DougBlog

I shouldn’t have said I sold songs in the Brill Building. I was never in The Brill Building. I was padding my resume; I was embellishing my own story. And I had come to believe it myself– that’s the scary part.

I did believe it myself. But I started to question my own story a few months ago, when I received, forwarded from my father, one of my very sporadic royalty statements from April-Blackwood Music. I saw that they were now EMI Music Publishing. No surprise there, they always were associated with Capitol Records. But the address was 810 7th Avenue, 36th floor.

So I googled “The Brill Building”, and found that it had only 10 or 11 floors. Whereas my memory of Dave Rosner’s window was of a higher vista than that… I had just assumed it must have been that building. I don’t have a memory that anyone gave the building a name at all. Just an address, a number on a street, like most buildings.

And then I got an email from someone who had been a staff writer at April Blackwood in 1972. He mentioned, among other things, that it had been, in that year, located at 1650 Broadway. I’m willing to bet that that’s the building I was in in 1967, & 1969, & maybe in 1970. So then, I hereby correct my own Introduction. I was in the (nameless) building at 1650 Broadway.

But there’s more. Further investigation (on-line investigation, of course!) revealed that, in the broader sense, 1650 was the Brill Building. That is, it was a “sister” building, songwriting-wise. Many songwriting outfits were there, including April Blackwood, the arm of Columbia Records at that time, Don Kirchner’s office was there, and there were studios there in which you could make demos of your tunes.

So, in summation, I was never literally in The Brill Building, but figuratively I was.

Additional notes, while we’re on the subject:

1) Once I found out I was wrong about The Brill Building, I started questioning all of my memories. Was the guy’s name Dave Rosner? I wondered. Google to the rescue, “Dave Rosner” yields a college professor somewhere, but “Dave Rosner, April Blackwood” reveals that that was indeed his name.

Also of interest was that “Dave Rosner, April Blackwood” ’s third google result was my own blog. Now that’s post-modern!

2) I didn’t cut any demos at 1650 Broadway. However, with professional help hired by the staff writer I knew at April Blackwood (the brother of a friend, he was; the guy who brought me in there in the first place to play for Mr. Rosner my songs) I sang on the demos of 2 of them in the studios known as Sigma Sound, in Philadelphia. A few years later David Bowie would record “Young Americans” there… unless I’m improving the story of the past again.

But enough about my hazy memories & my dubious qualifications. Resumes are good for getting hired, but the only real question is: Can you do the job? Can you do it today and do it again tomorrow? In the case at hand, can I write a song worth hearing, worth remembering, worth learning? And for our purposes right here, can I recognize an excellent song when I hear one, and convey some hints of where that quality lies?

The Sisters of Mercy
– by Leonard Cohen

Oh the Sisters of Mercy
They are not departed or gone.
They were waiting for me
When I thought that I just can’t go on
And they gave me their comfort
And later they gave me this song
Oh I hope you run into them
You who’ve been travelling so long

Yes you who must leave
Everything that you cannot control
It begins with your family
But soon it comes round to your soul
But I’ve been where your hanging
I think I can see how you’re pinned
When you’re not feeling holy
Your loneliness says that you’ve sinned

They laid down beside me
I made my confession to them
They touched both my eyes
And I touched the dew on their hem
If your life is a leaf
That the seasons tear off and condemn
They will bind you with love
That is graceful and green as a stem

When I left they were sleeping
I hope you run into them soon
Don’t turn on the light
You can read their address by the moon
And it won’t make me jealous
If I learn that they’ve sweetened your night
We weren’t lovers like that
And besides it would still be alright

We weren’t lovers like that, and besides it would still be alright

I first heard this song on Judy Collins’ album Wildflowers, in 1967. I’ve just ordered the CD from Amazon, so I can hear it again. The melody, if you haven’t heard it, is rather French. In fact there’s a French air to the song… like other Leonard Cohen songs, it suggests that it was translated into English from some other language. The Judy Collins album is… orchestrally ethereal. Joshua Rifkin, I believe, did the arrangements. It was a perfect album of 1967, and if you would study that year, this is one of the artifacts you must consider.
While I was at it, on Amazon that is, I ordered Judy Collins’ even more masterful Who Knows Where The Time Goes. Van Dyke Parks on piano, Stephen Stills on bass, no less, James Burton, Buddy Emmons… and a tune by another great songwriting hero of mine: Ian Tyson.

In 1967, or early 1968, I was in one of the two clubs of Philadelphia– not The Electric Factory, the other one… what was it’s name? I tell you kids, it’s frightening the things you’ll forget over the next 40 years! Anyhow, I was there to see Tim Buckley. Contrary to what you might expect of those years, I was not taking any drugs. I was still in high school, and I didn’t know where to get any (except diet pills). Also, I didn’t really think I needed any. In 1967, if you wanted to be high, you just could be. We were waiting for the show to start. They were playing this album through the house sound system. It was haunting, it was a total mood. I didn’t know what it was, but others told me: it was Wildflowers.

Hot love, cold love, no love at all
A portrait of guilt is hung on the wall
Nothing is wrong, nothing is right
Donald and Lydia made love that night
Love

In a dusty pew in a vestibule
Sits the devil playing pocket pool
He’s waiting on the next poor fool
Who forgot that it was Sunday

I’m walkin’ down the street like Lucky Leroux
Got my hands in my pockets– thinkin’ about you
I wasn’t hurtin’ nobody
I wasn’t hurtin’ no one

That first lyric, from “Donald and Lydia” concludes

And when it was over there was nothing to say
’cause mostly they made love from ten miles away

But the part that sticks with me after all these years, is the single singsongy line Nothing is wrong. Nothing is right. John’s sort of a philosophical magician that way: he slips the strongest statements in while you’re watching the other hand. (So to speak.)
The devil in the vestibule is the character of the chorus of “He Forgot That It Was Sunday,” from the “Lost Dogs and Mixed Blessings” album. It’s one of several songs on that recording that are lyrically beautiful and painfully obscure at the same time. And “Wasn’t Hurting Nobody” is another of them, albeit in a much less formal– a much less “Sunday”– kind of way. The verses in this one seem to bear little relationship to one another. Well, we eventually figure out that our protagonist is a songwriter in Nashville, Tennessee, contemplating local politics & his early days in Chicago, confusing his frustration with his career with his frustration with his waitress, and, first and last, keeping his hands in his pockets and his mind on the subject of his desire… for the object of his desire.

Perhaps putting too fine a point on it, I’d like to suggest that only a man with his hand in his pockets could have written this, which is a sort of alternate chorus to “He Forgot That It Was Sunday:”

And the old men sit ’round the cracker barrel
The children hum their Christmas Carols
The traintracks all run parallel
But they’ll all meet up one day

Next time: John Prine 3: The Power of Nonsense– unless there are interruptions.

Feelings are strange, especially when they come true
I had a feeling you’d be leaving soon
So I tried to rearrange all my emotions
But it seems the same no matter what I do

Such an unassuming opening. So direct and plain, devoid of imagery, almost artless.

And yet a strong statement, filled with emotion. It’s artlessness is one more signal of its intensity. It’s disquieting, frankly. Are we going to be embarrassed by this song, as we are by the naked songwriting of adolescents?

But no, from here it’s off to metaphor, the first half of a chorus twice as long as the verse.

Blue umbrella rests upon my shoulder
Hides my pain while the rain makes up my mind
My feet are wet with thinking this thing over
Been so long since I felt the warm sunshine

The brilliance of these four lines overwhelms me. Each alone seems simple, still simple, still plain: Blue umbrella rests upon my shoulder. If we wonder why it’s said to be “blue”, we answer quickly, Because this really happened, and the umbrella really happened to be blue. We’re not thinking of anything metaphorical yet, why should we be? Everything so far is strictly declarative. … Hide my pain while the rain makes up my mind. And if we’re still declarative now, we have to really ask, How can an umbrella hide pain? and how can rain make our decisions? Well… we know they can. We just never thought to say so, until we heard from John Prine.

My feet are wet from thinking this thing over

That, my friends, is brilliance. If that’s not a fine, fine line, and you don’t perceive it as such, then stop wasting your time. You and I have nothing of which to speak.

Been so long since I felt the warm sunshine

That, on the other hand, is generic. It is, on the other hand, good to sing, from a visceral, singer’s point of view. That’s something that’s not perhaps readily apparent from this written version of lyrics, the lyrics as poetry rather than song. But it’s something that’s always critical: A line can’t be good if it can’t be sung well.

And this generic line leads into the second half of the chorus. I consider it the chorus (but then the preceding part repeats, just like it does), and it’s a chorus that could, really, be used for a number of songs. You may recall David Letterman saying, “Every movie would be better with Tom Hanks in it.” Similarly, every song would be better with this as its chorus.

Just give me one good reason
And I promise I won’t ask you any more
Just give me one extra season
So I can figure out the other four

Amen to that. If you’re not familiar with the second verse, get yourself a copy, for heaven’s sake. That’s “Blue Umbrella,” and I would recommend getting it on the album “Souvenirs,” on which John revisits and rerecords what would seem to be his own favorite songs.

Let’s just conclude with a list of frighteningly good songs. It’s said that way, way back in the beginning, in Chicago I believe, John Prine had a second gig in the same club, so he figured he needed some new songs from what he had the first time. He managed to write three. they were Paradise, Hello In There, and Sam Stone. Have I got the particular three right? Does it matter?

Blue Umbrella

Paradise

Hello In there

Sam Stone

Illegal Smile

Spanish Pipe Dream

Grandpa Was A Carpenter

Please Don’t Bury Me

Your Flag Decal Won’t Get You Into Heaven Anymore

Souvenirs

Angel From Montgomery

The Glory Of True Love

Donald And Lydia

Dear Abbey

The Speed of the Sound Of Loneliness

We’ll go on with the list next time.

You’ve got a lot of nerve

To say you are my friend

We can’t have a discussion of songwriting without feeling the presence of Dylan, the elephant in the living room of folk music. But I don’t want him to overwhelm the discussion, so it’s best to tackle him obliquely, tangentially. Right now I just want to consider his ability to capture, encapsulate, and finally project, in song, the purest and most immense hostility.

“Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright” What a liberating song that was, to all aspiring songwriters. That song was reason enough itself to become a songwriter. Because whatever wrong this woman had done him, whatever suffering she had inflicted on him, he more than got even with this song.

“Masters Of War,” “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll,” “Maggie’s Farm” etc. etc. No one remarked on the anger in these songs, at the time they were released, except with approval. That time was the 1960’s. “The Sixties”– we can quibble later about what exact years that spanned, or their exact significance. This political anger seemed wholly appropriate to us all. We did not feel inspired, certainly not incited, by his anger. We felt expressed by it. Because Dylan didn’t speak to us, he spoke for us. He didn’t tell us anything we didn’t know, politically, but he expressed our anger. And expressed it so well that we were proud to be angry. We were young and foolish, horny and ill-informed, self-righteous, paranoid, and angry. And, if only by shit luck, we were right a lot of the time. Paranoid, angry, and right on the money… food for thought today.

From Johnny’s in the basement, mixing up the medicine

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