the blog quebecois

One of the benefits of writing new songs, I found, was that they tended to be more complete. Previously I would concentrate on the lyrics of the first verses and chorus -- anything beyond that was usually just filler to pad out the length.

Part of it is that I had what I would term a "romantic" idea of songwriting, where the song would appear, fully formed, from the ether. It's nice when that happens -- maybe once or twice a year -- but you shouldn't count on it on your journey to the Top Of The Pops. Like any other writing, it takes persistence and the willingness to rip up what isn't working and rewrite it until you get it right. Or at least until you can sing it without apologizing in advance.

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Verse:

So you've risen to the top of the ladder
And you are the master of all you survey
But there's an itching
Like a fire in the kitchen
It's your dirty little secret
Your dirty little secret

Sure you've struggled to nail up your name
Now at the summit you collect paper scraps
But there's a swelling
Little whispers telling
Your dirty little secret
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Chorus:

In the dark of night
You rub your dirty little secret
When no one's looking
You bite down
And the pain is sweet
In the light of day
You disguise your dirty little secret
When no one's looking
You bite down
And the pain is sweet
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Verse:

You've got money enough to burn
You can buy all your friends wholesale
But all that cash
Won't cover the rash
Of your dirty little secret

[Rpt. second verse, chorus]
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Believe it or not (my cousin certainly didn't), this wasn't about sex, at least not more than peripherally. I stole the title from an essay by D.H. Lawrence, who was talking about sex; more specifically, masturbation, the wanker. I can't find a link [and still can't -- this one now appears to be dead] for it, but here Martin Amis makes mention of it (near the bottom of the page). [Update: Here are some excerpts from it, at Google Books.]

I was thinking more of a scene in George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-four. The protagonist, Winston Smith, is haunted by a childhood memory of being in a bomb shelter with his mother and younger sister in one of Oceania's endless wars. He steals some chocolate from the crying child and he

carried this pathetic image around for the rest of his life.

So, if anything, the song is a metaphor for the shabby ways we treat others.

Speaking of shabby, our playing was a bit less than optimum, with blown notes here and there, and occasionally the whole project drifted off course.

Most of it works, though.

Note how my cousin attempts to sabotage my performance with four (I counted them) handclaps that I can only characterize as "insolent and sarcastic."

Well, I guess you had to be there. But I soldiered on manfully. Manfully, I tell you.

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