It’s the making that matters

When I was young, I was told that if you hadn’t ‘made it’ in the music business by the age of 25 you might as well give up. 

I am somewhat older than 25 now and, although I stopped trying to ‘make it’ a long time ago, I didn’t stop making music. Sometimes I feel like I should, that it is no longer appropriate for someone of my years and in my line of work (which is terribly serious) to do anything as trivial as writing songs. And often I think there are already too many songs, so why bother adding to the pile? 

But there is another part of me that thinks that it is great, even a little bit impressive, that I have carried on making music. Ever since my early twenties, music has had to find a place amidst all the other things in my life. I have written songs during my work lunch break (at home, not in the office), after putting children to bed and in the exhaustion of early parenthood, in the rare hour or two that I might have the house to myself, on holiday at my in-laws, or in the car. I have driven back and forth to rehearsals through every kind of weather, recorded into the early hours with work looming, and I’ve bought gear that I can’t really afford. I can’t call myself prolific, but I have persisted with this thing even when it would be perfectly reasonable to stop. 

So why do I write? The simplest explanation has to do with creativity, with the act and experience of creating something that didn’t exist before. There is a special satisfaction in writing a melody - perhaps because it is so intangible and ephemeral. I make or have made other things – with words or wood, for example. That has its own similar challenges and satisfactions, but you always have something to work with, to anchor your thoughts in. Ideas for melodies are very fragile and fleeting things, too easily spoiled or misplaced. When a melody does take shape, when it makes its own kind of sense, it is a great feeling. I think I’ve been chasing that feeling all along. 

I also write songs because I’m never satisfied for very long with what I’ve written. I have always been most interested in the next idea, most certain that the next song will be better, another step closer to being as good as the songwriters I most admire. I’ve wanted to master this craft and that elusive goal has kept me going. 

And, of course, I write songs because they mean something – to me, at least. They are another way of expressing things, especially emotions, that might otherwise remain unexpressed. I tend to write melodies first and words second. I am not a narrative songwriter, with characters and stories. I write in the more elliptical style of songwriters like Neil Finn, letting ideas and meaning emerge, trying to get to the emotion of the thing. As others have described with their process, sometimes you realise what you are writing about only later on. There is a lot of unconscious stuff going on.  

Last and not least, the arranging and performing part of song-writing is just as important. Once you have written a song, you want to know how it will sound with a proper arrangement, or played on a stage to an audience. You want others to bring their ideas and talents to help bring the song to life, to colour in your sketch, perhaps even to reshape your raw materials into something better. In that process there can be frustration and joy, tension and laughter, boredom and excitement – and a special kind of friendship and solidarity borne of that shared experience. That has been hard to give up. 

Music making, like creativity in general, doesn’t have a best before date. Too many people stop doing creative things because they are not going to be the best, or won’t have a career, or don’t have a following. A following would be nice, for sure. I would love this new album (which I think is pretty good) to be heard and appreciated by lots of people. But really, having done this for so long already, it’s the making that matters to me (mostly). 

Oh, and I recommend Peter Korn’s book, pictured above. When I opened it again whilst writing this post, I found this dedication written inside by my wonderful Dad:

“a man at work, making something that he feels will exist because he is working at it, and wills it, is exercising the energies of his mind and soul as well as his body. Not only his own thoughts but the thoughts of the men of past ages guide his hands” William Morris

Rhys