To be completely honest, I spend most of my days telling songwriters what they already know. Whether that makes me good at what I do, or perfectly dispensable, I don’t know, but I do know that when songwriters are looking for feedback, they often already suspect the problems. They tell me their song is too long. They say their chorus doesn’t really land the hook or main message. They worry they’re rambling and don’t really know what they’re trying to say. And it doesn’t matter if the songwriter is just beginning or seasoned - the suspicions are almost always the same. The thing is, most of us don’t trust ourselves, and even if we did, it’s difficult to know how to fix a problem we can’t quite define. 

I believe that every problem we feel occurring within our songs can be attributed to three principles of songwriting. Just three. When we use these principles, we can identify possible solutions for these problems based on their underlying principal. Let me explain.

These principles can help us give words to our instincts when they speak up. Being able to verbalize the problem we feel in a song is step one, and an important step indeed. But I’d like to take that one step further, and suggest various solutions each principle points towards. Like a manual for our car, we can page through and see all the possible reasons the engine light might on and what we might do about it. In doing so, we don’t need to know how to fix our own song, per say, but we know the options to try and can simply focus on feeling their results. Really exploring these principles and the tools they point to is worth a whole book, but I’ll do my best to summarize a few ideas here.

Principle 1: Prosody

The first principle of song is Prosody. Prosody is the agreement between words and music. It says that when the musical and lyrical elements align, they feed off one another, making more purposeful, believable, and potent, the whole. It is not so binary as saying that sad lyrics generally sit over sad chords. Prosody describes a much more nuanced experience, as if lyrics were the words we say and music were the body language. Music gives lyric meaning. Or said another way, lyric will never overcome or change a musical mood. It is the job of the music to provide the lens through which to understand the lyric.

Prosody occurs through simple elements like the story and concept, matching the expectation set by the musical mood and genre. For instance, a young electro-pop artist may sing about concepts we associate with that age group and energy level. But any artist can sing about any concept, as long as the concept is consistent with the character of the artist, which is largely expressed through the mood of the music. 

Imagine Chris Stapleton writing a bubbly song about love. He may be able to do it if the focus of his affection is his dog or the bottle, but as soon as the musical mood reflects personality traits of naivety or youthful playfulness, we lose essential elements of the grammy-winning artist himself. The concept doesn’t matter nearly as much as the angle with which we approach it. And the angle must draw from essential elements of the artist’s personality, as reflected by the musical mood. 

So how do we use this information as writers and artists ourselves? We learn about who we are, and push our personality traits to their extremes when we write the music to express them. If you’re bold and outspoken, be curious about how your music and lyrics communicate that. If you’re wistful and reflective, let your music embody those traits, too. Then, consider how your lyric on the whole and in individual lines captures that same artistry.

There are a number of ways prosody can be lost in our songs. The lyric might not flow well, with words or syllables mis-set so the listener is more focused on the weird way we’re singing rather than what we’re saying. We sometimes also miss moments to accentuate the meaning in the words. A simple example is letting the melody rise in pitch as we sing ‘She’s so HIGH above me.’ Indeed, she’s higher now that the melody lifts.

But we don’t need Spidey-sense to determine whether prosody is occurring in our songs. We often just need time and distance, and the reminder to ask ourselves if any area we feel isn’t gelling is a result of a lack of agreement between the words we’re singing and the music we’re playing. When we can say with some level of certainty that the agreement is close enough, we’ve got prosody. Then, we can move on to the next principle - Momentum.

Principle 2: Momentum

Momentum is the forward energy of the song. All songs have it. One chord pulls towards another. The contour of the melody establishes a baseline, then pulls us upward as we move towards the chorus. Songs carry a natural energy flow, and sometimes the only way we observe it is when that flow gets bottled up.

There are many ways we songwriters control momentum, from switching to a new chord progression, lifting the pitch of the melody, or adding instruments as the song arrangement builds. But all these choices are for the single purpose of creating and maintaining momentum. Without it, we feel the song loses energy, sags, becomes boring or tiresome, wanders, or overstays its welcome. 

To practice attuning to momentum in song, listen to a rough recording of any original tune. (A finished demo may have used production to affect momentum, rather than the bones of the song to create the momentum). Notice the exact point in which you begin to lose interest or sense of destination. We songwriters can usually pinpoint the lyric area or musical area where the forward movement stalls - it just takes a little bravery to admit the problem before knowing how to fix it. Then, we can address the problem with tools that add energy back in. One at a time, we can try tools that involve changing the chord progression or frequency of the chords, shortening the melodic phrases, lifting the melodic pitch and contour, trying new lyric choices, or my favorite - cutting out any unnecessary bits. This last suggestion is so important I give it a principle all on its own. This last one I call ‘Restraint.’

Principle 3: Restraint

The last check-point for our songwriting instincts is restraint. The ability to reduce the lyric, melody, chord progression and groove down to its essential essence is at the heart of great writing. When we over-write, we’re giving the listener an earful. Imagine sitting next to a chatty Kathy on the bus to work. When we’re confronted with too much information, we close down, actively shutting out the source of our irritation. Maybe our song isn’t as chatty as Kathy, but it’s got the same tendencies. A few extra syllables here, competing melody and guitar lines there, or an extra-long verse section and we’re well on our way to merely singing at our listener instead of to them. Restraint describes the important principle of cutting away the unessential so that the real stuff has room to spread out and shine. 

So how to we get these principles to work for us? We consider each one in the scope of the song we’re writing as we’re writing it, and during the rewriting we try to do. Sometimes we’ll decide that writing a full song is just too much pressure, and writing a single section of a song while reflecting on the principles is just about the right speed for the day. In the end, our biggest ally in songwriting is ourselves, and we’d do well to give our instincts the space and prompting it needs to speak up. Once it does, we get to choose the melodic, harmonic, rhythmic, and lyric tools to address that little voice inside. And they may not be the exact same tools our fellow conspirators of songwriting would use. The best writers have strong opinions about their work that originate from within rather than without. The idea is to train your writing skills through connecting with your instinct about music, art, flow, and life.

So when you’re faced with the urge to write, embrace that inspiration that says you can do no wrong. Let it guide the process as long as it lasts, and when it fizzles, rest on your instincts which never fade away. Take the song line by line, and ask yourself whether each of the 3 principles is still intact. Over time, you’ll develop something much more valuable than a good song - the capacity to see your artistry as life-giving, productive, and time well spent.

Stay creative,