How do you go about writing a song?
First you have to work out what you are hoping to achieve, who you are aiming it at and why. I rarely just sit at a piano or get out my guitar and see what comes out. Before I do that, I have already thought out what Iām going to do.
Take Kylie Minogue. The first thing I thought when I saw her was sheās got this great career as an actress, she looks great, she sounds great, and now she wants to be a pop star. But I also wondered if maybe she didnāt have love in her life. The first song we wrote for her, I Should Be So Lucky, is about that. Sheās singing Iām lucky at other things, I wish I were lucky in love. Itās a sad little song but setting it against a background of bright cheeriness gives it a built-in paradox and tension.
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Where do you go from there?
In 90 per cent of songs I start with the title, which sums up the idea behind the song. This might be a phrase youāve heard before, it might be catchy or have a ring to it. Sometimes it even suggests a rhythm by itself. It would be difficult to do I Should Be So Lucky as a waltz.
Then you have to work within the framework of a standard 3-minute pop song. Is this restricting?
When Shakespeare wrote sonnets he immediately set himself a framework of 14 lines. When he wrote in pentameters his framework was 10 beats to the line: āShall I compare thee to a summerās day?ā With me, itās a 3-minute pop song, because I love that format. And in my songs Iām not trying to say things like āban the bombā or āshoot Tony Blairā. I want to say: I love you or I miss you or I want you. For me, there have only ever been two songs: either youāre happy or youāre sad. So the restrictions are there right away. Itās about rehashing familiarity, and that framework makes me more creative.
If you were a painter and you were undisciplined and had no structure and no preconceptions, where would your picture begin and end? Painters start with a piece of paper or a canvas. It all happens within that frame. You have to tie yourself down and then get yourself out of it. Thatās what Houdini did, itās what David Blaine does. It creates tension; people know youāre restricted.
People accused you of having a formula.
I donāt have a formula. And I am always looking for inspiration, looking for the thing that makes the difference. There is nothing as difficult as coming up with the words and music for another 3-minute pop song that says āI love youā in a way you havenāt heard. Yet I believe there are a million songs still to be written in this format. Iām still looking for the perfect pop song, one that does all the things you want it to all the way through. I havenāt written it yet.
You can have the framework, and you can have all the musical tools of the professional songwriter, but that doesnāt necessarily give you a song. Where does the creative spark come from?
It normally starts with a need. Someone might need a song by tomorrow, because I have agreed to write for them and I always leave it until the day before, or even the hour before. When I was with Stock, Aitken and Waterman in the late 1980s I would be working on at least four songs with four different artists at a time.
My creative writing was done either in the bath or while driving to the studio. Iād go to bed the night before with a puzzle ā having to write a song for Donna Summer who would be in at 11 oāclock the following morning. Iād wake up and my brain would have been working on it all night. By the time I was in the bath, I would be developing an idea. And then Iād sing it to myself in the car. I donāt read or write music and I never had any musical training. I always hear it in my head. Then I have to get it out, put it to music or translate it onto tape. The danger is that you lose sight of the original idea, add too much to it. Every artist has to know when to stop because if you donāt you end up with a black canvas.
What does it feel like when youāre creating in this spontaneous way?
Something goes on at a fundamental level in the mind when this happens. Maybe itās something primeval or evolutionary. Or maybe itās tapping into some great universal field that we all have access to. That would explain an awful lot to me. Matt Aitken and I used to have these white-hot moments of creativity, and you just donāt know where it comes from. When youāre sparked, because the singer is going to be here in 10 minutes and youāve got to get something done, something clicks. When the circumstances are right ā and without me analysing it ā the channel opens, the flashing lights go off and the whole system resonates. I cannot explain it.
How do you know when youāve got a hit song?
You know when it gets you. If I hear a hit song on television or radio for the first time, I am spotting patterns before I have even registered what the lyrics are or how the tune really goes. Iām spotting patterns of notes and word rhythms. It sets my hairs on end. I didnāt even register what the song was about but it set me off. Itās almost subliminal.
With me, I know when Iāve got something. Iām dealing with the same old restrictions in my world of pop songs. I go to the piano, run something over a million times, try it this way, try it that way, and apply all my experience to the problem of coming up with something that works. I can spend an hour, two hours, three hours looking for it and then all of a sudden something will happen and you realise youāve got something you didnāt have before. Itās as if I asked my brain to hunt around, and while I was sitting there doing something else it just popped in.
What musical devices do you use to get the ideas across?
Thereās a chord sequence Iāve used a lot in my big hits. If you are in the key of C, you actually start on the F major, then later resolve to C. After playing the F, you move up a tone to G, but at the same time you linger with the bass on F. That creates tension ā itās already tugging at you. Then you drop to E minor and then across to A minor. And eventually you resolve to C. So youāre setting the tension and then releasing it, paying people off, as it were, with the resolve. I use these chords a lot, and the key is how to be creative within the framework they give me.
Another device is to keep the crescendo and power in a song by going up in tone or key as it develops. For example, if I write a song all in one key then realise that the tune is great but it doesnāt really develop, I might put in key changes. Sometimes the key changes happen as part of the song. In I Should Be So Lucky, for example, the verse starts off in A, then goes up a tone, then moves to E minor, and then weāre in C for the chorus. So the pitch keeps on rising, but itās the melody that takes us there.
What about tempo?
Right back to Kylie in the 1980s, I have always looked at beats per minute as fundamental to a song. Anything too slow and you get a lethargic reaction. With Stock, Aitken and Waterman we were trying to make people feel uplifted and get their heartbeat moving. There is definitely a point somewhere around 120 bpm when it starts to get excited.
What does it feel like to write a hit song?
Itās a funny feeling. Take Never Gonna Give You Up, which I wrote for Rick Astley some day in November 1986. The day before I wrote it, it didnāt exist. Now that song is out there. Everybody seems to know it. Thatās the way I look at it: it changes you because now itās there and it wasnāt before. And when everybody tells me they know it or fell in love to it or danced to it, then you feel youāve changed the world.
How do you explain how popular music evolves and how musical styles can become dated?
Sometimes itās due to changes in technology ā the use of sequencer keyboards, for example. Sometimes itās because of cultural shifts. For example, the fact that the standard tempo of pop songs went up from 120 bpm in the 1980s to 136 today is down to people taking Ecstasy in the clubs. In the 1990s something changed and we started to make records for people who werenāt all there. They had become fixed on a sound. It would be repetitive and very fast, as their heartbeat went faster and faster. I donāt like that beat, but youāre stuck with it. It comes down to the framework again. You cannot put a record out at 130 bpm if everyone elseās is at 136, because yours will feel slow.
Can you imagine writing in any other genre? Your brother, I believe, is a classical musicianā¦
My brother is leader of the viola section of the German National Opera Orchestra. He writes in a modernist style with 12-note sequences ā itās like a crossword puzzle, it doesnāt have any joy. When he comes over heāll play me a piece heās written, but itās just noise to me. I tell him that. Iāll say, āFor Christās sake, John, why canāt you write a decent tune that we can all enjoy and love and thatāll move us or make us happy?ā
Do you ever write songs just for yourself?
Yes, of course, but Iām not going to play them to you. I donāt think anyone else would be interested in them. I see myself as serving the public, rather than imposing my ideas on them. With Blur or Oasis you buy into their world. In my world, which is pure pop, your song is going out to people. That is what it feels like. Professionally Iām not really trying to write songs that suit me, Iām trying to write songs that suit the singers and their audience. Iām thinking all the time, how will I grab people, how will I please them or excite them or move them? To that extent sometimes even the singer or the band is irrelevant.
Is there anything science and technology can do for you as a songwriter?
Iām not certain if technology is a useful tool to songwriters, although as a record producer it has been highly influential. Recording studios have become very different places over the past 10 years. This has opened the door for millions of ābedroomā record-producers, though I donāt think the product has improved artistically. Thereās a distinction to be made between good records and good songs. I still believe a good song exists outside of the technology, and I continue to sit at a piano or guitar to actually āwriteā a song. Any future improvements should be in the software department.