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January 29, 2012
SONG LYRICS AS LITERATURE
Posted by Gerri George
Lyrics are flash stories; they are poems, they contain elements of memoir; in some cases, they address personal themes, at times universal. Lyrics reflect the individual journey or cultural observations of the songwriter. They are a serious art form.
But are they literature?
Although there are many definitions of literature, my bookshelf copy of Webster’s New World Dictionary offers the following:
Literature: all writings of prose or verse, especially those of an imaginative or critical character…. excellence of form, great emotional effect….writings of a particular time, country, region….all the compositions for a specific musical instrument, voice, or ensemble.
Lyric: a lyric poem; the words of a song, as distinguished from the music.
The definition of a lyric is simple; applying the definition of literature to song lyrics is not. The above is a broad definition of literature, vis-à-vis lyrics, to be sure, but I’d rather fold lyrics into the literary family, than exclude them.
Like literature in general, song lyrics often reflect the times in which they were written: While the song Yankee Doodle Dandy seems nothing more than a cheerful patriotic ditty of words and music, in reality, it was hugely political. The website Archiving Early America explains that the song, first a nursery rhyme ridiculing England’s Oliver Cromwell as ”Nankee Doodle,” evolved into “Yankee Doodle” (indicated a trifling fellow), and “Dandy” (affected manners and dress). The British made fun of the American colonial motley crew, the early version who wore furs and buckskins, but over time, the motleys got their revenge, singing Yankee Doodle Dandy when the British surrendered. Great emotional effect? Writings of a particular time, country, or region? All the compositions for a specific musical instrument, voice, or ensemble? The lyrics can certainly be classified as literature. Who knew?
No one would argue the significance of Woody Guthrie’s lyrics. The insight helps to make his work shine as literature.
From Ed Cray’s book, Ramblin Man: Woody Guthrie on songwriting, “I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work. He considered himself The Dustiest of the Dust Bowlers. His lyrics in the classic “This Land Is Your Land,” are writings of a particular time, country and region, and offer great emotional effect. He labeled his guitar “This Machine Kills Fascists” which acknowledges the premise and passion of his lyrics. No slouch himself, of course, Bob Dylan, in Chronicles, Volume One, said Woody Guthrie’s songs “…had the infinite sweep of humanity in them.”
Sherrie A. Inness in her book Disco Divas: Women and Popular Culture in the 1970’s, says sexual openness was still going strong, but lyrics were becoming more self-reflective, a manifestation of the times. Singer-songwriters were trained in the style in which lyrics mattered. Carole King, “So Far Away,” and Carly Simon dealt with honesty, past lovers, and separations, themes not uncommon to literature.
Robert Hazard’s lyrics in “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” were timely and historic. The song continues its huge popularity with many uses worldwide, and has been covered by at least 30 artists.
Popular Philadelphia-based singer-songwriter Carsie Blanton, who tours nationwide, creates lyrics that are catchy, yet smart; they’re accessible (just ask her avid fans). Metaphors, similes. Her lyrics can also be fun – not unlike Paul Simon’s approach to “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover.”
In her Baby Can Dance, (see video filmed in New Orleans) her lyrics reflect a view that it doesn’t matter how you dress or look, as long as you can dance; talent wins out. The title track on Idiot Heart, Carsie’s new CD: He was a dark-eyed man and I knew right away, It was gonna take a turn for the worst, So I said “Hey, heart, if you’re gonna go crazy Give a little warning first” Idiot heart I shoulda left you at home You gimme nothin but hard love bad luck When you gonna leave me alone? Click here: Baby Can Dance
In the title track from Buoy, her previous CD, she offers a tour-de-force of similes:
he showed up
brighter than a buoy
slicker than a submarine
bonnie as a berry
cuter than a kidney bean
she was struck
dumber than a detour
quicker than a pistol shot
revving like a motor
hotter than a parking lot
Carsie’s songs are transferrable to Broadway, TV, and film, but they are, first, literature. They have universal appeal. Imaginative prose? Yes. Great emotional effect? Yes. Jonathan Takiff, PhillyNews.Com, compares her to Madeleine Peyroux, Norah Jones or Nellie McKay. Reviewing Carsie’s new CD, Idiot Heart, Jess Righthand, in The Washington Post, calls it “classic songwriting at its best.” Her songs are available at www.carsieblanton.com.
Today, it’s singer-songwriters Adele, Lady Gaga, Rihanna, Beyonce, and Carsie Blanton, to name a few, as well as Bono, Usher, the Wood Brothers, and Bruno Mars. The songs, sometimes just a few minutes long, 3 verses, and 3 chorus’ (one chorus, repeated three times), are structured with the rules of music. Story emotions flow. You be the judge of the literary nature of such compositions.
Then again, you might simply think of a song as uplifting, entertaining, finger-snapping, and toe-tapping.
(Carsie Blanton lyrics used with her permission.)
Gerri George, WRR@Large Editor, stories, which often portray the human side of outsiders, have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Literal Latte, Penn Review Literary Magazine, The Bucks County Writer, Quiddity International Literary Journal, and elsewhere. “A Rose by Any Other Name” was a Pushcart Prize nominee. “Night,” read by a professional actor before a literature-loving audience in London, Soho, also appears on the Liars’ League website, under the Sex and the City theme. She received a Barbara Deming Memorial Fund writing grant for women artists. Her article, “The Benefits of Chocolate,” (Yum!) appeared on Futurehealth.org.
EMAIL: gerrigeorge22@hotmail.com
FACEBOOK: Gerri George
ALL ARTICLES BY GERRI GEORGE:
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January 12, 2012
Beginning in January 2012, fiction writer Gerri George joins Wild River Review as our WRR@Large editor.
George brings with her more than twenty years of experience as a writer and editor. Her stories have appeared in Literal Latte, Penn Review Literary Magazine, Bucks County Writer and Wild River Review.
Her story, A Rose by any other Name was a Pushcart Nominee. George is a Barbara Demming Memorial Fund Writing Grant winner.
We look forward to Gerri’s discerning eye and gift for making literature breathe.
September 21, 2011
by Ivón Gordon Vailakis, J.C. Todd
The suitcase was stuffed
with scorpions, with clay pots and dirt
roasted corn and fava beans, with pans of warm bronze
of dulce de leche and quince
canvas bulging from the lunges of poisonous snakes.
Our destiny was to be far from the aroma
of plantain and tree tomato
ripened on the lips of roofs.
Our destiny was like my father’s -
a couple of schellings in the pocket pierced by a star
he said goodbye to his father with the idea of detaching himself
like a caracol rooted in chasms of tenderness
no time to take the black doll
whose arm was stitched so often the thread held time
and no time to take the knee socks
I wore on the last day of high school
no time to take the trees I climbed by myself
to the middle of a hive that buzzed between my temples
no time to take the warmth of the popcorn pot
no time to take the way I skipped rope in the courtyard
no time to take
the family album embroidered in cross stitch
destined to the parting
destined to lemon-grass teas
steeped in tears that flushed our hearts
we left with the hot coals of a fate not chosen
we arrived before we knew it
men with fish eyes and the accent of crude ants detained us
you must declare all the dirt that you are bringing
you could be fined
you cannot bring food to this country
you will be fined
defensively we declared our pots of roasted corn and fava beans
we lifted our underthings trembling
and felt what it was to step foot on land not our own
they inspected all we had
and did not pay attention to the snakes.
From that day on
we came to know the destiny of border
to make love to snapshots yellowed
by the distance of their background.
We opened up the suitcase
and from that day on
we cultivated
hummingbirds in exile.
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May 9, 2011
PEN WORLD VOICES: Wikileaks – Is Raw, Unfiltered Data Useful?
by Michael Shareshian
As part of the 7th annual PEN World Voices Festival of International Literature, The Cooper Union in New York City hosted a panel discussion featuring opinions and perspectives regarding one of the most complex and important issues facing our global society: Wikileaks.
Is raw, unfiltered data useful? Do forums like Wikileaks need traditional outlets? Are leaked cables leaking what is already known? These, among many other topics, were discussed by Human Rights Project’s Tom Keenan, media theorist Geert Lovink, Professor of Democracy Ian Buruma, and policy analyst David Rieff.
Presenting his theories first, Mr. Lovink deemed the leaking of classified documents to be a rapidly developing and highly influential genre of journalism in and of itself, “data journalism.” Lovink argued that young people with technological capabilities will continue to develop such forums as they evolve and play an increasing role in our information delivery and digital infrastructure.
Ian Buruma sees Wikileaks as having less influence than some may perceive. Buruma noted that Wikileaks’ cables needed the mainstream press in order to have any impact at all.” Referencing established outlets such as The New York Times, he stated that people like Julian Assange depend on traditional sources in order to lend credibility and perspective to data. According to Mr. Buruma, raw data is of very little use to the public. Only when qualified individuals interpret it can it become something useful and understandable. He acknowledged a commonly held complaint that not everything on the Internet is trustworthy, and asked the question, whom should the public trust without the filter of reliable fact-checkers?
Like Mr. Buruma, analyst David Rieff downplayed the influence of Wikileaks for different reasons. As he sees it, much of the leaked cables contain information that is already available in the public sphere. While he made it a point not to downplay the questionable, and at times deplorable, actions of governments around the world, how influential can “document dumps” be when the information they contain are simply reinforcing what is already known?
During a question and answer session, an audience member challenged Mr. Rieff’s assertion that the public at large is as informed he assumes them to be. This questioner drew attention to a leaked cable that revealed the lesser known occurrence of CIA officials interrogating a cameraman in order to learn more about the operations of Al Jazeera.
Perhaps the most important issue that needs to be addressed by the public at large is how do documents revealed by secret sources affect safety. Can transparency and protection of national security coexist?
Are “leakers” like Bradley Manning noble whistleblowers or a danger to our citizens and soldiers serving around the world?
The discussion continues…
Michael is Wild River Review’s newest intern. He studies English at New Jersey’s Rider University where he enjoys hosting his own weekly radio show.
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January 17, 2011
Listening to Schuman’s Piano Concerto
by Dzvinia Orlofsky
That we don’t all die in childhood
is the greater miracle.
God lifting His light hand
to bring out a phrase, clearing the pedal.
We wear our jewels for the afternoon,
startle birds with the immensity
of our human shadows.
We’ve made it to hard chairs.
Restlessly our hands roll program notes
into telescopes; we intercept genius
with our signature cough.
But what is to be known of great music
other than it requires black polished shoes
and silence,
the incontestable desire to sleep?
See how our mouths relax into soft wax,
our faces drip down our throats.
This is what it must feel like to be lovingly held.
Hear how beauty begs forgiveness
for not including us.
DZVINIA ORLOWSKY is a founding editor of Four Way Book and the author of three poetry collections including “Except for One Obscene Brushstroke” (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2004). Her poetry and translations have appeared in numerous anthologies including “A Map of Hope: An International Literary Anthology; From Three Worlds: New Writing from the Ukraine”; and “A Hundred Years of Youth: A Bilingual Anthology” of 20th Century Ukrainian Poetry. She currently teaches at the Solstice Low-Residency MFA in Creative Writing Program at Pine Manor College.
To support our mission and passion for good storytelling, please make a tax-deductible donation by clicking here: Wild River Donation.
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December 14, 2010
by Joy E. Stocke
 Photo by Joy E. Stocke
(Editor’s Note: Istanbul was chosen as the European Capital of Culture for 2010. The Galata Bridge separates the European Side iof istanbul from the Asian or Anatolian side.)
There you are and there it is: Sunset fast approaching.
You are outside Istanbul’s Egyptian Spice Bazaar, part of a crowd of people rearranging packages of Antep pepper, cumin, coffee; sipping glasses of tea, talking on cell phones as you pass through a swirl of more than a hundred pigeons who fight greedily for scraps of bread.
In front of you, Eminönü Station where the ferries line up and bellow a deep collective moan. Rust-covered chains lower gangplanks for the rush hour crowd heading up the Bosphorus past the Sea of Marmara to Üsküdar, Hydarpasa and Kadikoy on the Asian side.
Ahead, your destination, the Galata Bridge, the so-called Milky Way that spans the base of the Golden Horn from Eminonu to the suburb of Galata. Galaktos means milk in Greek and the word Bosphorus means cow ford, and you are about to watch the sun set aflame the estuary known as the cow’s Golden Horn.
The name Istanbul is also said to come from the Greek, “eis tin Polis”; simply, “to the City.” A city of hills surrounded by water intermingling in the Bosphorus Channel – the heavy saline Sea of Marmara, son of the Aegean; and the less salty Black Sea, daughter of the Caucasus.
Below the Golden Horn, at the confluence of the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara, construction is underway to build the world’s deepest underwater tunnel. There, engineers discovered a gravesite that pushes the city’s first inhabitants back to the 7th millennium when agriculture spread from Anatolia – as Turkey is also called – to the Balkans. The excavation has uncovered pottery fragments, shells, horse skulls, and human remains in fetal positions, poised for rebirth.
And the Golden Horn spanned by the Galata Bridge whose metal steps you are now climbing, gives definition to a city that seems to float on water. Formed by the sweet water of two underground springs flowing toward the Sea of Marmara, the Golden Horn has protected ships for the Byzantines, Venetians, Genoese, Ottomans; an estuary rich enough to provide nutrients for many species of fish including gray mullet sold in the markets along the its banks.
Water flowing in currents, people flowing in currents, boys selling rings of sesame-topped bread called simits. Along the bridge’s railed expanse, vendors grill mussels and chewy corn on the cob. Girls in peg-leg jeans, some in headscarves, and boys in black T-shirts flirt and tease and tap at the keyboards of their cell phones. Men, young and old in caps with their buckets of bait rest fishing poles against the railing and wait.
Flash of gold, flush of honey over the suburbs that fan out from the Golden Horn in a maze of streets and brick and stone and mortar: Fener, Balat, Galata.
Cries of sea gulls, rocking of pleasure boats, a reddening as if the horn is lit from within. You look up when the muezzin’s call to prayer rises from the minaret of the Süleymaniye Mosque, tinny, distorted, la il’allalh ilallalh – there is no god, but god.
The sun drops, flamingo-red, burning through the atmosphere. Fire meets water and the whole lot of you – commuters, sightseers, fishermen, lovers – breathe in the golden air, breathe in the scent of diesel, brine, muck, fruit blossoms, yeast.
A ferry pulls away from the dock and you think about a Phoenician maiden called Europe who fell in love with a bull; how, on his back he carried her and her culture across the water from Asia Minor to the continent that would bear her name.
There you are. And there it is: Impossible to grasp.
Darkness gathers and with your heart full of wonder you cross the bridge to Galata to a taverna where a beloved friend waits in candlelight at a table on the crescent edge of the Golden Horn.
To support our mission and passion for good storytelling, please make a tax-deductible donation by clicking here: Wild River Donation.
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