Songs I’ll Never Sing

Content Warning: some mention of death and dying

I write a lot of songs, and plenty of them will never see the light of day because they’re just not very good.

Promise not to procrastinate
‘Cause I can’t wait
To be the one you can’t avoid
You’re making me feel paranoid
You’re out to get me, got me thinking ‘bout what happens next
From the time our eyes meet to all the rest
It’s the best

-yes, I wrote this, and I don’t want to talk about it

But there is another category of songs that (next to) no-one will ever hear, and those are the songs that make me cry when I try to perform them.

There are songs by other people that I sometimes cry through, such as “Hello,” by Evanescence and “So Big / So Small,” from Dear Evan Hanson, but somehow it seems more forgivable to cry over someone else’s writing. The content of these songs strikes home, because it is set so perfectly to music, in a way that overcomes me more than simply discussing it would. Oh, lots of times I’ll make it through the whole song without a tear. But other times I’ll think too much about a particular word, or something will resonate that up until that moment I had just thought of as part of someone else’s story, and I won’t be able to go on.

As for my own works, well, when you write songs directly from what is going on for you emotionally, it is inevitable that some of them will end up taking you back into an emotion you thought you had processed, but somehow is still sticking around somewhere in your brain. Just like a smell can suddenly take you straight back to your childhood, the right words and music can send you to another time.

For example, I wrote two songs, one some time before my Grandmother’s death and one shortly after, and I’m just going to say it, I think they’re beautiful songs. But they are locked away because, at least for now, I do not think I could get through a performance of either song without breaking down.¹

I can’t do this, I can’t do it in a week
Will you just hang on a year or two
Until I find the words to use
‘Cause I can’t
No I can’t

-me, “Can’t”

And yet, these pieces of art with no audience have value. For one thing, they helped me process what I was going through. Additionally, although the subject matter may be sad, they sometimes help me feel closer to her. They bring up all sorts of memories when I sing them. And I think there is something to be said for remembering someone and just feeling things, even if they’re not all happy things.

Although the melodies are lovely and could probably have made good, performable songs under other circumstances, with lyrics I wasn’t quite so close to, I do not for one second wish that I had written the songs other than in the way I wrote them. They are for me, and there’s no reason not to reserve some of your favourite art for yourself.

Music is an act of communication. Without anyone listening it doesn’t exist.

-Mark Wigglesworth, conductor

I agree with Wigglesworth, for a given value of “agree.” In fact, I agree with him in the sense that I think I would probably argue with him about the quote were our paths ever to cross.

Music communicates. Yes, you could call it an, “act of communication.” But sometimes it’s not communication between the songwriter and others. The audience doesn’t need to be filling the seats of an auditorium or sitting, smiling and receptive, as you music at them. Sometimes, in fact, it’s communication between you and yourself. You now and your past self, or a part of you that you have a hard time hearing and a part of you that needs to listen.

Music lifts and amplifies what you’re trying to say, yes. A song may communicate more than a speech. But if you were the only person left on the planet, music would still exist.

Do you ever talk to yourself? Do you ever so much as think yourself a sentence? Well, with a little bit of luck, someone is listening to that. And yes, I’ll admit, if even you aren’t listening to yourself when you hum a tune, the tune might not exist. But most of the time, we at least hear ourselves. So what music is it that doesn’t exist? Nobody knows. Nobody knows because there was no-one there to hear it. The music that doesn’t exist isn’t the music that you keep to yourself, it’s… well. Nobody knows.

My point is, songs that I’ll never sing do exist. And they will continue to exist as I continue to not sing them for any audience but myself. But they mean something to me, and they bring me comfort, and they give me the opportunity to communicate back to a past self that things will be okay.

I’m curious. Are there songs that take you back, maybe even move you so deeply that sometimes you can’t make it through them? What are they? What is it about them?

—

¹ In a few decades, who knows?