And walk yourself to the laundromat
And when you finish doin' that
Bring in the dog and put out the cat
Yakety yak (don't talk back)

Don't you give me no dirty looks
Your father's hip; he knows what cooks
Just tell your hoodlum friend outside
You ain't got time to take a ride
Yakety yak (don't talk back)

Yakety yak, yakety yak
Yakety yak, yakety yak
Yakety yak, yakety yak
Yakety yak, yakety yak

*sigh*

(i'm not attacking anyone's taste seanyboy, just making the point that rock and roll didn't need to be elevated or improved to be called 'art.' Even if it had never 'progressed' from it's Elvis/Chuck Berry/Little Richard roots, it would still be monumental. Punk, in the beginning anyway, was all about remembering this)

This song by Emerson, Lake and Palmer is damn near poetry perfection.

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?

That's the best thing I've seen since reading Tyger, Tyger as a child.

That's an old Anglican hymn, though, isn't it seanyboy?

But we're not talking about Rock and Roll.
We're talking about poetry.

And you've tried to make it about Rock and Roll.

SexyBack & Toxic are examples of near-pop-perfection, but you don't see me quoting them here to make a point.

We're taking a thing we all love, but we're judging it according to a completely different set of rules. Chuck Berry may be fantastic, but he's not a poet.

well, that's kind of my original point (and Miko's). Songs and poems are written for different purposes that only incidentally intersect.

Volare, and Whiter Shade of Pale.

The problem we're having here centers around the definition of poet. In one direction anyone who speaks in an evocative and entertaining manner for the benefit of his or her listeners is a poet. This is channelling the spirit of the word poet and its ancient context. In another direction we have a more codified understanding of the term. A poet as one who utilizes the conceits of poetry to write.

What TL is asking for examples of, seems to me, to be instances where the conceits of poetry [more than just rhyme] are used in music. jonmc seems to be coming from the other position, that evocation is more important than presentation.

Sorry to get all EB on y'all. ;)

What sciurus said, plus my own two cents:

We know that song writing and poetry are different arts. What TL was asking is: what song lyrics make good poems as well as good lyrics? She's asking about that very incidental intersection, not the defenition/location of that intersection.

Perhaps a great example of the difficulty inherent in combining words and music is Coltrane's A Love Supreme album and the poem he included in the liner notes. It might not be considered a very good poem, but reading it while listening offers a new depth and access to Coltrane's personality. Perhaps that is another path.

Also, for the most part, while I feel meh about most of Tom Wait's music, I definitely agree that he has a way with words.

thanks, Specklet and scirus. This has been kind of a frustrating thread to read, and everytime I've tried to type something I've gotten too flustered :)

What TL was asking is: what song lyrics make good poems as well as good lyrics? She's asking about that very incidental intersection, not the definition/location of that intersection.

Yes! That's what I'm getting at, exactly. *smoochies Specklet*

One thing I've noticed on this thread is that the lyrics that have been quoted to songs I don't know are what I call great poems. There's imagery, and a care to the words used, artful repetition, skillful rhyme and meter, etc. These song lyrics can exist on their own outside of the music and can be judged well on those merits alone. In cases like these, the skill of the writer is to be lauded as highly or more highly than that of the musician who arranges for it. And judging from these responses, that happens more frequently than just "often" or "sometimes".

God, how can anyone forget "Strange Fruit", a poem that was made more brilliant by Billie Holiday's voice and the wonderful minor key? She made that poem famous, but on its own it has just as deep a resonance as her voice.

(On another note, I think I've figured out one of the keys to writing a highly commented MeCha post: talk about music. ^_^)

Oh, and jon? There's more to music than just rock 'n' roll. *g, d, r*

Oh, and jon? There's more to music than just rock 'n' roll.

LIES!

SexyBack & Toxic are examples of near-pop-perfection, but you don't see me quoting them here to make a point.

I did. ^_^

It wouldn't be a Metachat music thread if jonmc didn't try to make it a jonmc music thread.

Just saying.

Thanks for correcting the foolish Specklet spelling, TL!

Good thing I'm within convenient kicking distance. ^_^

seconding seanyboy's suzanne vega nomination. Also adding mine.....

I wish I was a neutron bomb, for once I could go off
I wish I was a sacrifice but somehow still lived on
I wish I was a sentimental ornament you hung on
The christmas tree, I wish I was the star that went on top
I wish I was the evidence, I wish I was the grounds
For 50 million hands upraised and open toward the sky

I wish I was a sailor with someone who waited for me
I wish I was as fortunate, as fortunate as me
I wish I was a messenger and all the news was good
I wish I was the full moon shining off a camaros hood

I wish I was an alien at home behind the sun
I wish I was the souvenir you kept your house key on
I wish I was the pedal brake that you depended on
I wish I was the verb to trust and never let you down

I wish I was a radio song, the one that you turned up
I wish...
I wish...

Pearl Jam's Wish list. I like it. Sue me. Also, this was our wedding song:

I never thought of this as funny
It speaks another world to me
I wanna be your Easter bunny
I wanna be your Christmas tree

I'll strip the world that you must live in
Of all its godforsaken greed
I'll ply the tar out of your feathers
I'll pluck the thorns out of your feet
You and me
You and me
You and me

And if I choose your sanctuary
I'll want to wash you with my hair
I'll want to drink of sacred fountains
And find the riches hidden there

I'll eat the lotus and peyote
I'll want to hear the caged-bird sing
I'll want the secrets of the temple
I'll want the finger with the ring
You and me
You and me
You and me

And if you make me your religion
I'll give you all you will need
I'll be the drawing of your breath
I'll be the cup if you should bleed
I'll be the sky above the Ganges
I'll be the vast and stormy sea
I'll be the lights that guide you inland
I'll be the visions you will see
Visions you will see
You will see
You will see
You and me
You and me
You and me
You and me
You and me
You and me

I like rem, too. Sue me some more.

Sittin' in the kitcken
A house in Macon
Loretta's singing on the radio
Smell of coffee
Eggs and bacon
Car wheels on a gravel road

Pull the curtains back and look outside
Somebody, somewhere, don't know
Come on now child we're gonna go for a ride
Car wheels on a gravel road

Can't find a damn thing in this place
Nothing's where I left it before
Set of keys and a dusty suitcase
Car wheels on a gravel road

There goes the screen door slamming shut
You better do what you're told
When I get back this room better be picked-up
Car wheels on a gravel road

Low hum of voices in the front seat
Stories nobody knows
Got folks in Jackson we're going to meet
Car wheels on a gravel road

Cotton fields stretching miles and miles
Hank's voice on the radio
Telephone poles, trees and wires fly on by
Car wheels on a gravel road

Broken down shacks engine parts
Could tell a lie but my heart would know
Listen to the dogs barkin' in the yard
Car wheels on a gravel road

Child in the backseat about four or five years
Lookin out the window
Little bit of dirt mixed with tears
Car wheels on a gravel road

And one more:

Mother, don't worry, I killed the last snake that lived in the creek bed
Mother, don't worry, I've got some money I saved for the weekend
Mother, remember being so stern with that girl who was with me?
Mother, remember the blink of an eye when I breathed through your body?

So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten
Sons are like birds, flying upward over the mountain

Mother, I made it up from the bruise on the floor of this prison
Mother, I lost it, all of the fear of the Lord I was given
Mother, forget me now that the creek drank the cradle you sang to
Mother, forgive me, I sold your car for the shoes that I gave you

So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten
Sons could be birds, taken broken up to the mountain

Mother, don't worry, I've got a coat and some friends on the corner
Mother, don't worry, she's got a garden we're planting together
Mother, remember the night that the dog hat her pups in the pantry?
Blood on the floor, fleas on their paws,
And you cried 'til the morning

So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten
Sons are like birds, flying always over the mountain

--Iron & Wine, "Upwards over the Mountains"

Knew those last two were you, pup, even before I'd scrolled down. Heh.

I blame your exposure to my iPod.

Damn. I really wish I could "favorite" this post. *snuggles each and every one of you who responded, yes, even jonmc*

You're always blaming my exposure.

Don't flash the octopus indeed.

It's unusual for poetry to use repetition to the degree that songs do. Some of these do read really well as poems (like the Iron & Wine one pup just posted, like A Case of You, or like the Woody Guthrie one above). I think they may be the best 'poems' in the thread. But if I came across any of those in a poetry magazine, what I'd think is that the poet was calling on the conventions of song to bring about a particular effect on the reader - the lulling, rocking repetition of song, the verse/chorus or refrain structure. I'd feel clearly that the poet wanted me to notice their use of songlike structure in the poem. So it would be unusual among poems, with a specific aim in mind. And too much use of direct repetition can be absolutely deadly in a poem.

Repetition is so vital a part of music; one of my earliest music teachers once said to me "If something sounds good, play it again. And again." Listen to songs and you'll hear pattern, pattern, pattern. The human ear listening to music craves repetition. Also, non-word content (howls, moans) and empty-word content ("oooh/yeah/baby/mmm") can carry tons of emotional weight in song, but read just terribly on the page.

Something about music makes us hear words differently; when words are arrayed over a musical structure they can sound wonderful, but when that structure is removed they look flimsy.

Series(es?) of impressionistic glimpses often work better in song lyrics than in poetry. They can appear disjointed or unrelated when simply read, whereas in song, the unity provided by the backing music can pull them together, illustrative flecks of atmosphere.

Not arguing with anybody here, just ruminating. I think some song lyrics make good poetry, for song lyrics. Kind of the way some cereal-box copy or fragmented bits of overheard news reporting can make good poetry. If I were really judging these lyrics by poetic conventions, I'm still not sure I've seen anything that I'd call a mindblowing poem (though they're awesome lyrics!)

Things on which I blame Specklet-exposure is a whole 'nother post.

To hell with you all. I'm posting another Iron & Wine song (knowing full well that I could probably post the whole catalog; Tom Waits, too).

Iron & Wine, "Passing Afternoon"

There are times that walk from you
Like some passing afternoon
Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon
And she chose a yard to burn
But the ground remembers her
Wooden spoons, her children stir her bougainvillea blooms

There are things that drift away
Like our endless, numbered days
Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made
And she's chosen to believe
In the hymns her mother sings
Sunday pulls its children from their piles of fallen leaves

There are sailing ships that pass
All our bodies in the grass
Springtime calls her children 'till she lets them go at last
And she's chosen where to be, though she's lost her wedding ring
Somewhere near her misplaced jar of Bougainvillea seeds

There are things we can't recall
Blind as night that finds us all
Winter tucks her children in, her fragile china dolls
But my hands remember hers, rolling 'round the shaded ferns
Naked arms, her secrets still like songs I'd never learned

There are names across the sea
Only now I do believe
Sometimes, with the windows closed, she'll sit and think of me
But she'll mend his tattered clothes
And they'll kiss as if they know
A baby sleeps in all our bones, so scared to be alone

***

Love that song. Passage of time, aging, loss, all good stuff. But, I have two problems with it. First, he pronounces it "bougain-villa," with hard Ls, and that bugs the shit out of me. Second, it's well near impossible to propagate bogainvillea by seed. Hmph.

Okay, I just realized that all the songs I've posted are mother-related. My subconscious is creeping me out.

Here's a poem set to music, rather than a set of poetic lyrics:

Daddy's ghost behind you
Sleeping dog beside you
You're a poem of mystery, you're the prayer inside me

Spoken words like moonlight
You're the voice that I like

Needlework & seedlings
In the way you're walking to me
From the timbers, faded from the winter

I love the rhyme scheme on that last one. Unexpected.

miko - I agree with you assesment.

I don't get hugely excited by form, so the lyrics which really stick in my head as being "Poetic" are those that have a great image or a nice conceit, or which just *feel* like poetry. In almost all cases, I've fought the urge to tinker with the lyrics to fit them into a more poetic form.

The repitition thing is weird because repitition in poetry (in the form of a refrain or other) can be startlingly effective. I think what is different in song lyrics is that ...
- The words in songs are forced into a specific scheme.
- Complex lyrics overwhelm the music.

I don't know - There's something else there that I can't quite put my finger on.

Sometimes I don't know where
this dirty road is taking me
sometimes I don't even know the reason why
I guess I keep a-gamblin'
lots of booze and lots of ramblin'
it's easier than just waitin' around to die

One time, friends, I had a ma
I even had a pa
he beat her with a belt once 'cause she cried
She told him to take care of me
headed down to Tennessee
it's easier than just waitin' around to die

I came of age and I found a girl
in a Tuscaloosa bar
She cleaned me out and hit in on the sly
I tried to kill the pain,
bought some wine and hopped a train
seemed easier than just waitin' around to die

A friend said he knew
where some easy money was
we robbed a man, and brother did we fly
the posse caught up with me
and drug me back to Muskogee
two long years waitin' around to die

Now I'm out of prison
I got me a friend at last
he don't drink or steal or cheat or lie
His name's Codine
he's the nicest thing I've seen
together we're gonna wait around and die
together we're gonna wait around and die

--Townes Van Zandt

Ah, Townes!

*beats self over head with an empty bottle of Jack for fucking forgetting Townes*

I also highly recommend the documentary Be Here to Love Me, heartbreaking as it is.

Diggin' the Lucinda Williams, 'pupp.

I also highly recommend the documentary Be Here to Love Me, heartbreaking as it is.

Oh, yeah! I second that one. Great film.