Writing Word Music, Part 1

E.L. Doctorow wrote the novel Ragtime in ragtime rhythm. Not the whole book, of course, but enough to create “a stunning conjuration of ragtime music,” according to one reviewer. He won the National Book Award for it.

* * *

I am in my favorite coffee shop. Every day the music is different. Today it’s what I call jazz, which is to say it’s not rock or classical or tango, and that’s all I know. It’s a guy with swingy rhythm and a rough voice. Whoever it is, I like him.

I have been out of town for several days. I need to write! But as I open the laptop, something catches my ear.

“Ain’t nobody, ain’t nobody home…” the guy sings.

Four beats, then five. Four beats, then five. The asymmetry catches my attention, over and over yet again.

I close the laptop.

In the next song, the accented beat is always on 2. Sometimes the music skips the first beat altogether. Who needs it?

In the next song, the accented beat is on 2, the same as before. No, wait, there’s something … The accented beats are both 2 and 3! How cool is that?

Alert! If triplets are merely adornments in tango, they’ve staged a coup here. Triplets are overrunning this song!

Here’s a nod to Lawrence Welk: and-a ONE and-a TWO…

This one is syncopated. Every “and” beat is late, so it almost runs into the following beat. I love that!

Enough now. Enough beats, enough coffee, enough basking in the sun. Time to work.

* * *

You know what I like? I like dancing to music that is lazy. It slides hither and yon, and then it runs up against a beat. I like it because it goes all limp and boneless and then suddenly catches itself on a beat. I like both parts, the limp and boneless, and the sudden catch.

I cannot think of a single piece of music that you could describe in this way. But I like it anyway. Sitting here in the sunny window of the coffee shop, basking in the sun, filled up with music, I can feel it …

Hey, One Heart, no nodding off!

* * *

When I was a kid, I wrote a song that went one-two-THREEand-four-FIVEand-six-SEVENand-eight. The 3, 5, and 7 were accented quick notes. You snuck them in with your pinkie finger while your other fingers were doing the serious work. It was great fun. It repeated six times with various chords. That was it. I couldn’t figure out what to do next, so I just played that little fragment over and over again. I think this is going to be the extent of my songwriting career.

No matter. My wordwriting career is going just fine. Though it could use a little attention right now. I will do this: I will take a bite of biscotti, and the loud chewing will drown out the music that is distracting...

wait, what’s this?

Not the accent, but the pitch!

In this song, the rhythm section is a piano. Beats 1 and 3 are low notes, beats 2 and 4 are high ones. The momentum of the music is not carried along by accent but by a predictable pattern of pitches. How cool is that?

Here’s another song without drums. A big bass cello is keeping the beat. 1, 2 and 3 go up the scale, and on 4 the bottom drops out. Imagine yourself in an elevator or an amusement park ride.

Imagine yourself on a dance floor…