Standing in the doorway of the rouge.

Over a period of maybe 13 years I have packed plastic bags full of journals that have poems memories, melody-less lyrics and some at times uneducated and bold statements on life and growing up. Throughout this time many of these writings have been proudly made into songs and over that period song-writing lets call it. the "recipe" has often taken different forms. The melody of the lyrics written can sometimes be the catalyst, even if its only one line that sums up the start of the idea, or the one word that has that hook you want to water and feed so it grows into something that hypnotizes the ear. Though lots of methods many songs have come around from sitting down half cut listening to somebody waltzing through guitar riff's or splashing their hands on the piano. As somebody who aspires to try and write something true but on a totally personal and unknown to many people basis I always had the idea that successful multi international selling artists had a special recipe of writing a song, that is different to mine. It hasn't taken all this time to realize that most people approach things in exactly the same way. What i learnt most from watching the recording's of THE ROLLING STONES during their writing of "Sympathy for the devil" was that genius doesn't lie within time frames. Mick Jagger approached the band with half of the lyrics but no settled melody, he constantly toyed with the lyrics. Trying to find the correct balance between music and voice, dynamic and structure. The finished song was stripped down to be very minimal. The guitars are a very small piece of the song, with so many musicians, its that trust in the song and not the importance of the individual that makes that one of their biggest songs.

Mick Jagger's seed for the idea. I know not of where that came, its sometimes interesting to here from a lyricist, which, on completely different scales of course we both are. Writing has to be impulsive, its not up for discussion or reason, its something you can hear in your head, its a dash for the nearest pen and paper, a matchbox a tissue, anything to get these words down, the tragedy that these things ring so true, and as a lyricist in the modern age, may never be heard nor written.

This impulse happened to me a couple of weeks ago whilst on a lonely day shift at work. Work is, for most people who have a love of thoughts and writing a great source of ideas because unless your locked in a dark room its a place to observe people, and writing has always been about powers of observation, painting a picture for people to envisage. Whilst stood at the bar I had noticed the re-occurrence of a girl appearing outside and across the street, she had appeared at a glance many a time around the same hour, she had a head full of curls that covered a lot of her face, and the smoke from her cigarette further masked her disguise, I cannot tell if the aimlessness of her task in smoking allowed her to peer into the direction i was standing or not. After the cigarette was gone she vanished and I began to hear in my head a sound that represented the feeling I get from looking at an old photograph by Eugene Atget. One of the noisy Paris streets that somehow appear so romantic. From that I dashed for a writers savour... {Till Roll} I wrote as fast as possible, Its now a song, its currently being recorded, here are the words.

Standing in the doorway of the Rouge.

I avert my gaze as she comes into view.

I wonder if it pleased her

To know how much she pleased me

Standing in the doorway

I glance at this till

But feel eyes on me

I see curly hair through

A smokey disguise

She’s standing in the doorway of the Rouge

I wonder if it pleased her

To know how she teased me

Parading her beauty

The truth is that I’m really just a fool

Don’t’ think my words directly bother you because

Ill find some other

Then cause her some trouble

So you get on your merry little way

Standing in the doorway of the Rouge.

I avert my gaze as she comes into view.

I wonder if it pleased her

To know how much she pleased me

Standing in the doorway

Would we dance for hours?

Trampling roses on the pavement

Catch some sunshine on our knobbly knees

Just do whatever it takes

To make us feel free