From the BBC today,


Excerpt

Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies?

"It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master.

Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG

Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song."

That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope.

But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody.

Excerpt

Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech.

"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."

"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."

"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."

Rebuttal

Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands.

ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG.

Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity.

Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion.

One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state.

It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE.

If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses.

If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine.

You are not an artist.

You are an employee.



"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."

"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."

"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."

Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ



                                           BECOME
                              EVERYONE ON EARTH
               ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG
                      HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS
            NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE
                                         HOW BAD
                    
                 artist?
or employee?

You carry your life on your shoulders; a swing in a park in a city, with a lonely, shadowy, ghost of you sitting so delicately. As people pass you, they stop and look, and words come to their minds such as "passion" and "sorrow," "broken benches," "spilled dreams" and they couldn't even tell you why.

You wear your heart safety-pinned to your sleeve; a grave declaration that you are not your own person. Someone has marked you, taken something without asking; this you show everyone, not meaning to, in hopes of finding a semblance of relatability. Was it normal, what happened to you? Is this a dark fog everyone lives in? You hope not.

You have an everpresent effervescence of the wrong kind. It's a nervous habit, a shuffling of the feet and a glance to the sky. It's the reincarnation of life before that day, with the tender rips of who you are now. One can only paint over paint so much; mix the colors, they will all become grey.

You've a vague sense of relief when you look around and see no one. It's a talisman, a testimony to your independence, and your dependence on lots of human-free air. It's the writing on your arm, words you shan't forget, words like delicate innocence shame tragedy naivete melody sorrow blame identity apology and the biggest, boldest of all heartbeat.

It's a short cry from here to insanity and you remind yourself that your heart beats in pride, in admonition to the evil. "I am alive. You couldn't **** me. You won't **** me. I have a heartbeat."

I have a heartbeat. I have a heartbeat. I have a heartbeat. And the little ******* the swing smiles to the sky, a premonition of her future, a confirmation of her strength.

I'm tilted and insist that you know I am grateful now here we
are-
an alliance. Let's see ourselves onwards, be borne by our
fondness-in accord, be our love for the colloquy.

Spry, exuberant. We are free spirits draining oceans of ink, bathing in rivers of lies to find the truth while saturated by pride.
We are propelled to propinquity, as we seek for a better prospect while drowning in propensity.

Our hearts bleed onto the paper,
wanting more love of passion
to spill out endlessly,
so others can relate
to share this burning fire
Deep within our souls.
we seek endlessly for acceptance and relatability,
with someone who we can feel
safe to share these wonderful feelings,
feelings of want from our vulnerable hearts.

In sharing our vulnerable hearts,
I becomes We
the divine flame burns brightly, guiding lonely souls
to meet heart to heart on this happy road of destiny
a stream of gratitude flows from our bloods, and we discover that we write to connect
to the divine source that empties us and fills us.

oh undertaker
a high school poet died today
and they say

popularity is just relatability
see them in that mirror watching you
but check your compacts at the door
(look them in the eye)

they might **** you tonight
oh undertaker
how did they die last night?
forced the knife of lips
and lies into their minds
hit by a train full speed before the station lights
could see them in the way

we hate what we see
staring back, fade to black
in this highschool drama scene
who the **** are you?
can't be me
because i know myself, and this
dyed hair, straight kicks, concert tix
i see. that kid just aint all me

it might **** me tonight
oh undertaker
how do they die alone at night?
forcing the knife of lips
and lies into their minds
hit by a train full speed before the station lights
could see them in the way

give me my pen it's stronger
than the wings of that waterproof eyeliner
you cried off in the bathroom stall
last tuesday
oh undertaker, you
drew em back, of course
sharper than a sword but twice as brittle
because you hate the way they frame
her eyes, and your lies too

they might **** you tonight
oh undertaker
how did you die last night?
forced the knife of lips
and lies into their frozen faces
crushed by a train full speed before the station lights
could see them in the way

tonight, check you faces at the door
come in clear
and dont check your face to see
who's looking at you
we all see the same screen
our pores in bass-relief
tombstone grief

I’m a face in the crowd
With the holier than thou
Who scream so loud
That they’re proud
I look around
Then look at the ground

We disagree
Differing
On different needs
They’re an aggressive breed
Making others bleed
For what they believe
So I flee
Into solitary
Avoiding Ares

I become less brotherly
As I forget the suffering
In my submerged submarine
Where I can’t hear the thundering
Of social interaction blundering

I’m exiled in style
Haven’t seen people in a while
Which makes me smile
Skipping their trials
Walking for miles
Without the vile
Spewing their bile

I walk through peaceful pastures
Far away from our corporate masters
Dodging all the disasters
That make us die faster
I focus on the pastor
To live happily ever after

I lose my relatability
In a state of tranquility
From the holy trinity
Helping me see infinity
And start living differently
Instead of living miserably

Using ignorance for protection
I start to lose connection
To important lessons
That met my deflection
Or circumvented detection
As part of my rejection
Of society’s infection

I try to avoid negativity
But I can’t set the living free
If all my life is giving me
Reflects my selfish greed
Living under tranquil trees
Away from their hypocrisy
And false democracy
Always mocking me
From afar
Leaving the door ajar
For me to heal some scars
But for that I’ll have to leave Mars
And mingle with the stars
That float in the distance
While I watch their imprints
Making the night sky different

I avoid their pain
Becoming lame
Playing a game
Of staying tame
So I circle the drain
Without leaving a stain

looking to make the jump
from anonymous to influential
based on mad writing skills
and the ability to be rare and unusual –
many long years the daily toil has worn my psyche
now, frayed nerves blend with crippling paranoia
and I peer through bent mini-blinds
at a society devoid of cultural norms  
choosing instead to discriminate
against their brothers –
quietly slipping back into the shadow
only the whites of my eyes can be seen in the din
I feel the cold steel leaning gently against the door-jam
reaffirming to myself
I will not be taken alive –
crayon wax candles drip
pooling on matted **** carpet
trapping a flea
and capturing my attention –
we all sit trapped in poisonous wax
floundering against the weight of the next droplet
coated for all eternity –

A car flips over and crashes through my wall,
a person in red,
with eyes of a thousand pasts,
and a smile of relatability,
they ask if I wanted to take their place,
in a game space,
I ask what I need to do,
a scavenger hunt,
without the first clue,
so I took the car and drove wherever there was sky that was blue,
I met them and saw you,
everyone was 5 steps ahead and working,
towards some kind of end,
so letters and conversations I send,
asking where to begin,
no one can tell me because no body knows,
they just know they are beyond a step,
a step of feeling blue,
because they at least have the first clue,
and I am just going through the hole in my wall,
and going back to bed.

i wish i understood the songs of requited love
more frequently
than i wept to the songs of heartbreak

popularity is just relatability
see them in that mirror watching you
but check your compacts at the door
(look them in the eye)
they might **** you tonight
who doesn't hate what they see
staring back, fade to black
in this highschool drama scene
who the **** are you?
can't be me
because i know myself, and this
dyed hair, straight kicks, concert tix
i see. that kid just aint all me
give me my pen, it stronger than the
wings of that waterproof eyeliner
you cried off in the bathroom stall
last tuesday
drew em back, of course
sharper than a sword but twice as brittle
because you hate the way they frame
you eyes, and your lies too
tonight, check you faces at the door
come in clear
and dont check your face to see
who's looking at you
we all see the same screen
our pores in bass-relief

Picturing her is tough,
you'd think it'd be easier,
when I dream of her enough,
she's got brown hair with a past that's a little rough,
I mean relatability,
is on the key ring of comfortability,
a good smile,
and the first to kiss or say "I love you" first every once in a while,
a plus if she can write,
and not feel ashamed to sometimes be the first to apologize after a fight,
she's someone not looking to be found,
healthy and (superficially) not super round,
but can eat quesadilla's and chocolate cake in bed,
who listens,
but also knows what needs to be said,
a girl who giggles & smiles at my cheeesyness,
and says that it's ok that my life is a mess,
she makes love instead of *******,
(sometimes a good **** is what we need though)
Knows how to get me oot of my head,
and is self reliant,
but also has trouble watching me leave,
she'll be fine with dancing/singing/kissing me in the rain,
and know all the right words and moves to drive me insane,
thick hair like a mane,
and doesnt care if I'm poor or have fame,
she'll appreciate my crazy music,
and will take care of me when I'm being a ****** when I'm sick,
who wants kids and that awesomely typical house,
she'll be loving and empathetic,
Loving Bob Dylan and dogs,
shorter than I is a must, and know's how to be the sun in my times of fogs,
adventuring but doesnt mind  a good netflix and chill,
her eye's will be revealing,
with every look my heart she'll be stealing,
smooth sexiness withoot the need to be based on touch and feeling,
kissable lips,
grab worthy hips,
a girl I could laugh with for the rest of my life,
an honest wife.

I'll dream of her with a certain notoriety,
hoping I find her,
after a year of sobriety.

the types of tippers, tipping for different reasons

for the social, for some sort of status, for exaggerated surplus, for crusty dollar bills that are meaningless in one wallet but then meaningful in another

of a street performer, to place a dollar in his case, cause his taste is somewhat reflective of the atmosphere in the street, and she has a pretty smile on her face

to tip, because you don't know what tomorrow will bring, because the money you have will be meaningless on your death bed

to tip to be closer to One, to be closer to I, closer to Christ, to Allah, to be closer to right

to tip, to give with the hope of one day being able to take with understanding, belief in karma can be relaxing

to tip, because of the moment, to keep things moving, you saw someone at the end of the bar and its in your best interest to invest

to tip, to tip for kind service, to tip for pleasantries, for smiles and anecdote, relatability, a small investment for lea sure, and still that is soft

to tip?  or not to tip, because belief is a *****

to not tip on principle, and to feel better that way, pay more for the donut, to start the day

to tip out of judgement, out of taste, one service was better than another, a standard, and a tip is an extra, a cherry for balance, a system in which you believe in

to tip the man who parks your car because out of fear that he will take it joyously far


to tip, to take, to put penny in jar, for charity, for good company.  to tip

fascinates me