Seeing Rabbits (Further Adventures in Songwriting)

Songs can come from the strangest places. Last week I was biking to work, stopped at a red light at King and Spadina. All the while there's a busker on the corner, strumming what sounds like the opening riff to The Who's So Sad About Us. Just your basic folk-rock riff in A; nothing terribly special, right?

Green. I proceed through the intersection and suddenly, an original melody pops into my head over that riff, complete with nonsense words: "Saw a rabbit just the other day, uh-huh." We call these "dummy lyrics" in the music biz: something to hang the tune on until the real words are written at a later date. A famous example: "Scrambled eggs, oh, my baby, how I love your legs" ... which became "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away."

Anyway, I ride along Wellington Street, singing continuously about the rabbit I didn't actually see so I wouldn't forget it. A short time later, I pull into my workplace and park the bike. I'm 15 minutes early and have my portable voice recorder with me, so I can hang out in the parking lot and start turning this doggerel into a song now.

In situations like this where I have no access to an instrument, I'll hum riffs and melodies and give myself instructions where necessary, like "now change to D." Following where the melody leads, I might be lucky enough to write a complete part. In this case, I got a full verse and about a quarter of a chorus, and my 48-second work tape ends with me humming an F# and saying, "minor chord here." And really, all I knew about my new composition at this point is it wouldn't be about rabbits.

Six days later, I've finished a song called "Making Rainbows from the Sun." My original melody and chords, as far as they went, have remained intact. The key is now E, not A—actually, my work tape was in Bb because the busker's guitar was out of tune—and what do you know, I ditched the rabbit but kept the "uh-huh." I do, however, thank the mysterious hare for transporting me from here to there. Props to the busker and Pete Townshend, too! And that's but one wacky example of how a song can come out of nowhere.

Songwriting Trips

Thanks to the generosity of my brother and sister-in-law, I've got a nice stash of Via Rail gift cards that I'm using for day trips. The original intention was to busk in these small towns, but having decided that busking is not for me (see previous posts), I'm now using these little getaways, among other things, as impetus for my songwriting.

It's like fishing: whether the catch is bountiful, nothing at all or somewhere in between doesn't matter, because it's always relaxing. Sometimes I will get a whole song out of the deal. A few years back a rainy day in London turned into a full set of lyrics that eventually became "After You," which is now in the can and will appear on my album. Yesterday was Kingston's turn and I got only one line, but that's okay. I don't force it; rather, I travel with the intention of staying open should inspiration come. If it doesn't, there's always the scenery, exploring the town and dinner to enjoy.

Unsurprisingly, music is my constant companion on these jaunts. Yesterday's trip featured Gordon Lightfoot on my mp3 player as we chugged through the countryside ("Canadian Railroad Trilogy" being quite apropos), with Steeleye Span and Miles Davis providing the soundtrack for the return leg. Often the tunes will spark arrangement ideas as well. If you're a recording musician, you tend to hear music like a record producer—at least I do. Always have, even when I was a boy.

Coming up: Woodstock in September, Ottawa for my birthday in October.