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Because there’s a whole lot to learn when learning to write songs. It’s why almost all the great songwriters interviewed here and in the first volume admitted to years spent writing bad songs before they wrote good ones. (With the exceptional exceptions of Laura Nyro, Janis Ian, and John Prine, all of whom, remarkably, began with masterpieces.) It’s because writing a song, any song, is not unlike painting a cubist painting. Songs encompass many elements at once, and it’s in the seamless fusion of those elements that greatness is achieved. But in each of these pursuits—the creation of music and lyrics—is a whole world to discover. Music is a universe unto itself, with melody, rhythm, and harmony. Lyrics, as well, encompass a complex realm of considerations, combining language both poetic and colloquial, weaving together metaphor, symbology, storytelling, and more in rhymed verses. Add to those aspects the mastery of song structure itself—the precise architecture of verse, chorus, bridge and other song forms—into which the words and the music take their place. And despite the impact of songwriters such as Dylan and Lennon and McCartney, who forever expanded the potential of the popular song, the song form itself was never exploded and replaced. Dylan, The Beatles, Simon, and the rest showed great respect for the song—and within its narrow confines created miracles. And it is in that accomplishment—creating something eternal and unlimited within a restricted form—that the full and true phenomenon of the song is realized. That, as Krishnamurti said, “limitations create possibility.” That within this tiny room, this narrow space, this fast passage of time, a songwriter can create something boundless. Once I started writing songs, I never stopped. To this day nothing is as compelling, exciting, or fulfilling.
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