Producers, teachers, publishers and managers aren't the only people giving feedback to songwriters. Every time you collaborate or hear a friend's song, you are in the position to give your feelings on a song or portions of it. How you do that could be very important to the person listening, to your relationship with him/her in the future, even to his/her future writing..
Have you ever seen a dog trainer working to get a dog to learn something? The dog rolls over and the trainer gives him a dog biscuit or cookie. Have you ever seen a dog owner trying to train his dog by tapping or hitting him on the head with the newspaper? The dog gets some message, but rarely does he get the right one. He may start to lower his head when he passes his owner. But the dog doesn't remember what he did right, compare it to what he did to incur the rolled up newspaper punishment, and vow to change his behavior. Dogs don't think in such intricate complexities.
All the dog knows is it's not safe in there. It reminds me of the Gary Larson cartoon where the dog owner is talking up a storm to his dog, and the dog only hears "blah, blah, blah, food, blah, blah, blah."
Of course, people are reputed to be smarter than dogs, so if we're criticized or ridiculed or shamed, we have the intelligence to realize what the newspaper pat means. Or are we? The creative spirit is a delicate thing, if not fragile. I've seen it banished with a careless word, not to come out of hiding for years. The best meaning mentors and friends and collaborators can do more damage than good by what they consider constructive criticism. How the message is delivered is extremely important, especially during the years before a writer has certainty in his/her craft and artistic viewpoint, even style.
Of course, there are those writers who are either successfully or unsuccessfully pulling the wool over lots of people's eyes, including their own. These people are trying to slide by with not much to say, breaking no new ground, and writing rehashes of everything they've ever heard. With writers like this, it's really tempting to just bust them, if for no other reason than to let them know we're in on their secret. We know they're trying to con us, and we know they're skating on the surface. The only problem with busting them is that what we don't know is if there's anything worth plumbing beneath the surface. Nothing makes someone feel more helpless than to feel the rug of mediocrity being pulled out from under him/her to reveal there's no floor, much less basement. The chances are he's been writing that way because he's afraid to look. You have to invite and inspire him to go there, not force him.
Being a cat person, rather than a dog owner, and knowing that cats are pretty hard to train, I mentioned my dog training analogy to my producer, Nik Venet. He has a theory that training and obedience is only the first level. The truly well trained dogs are not those who simply do tricks or act nice to get a reward or avoid punishment. When you see a dog that has moved to the level with his owner or trainer of trust and mutual obligation, you really have teamwork. I liked this analogy for songwriters. Whomever you're showing your songs to, or whoever is getting feedback from you on their songs, trust and mutual obligation is the atmosphere you want to establish. As I look back on some of my earlier publishing deals, I see more of a newspaper and cookie analogy. Now, when I write a new song, I trust my publisher will understand what I'm trying to accomplish and give me feedback, if necessary, to help me get there. It won't be like I'm on an alien planet trying to make contact with someone who speaks another language. And because we're in business together, I feel an obligation to give him songs on a certain level, and I trust myself to do it.
When I give feedback to students, I try to come from a place of trust and mutual obligation. After all, they're paying me to tell them the truth, as I see it, in a way that will make them better writers, not make them want to quit writing. And I find the best way to do this is to find what is strong about the song and in their viewpoint and approach, and then point out any place in the song (lyrically, melodically, harmonically or rhythmically) that keeps it from remaining at that highest level. I'm frequently teased by those who take a harsher approach. I'm said to be able to see any cup as half full, even when there's only a drop of water in it. But to quote Nik Venet, "The mind cannot image a non-occurrence," so why concentrate on what's not there? Let's take a look at what is present and build on it.
Sometimes when people are being criticized, the critic simply is not well-read or well-listened enough to grasp what the writer is going for. A publisher, teacher or collaborator's musical orientation can frequently render him outside the frame of reference of the person showing him something. And lyrically, there may be an allusion to something he hasn't read or heard of that the target audience would understand, so if he criticizes it saying "no one would get that," he reveals more of his own shortcomings than those of the writer.
Publishers have traditionally had the unpopular task of saying to a writer, "you're out there, pal, let's reel you in." Ironically, though, it's the out-thereness that frequently sets a writer above the crowd and makes people stop and listen. I keep a Nik Venet quote on my piano:
"The important thing for a songwriter is not to write songs that songwriters are doing already, a little better or a little worse; but to write those songs that at present are not being written."
And once you get that song, or the concept for that song, remember to show it to someone with whom you have trust and mutual obligation. And when you hear someone else's song or song idea, remember to create an environment of safety. Knowing full well that outside our window, there's a music business jungle, we don't also need to have snakes and charging rhinos inside our music rooms. Let's unroll the newspapers and either read them or put them at the bottom of the bird cage.
© 1995 Harriet Schock
Webmaster: Jeff Mallett (jeffm@lyricist.com)