Songs, space and the creative life

A conversation with Jake Sanders about how 'I wanted you to know' came together, making space for collaboration, and the ego-challenging act of putting music into the world

Songwritings is a conversation between Kate van der Borgh (copywriter, D&AD Masterclass trainer, singer, musician) and Nick Asbury (copywriter, poet, Perpetual Disappointments Diarist, with a side interest in Tin Pan Alley songwriting). This post brings in star guest Jake Sanders (composer, marketer and Grammy-nominated musician based in Denver, Colorado).

Jake Sanders @POSMarketer

🎼an original composition for all you late night swipers out there; “Sometimes” 🎶🎹💙 #jazz #music #jazzpiano #ballad #original

NICK
Our last post featured a new song: I wanted you to know. I thought we could start by sharing the tweet where it all began. 

Jake, you posted this tweet one evening last June, and I remember playing it on repeat and loving it. I ended up writing a lyric, which I sent to Kate that evening, and in the space of a couple of days, we sent you a rough version of a song. It felt weird because we were elbowing into your song uninvited—I still think of ‘I wanted you to know’ as a cuckoo squatting in the nest of another song. I’d love to know more about where your version came from and what it was like to get that unsolicited email from across the Atlantic.

JAKE
The song really came from an emotional place in which I was navigating my recent divorce from a 25-year relationship, and trying to express the senselessness and romanticism I was feeling through music. I came home from being out with friends, and started with a diminished chord, which is one of the most tense harmonic structures we have in Western music. And I just followed the lines and pieced together a melody that was mirroring the rising and falling I was feeling in my heart. 

One of the things I relied on during the pandemic was my online community, particularly on social media, and specifically Twitter. I had the account originally positioned as a place where I could try and figure out what was going on, first with the disastrous Trump admin, and then with the global health crisis, and slowly it morphed into a place where I could connect with marketers and just ‘be real’, call out our hubris, share some of the research I was engaged with, and try and do what I could to make things better.

Being a creator on social media can be tough. You’re never really sure how people are going to respond to things you pour your time and sweat into, and over the course of a decade plus on these apps, I’ve come to realize that the amount of engagement you get to a snarky comment on something topical, vs. the reactions you get to art, are night and day. People love to talk shit about pineapple and pizza, but if you share a poem you wrote or a slice of music, everyone goes quiet.

It’s important to not take this lack of reaction personally—but being a jazz musician who’s focused and trained on creating obscure music, it’s something I’m better prepared for and my resilience is a bit stronger in this area. This is one of the reasons I reacted so positively to the music you two were putting up on your channels—really evocative and compelling art that just happened to be music, stuff that deserved to be ‘liked’ and ‘shared’, because I know how much those small movements of the needle can mean to creators.

So when I put up the original, instrumental version of the song, I was prepared for crickets, but instead was happy to see the music was affecting people. Nick, when you provided your positive comments and mentioned you were thinking about lyrics, I was of course thrilled to see this social media finally behaving as it was designed: using media to connect with society. 

NICK
Yes, for all the downsides, I still cling to that ‘social’ part of social media—the way it can help creative connections happen.

Chronologically, I should tell the story of the lyric next—then Kate can explain how she does her aural and arranging magic. 

Like I say, I remember seeing the tweet and loving the mood of it. There’s something about the way you delivered it, Jake—the occasional looks to camera as you shift to a new chord—where it really felt to me like you were trying to say something. I think that’s what seeded the idea for the lyric—this idea of having something to say, but letting the piano do the talking. For some reason, the title came to mind quickly. As a general rule, I try to mimic the Tin Pan Alley lyricists by looking for conversational idioms and fragments of everyday conversation, then transposing them into a song, where they take on a deeper meaning. 

So ‘I wanted you to know’ is the kind of throwaway, apologetic phrase people use as they’re trailing off—’Anyway, I just wanted you to know’. But when you put it into a song, it takes on all that depth of ‘Shit, I really wanted you to know! And now you never will!’ The scenario I had in mind is that the singer has been in love with someone from afar—maybe a work colleague. Now she’s leaving town and you never quite got round to saying anything beyond hello. 

So I imagine the first verse being the singer rehearsing what he might say in his head, tentatively notching up the emotional candour—Too bad to hear you’re leaving [bit casual]… I’m sorry to see you go [bit more personal]… I’m sad to hear you’re leaving [starting to put it out there]… And I wanted you to know. Then the second verse talks about how he’s always messing it up—I search for words and stumble… and somehow lose the flow… Beneath my breath I mumble… what I wanted you to know. 

The bridge goes off in a dreamy, abstract direction—I wander through a maze… of turnings that I missed… Then it culminates in the last verse, where I was really just replaying that Twitter video and doing a ‘write what you see’ approach: This sad piano playing… is the only way I know… my only way of saying… what I wanted you to know. I wrote that verse almost as a placeholder, thinking it was maybe a bit obvious, but I think it’s where the song comes together lyrically—and it turned out to be where Kate made it come together musically too. 

KATE
Well, I had the easy job with this one! Jake, you’d taken care of the accompaniment. Nick, you’d done the melody and lyrics. All I needed was to sing the melody and add a couple of extra vocal lines. There was no messing about with instrumentation, like: 'Should I use the ocarina or the flute?’ (see Cloud Cuckoo Land…) 

Jake, your piano recording sounded to me like a piano being played in a vast, empty room. Perfect for what, with Nick’s lyrics, felt like a painfully lonely song. So I tried to retain that feeling with the vocals. Instead of transposing the song to fit my natural range, I kept the original key—which put the melody really very low in my voice. After that, I added other vocal lines that go right to the other end of my range. The result is this big gap between the melody and harmonies: a feeling of space. Like a big echoing chamber, in which the singer has been left alone.

Nick, you’d done an interesting thing and repeated the word ‘only’ in that last verse. (‘Only’ is actually a very lovely word to sing, by the way, what with that open vowel at the beginning.) On the first ‘only’, I had all three voices moving independently—it’s actually the moment where the harmonies are rising to their peak, creating this sense of space. But on the second ‘only’, I brought the voices back together, almost collapsing back into one another on the words ‘way of saying’. And, for me, this is the moment when all is definitely lost. Throughout the song there’s been a chance the singer will muster the courage to say what they need to say… But when the voices fall as one, as if faltering, we can imagine that time is up: the object of the singer’s affection has finally waved goodbye and disappeared through the door.

NICK
Yes, that’s definitely the ‘all is lost’ part of the song—and almost the ‘all is found’ moment too, as he’s at least found a language in which to express himself musically. 

By the way, a quick aside on pronouns in songs—this one doesn’t have any gendered pronouns, which was generally the case in Tin Pan Alley songs. Songwriters deliberately avoided them because it created a bigger market of performers who might take on your song. 

In my head, I imagine the singer of this song being male—the awkward, introverted type. But it’s actually what I love about your vocals in this one, Kate. Because I imagine him being a mumbly, awkward bloke on the outside, but in his head he has these voices that sing like angels—and there are three of them interweaving, moving further way from each other, and then resolving into one voice, followed by silence (and that deeply expressive piano outro). So the poet in me likes the fact that it’s a male perspective expressed in female voices. Though of course that’s just my reading and others are available. 

So Jake, we batted this song to you and I’d love to know more about a) what you thought of it, and b) that piano intro and outro that you added.

JAKE
Again, getting the draft of the beautiful lyrics and haunting vocals over the tune, was just such a vivifying experience, because it seemed to make good on the promises of connection via social media. Writing lyrics and performing vocals are areas within my own songwriting experience I enjoy doing, and have done countless times on stage, but am not particularly skilled at. So when someone says they want a crack at it, it feels like such a huge gesture and vote of confidence, that it affected me deeply. I love writing and creating with others, and there are less and less opportunities for this kind of collaboration to work in our siloed and platform-based world.

One of the things an old colleague of mine said, in reference to finishing musical projects, is that when you think you’re almost done, you still have 80% of the way to go. I was happy with the draft as it was—but Kate, your suggestions to add an intro and outro made so much sense to the formula of the song: easing people in and out of this deep emotion was an important step. After some back and forth, and me inhabiting that space I created the tune in originally, I was able to add on some bookends to the song and get in shape for shipping. 

NICK
Going back to social media enabling connections, I was trying to remember where our paths first crossed, Jake. And I think it was partly when Kate and I put out our second song (Songbird)—and you chimed in with some massively welcome Twitter positivity. It means a lot when that happens, especially when it comes from people who know what they’re talking about. But as you say, it’s not exactly the norm. Every creative who puts stuff out on Twitter has had that feeling of tumbleweed or shouting into a void. And everyone has to learn to deal with it and find a way to keep going anyway. Kate, how do you feel about that—does it bother you to share something and then it doesn’t get much response? Or are you quite zen about it all?

KATE
My feelings have changed a lot over time. When I was a kid, I relied way too heavily on other people’s opinions, and it really bothered me if the things I did weren’t greeted with praise. So, as a young musician, I had a real problem with perfectionism—if I played a wrong note during a performance, I felt the whole thing was a disaster. (I remember performing Clair de Lune at a sixth form concert, and I was so anxious about making a mistake that I couldn’t enjoy a single second. These days, I’d kill to be able to play even half that piece.)

But, funnily enough, social media might well have played a part in making me more zen. I’ve never really invested in things like Twitter, so whenever I do check in I’m reminded of my own irrelevance—and that in itself is kind of liberating. I can do stuff without worrying what everyone thinks. At the same time, I’m more conscious these days that great art is compatible with imperfection. Some of the most powerful performances include moments that go a bit awry—like the Ella Fitzgerald recording of Mack the Knife, where she forgot the words and created a classic. I’m more aware now that making mistakes means you’re pushing your own boundaries, which has to be a good thing.

Obviously, as a copywriter, I have to care what people think, because the work exists to change the way people think and feel and behave! But Songwritings isn’t copywriting. And I think it’s important—especially in an age where it’s easy to consume, consume, consume—to simply be creative and put stuff out there. We can’t be too bothered about what happens after that. Especially when it comes to the tumbleweed you mentioned. Tumbleweed might be as much down to the vagaries of the algorithm as the quality of your work, and the most visible work isn’t necessarily the best. All that being said, it’s still a bit nerve-wracking to share stuff, as it’s nearly impossible not to care at all. It’s obviously nice when people like what you do!

JAKE
I think performing music, or a play, or singing, or sharing in public, is an inherently embarrassing thing, not just for the performers, but for the audience as well. Most people laugh at stand-up comedy not necessarily because it’s funny, but to break the tension that exists in the vulnerability of the act of being human in front of other humans. I was trained from a young age to solo and perform in front of not only my peers, but a disinterested audience—right up to conservatory-style training for my degree. I love that there are people who thrive off live music, but I also think there maybe a Nascar aspect to the enjoyment, not only watching for mastery, but also for car crashes.

So when it comes to social media, it’s really a mixed bag. Some people like something you’re not crazy about, and most times people ignore the stuff you really want them to dig. And that’s okay. One of the great benefits of performing and sharing music is that you learn how failure isn’t really something you can control, but more like something you have to subject yourself to, in order to get better. The most powerful lessons that have inspired me to dig in even harder into my art, are the times when the shit hits the fan. You learn quick about why, digest the ways you can avoid that, and then you go back out there and risk it again.

To me, creativity isn’t so much about brilliance, it’s mostly about resilience. If you can bounce back quicker, you can become stronger. Social media is a brutal and beautiful place to learn these lessons. 

KATE
I think my experience of music in higher education was a bit different to yours, Jake. My course was very traditional, and didn’t include much performance. Maybe if I had done more performance, I might have been forced to throw off my perfectionism sooner. My degree covered things like harmony and counterpoint, music history and analysis… Much of it was quite theoretical. (I think it suited me in the way that writing suits me—while there are those who enjoy thinking on their feet, I’ve always liked having space to wrangle with my thoughts for a bit before putting them out there. It’s why Text Radio was such a challenge for me.)

When you commented on Songbird, I loved how you picked up on the vocals weaving in and out of each other—because that definitely takes me back to my days studying counterpoint! (Even though parallel fifths are absolutely everywhere in contemporary music, they still feel a bit illegal to me.)

NICK
It’s funny, I realise I’m talking to two graduate-level musicians here and I never made it past the foothills—gave up formal training somewhere around Grade 5 piano. Anything since then has been self-taught, particularly when it comes to the more recent interest in lyric writing. For me, this particular song was really interesting because it’s the first time I’ve written lyrics to someone else’s melody, which is what most of the Tin Pan Alley lyric writers would have done. And it was such a nice feeling—like getting into an expensive car made out of diminished seventh chords and being allowed to drive it around. 

Jake, I know you’re a wordsmith yourself—I’d love to know what you make of the relationship of lyrics and music. And that time-honoured question—which comes first for you?

JAKE
Honestly, it’s such a confusing thing writing music, because it’s not only like a cart-horse situation, in terms of ordering the operations—it’s also like you have to raise a horse, cut down wood for the cart, find nails and tools to create all the necessary parts of that combination, and then you have to decide which place goes where. I liken writing music to spelunking, or cave diving. It’s all about getting into the ground, wiggling around, and finding small cracks in the barriers that may or may not lead to bigger spaces where you can feel free. In songwriting, you’re also dealing with the question of ‘Why am I even doing this?’ No one is putting a gun to your head and asking for music. So you have to ignore the why, and focus on the how and fully inhabit that space and honour the moments and feelings you have. 

NICK
I love that analogy of spelunking—that idea of big, cavernous spaces hiding beyond the tight constraints.

I was reading this book by Ira Gershwin recently and he talks about lyric writing as ‘mosaic writing’, where you’re fitting syllables and vowel sounds onto particular points in the melody—a form of highly constrained writing, and yet you’re trying to achieve this loose, American, conversational effect. 

He also mentions this great definition of song that he came across:

The people I really envy are the Paul McCartneys, who can somehow write ‘Yesterday’ with placeholder lyrics (famously it was originally ‘Scrambled eggs’). And it’s much harder than it seems to retrofit a lyric onto a tune like that—he talks about mulling over three-syllable words for the title and eventually landing on ‘Yesterday’ (and in the next verse ‘Suddenly’). Yet the lyrics unfold in such a natural way that it feels like a single, uninterrupted, spontaneous train of thought.

Kate, all three of us are wordsmiths here. At some point, I think the world will hear more about your novel writing, but have you ever been tempted by something ultra-concise like lyric writing? And what do you think of that whole words-music relationship in general?

KATE
Hmmm, I used to write lyrics when I was in a band. But I don’t think I had much talent for it. I was still young, and perhaps I didn’t know what it was that I wanted to say—so I ended up flailing, as if I were copywriting without a proper brief. Maybe, to go back to Jake’s analogy, I was also a bit afraid of what I might uncover down there in the caves! Maybe I’d find something emotionally challenging. (Or worse, maybe I’d find nothing at all.)

But it’s funny that I never got back into lyrics, because I really admire concision in writing. The boiling down of an idea to its essence: I find it kind of magical. Even in long-form writing. One of my all-time favourite novels is The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes and, for me, its brevity is a massive part of what makes it so incredible. I’ve read and reread the story, and every time I’m amazed that there’s nothing superfluous—every paragraph, every sentence more than earns its place. For all the pathos of human existence to be contained in so few words… The craftsmanship of it blows my mind. Another more recent example might be Claire Keegan’s novel Small Things Like These, another teeny book that expresses so much of life, truth, love, everything.

When I wrote songs as part of my music degree, we always started by taking poems and then writing melodies / accompaniments to fit. So, the music was in service of the lyrics. It’s why that Gershwin quote is really enlightening for me—I’ve probably thought for too long that the words tend to lead the music, without considering that the combination of both words and music creates a third thing.

JAKE
Being a fan of musicals, I’m always amazed at what the lyricist and composer can come up with, referring to the book. Just feels like magic when someone can take a story about a serial killer in London who cooks his victims into pies, and come out of the other end with a musical like Sweeney Todd. That never fails to blow my wig off. 

NICK
Well, I feel like we’ve probably talked more to each other in this post than we did over the whole creation of the song. Creatively, it all happened in the space of about 48 hours, and all over long distance and via the vagaries of social media. But I feel really fortunate to have been part of that process. Jake, from both of us—thanks so much for doing this, and for tolerating our cuckoo in your nest. Anything more you can say to play us out?

JAKE
In many ways, I think this song and the building it up into a final product with two other talented artists, came at such a critical moment in my life. I think when we’re feeling low about life and all of it, you can trick yourself into thinking you need to be alone. While isolation is important to processing, music is this unique gift humanity has where the processing of internal moods and narratives is happening in a very external fashion. I was grateful that this small piano piece inspired feelings and reactions in others, and then we worked together to create something that didn’t belong to any of us specifically, but to all of us. And this was only possible when the contributors really honoured where the others took it: the piano inspired the lyrics, the vocals took that inspiration and fit it into the piano, and now it feels like you might need a jeweller’s eyepiece to see the seams in the final product—which is the hope of anyone making collaborative art. 

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Thanks again to Jake for an inspirational conversation and collaboration. You can follow him at twitter.com/posmarketer, hear more of his music at whalehawk.bandcamp.com and check out his audio production work at audiocontentlab.com.

And thanks everyone for reading / listening—always means a lot.