The band gathered last night for a run-through of Friday's set at the Burlington (https://www.theburlingtonbar.com/). It was brutally cold out, and comfort was important. I tried Shilpa Uskokovic's gingerbread cake (https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/dark-chocolate-orange-gingerbread-cake, from the December 2024 Bon Appetit; no, I do not know why my browser is suddenly not allowing me to link words). Verdict: yes. Cook this and put it in your face.

I made the recipe more or less as written (with the addition of a little Chinese Five Spice, which is my default flavor enhancer on gingerbreads). Next time I will double the orange zest and add some finely chopped candied ginger, along with the grated ginger root. But I'm having a little leftover slice right now, and this cake rules.

A couple of weeks ago I started a new music notebook, which meant going through the old one to glean usable ideas for St. Jerome's. In the process I noticed a scrap in the Google doc, a chorus and most of a verse, at least a year old. The lyrical rhythm had always suggested an uptempo alt-country melody, which combined with the content to suggest a sort of cheerful nihilism I enjoyed. I thought of it as "Bottom of the Barrel" after the most recognizable line.

A few days later a couple of other lines arrived; they seemed to have their own melody, but once I thought about them in the context of "Bottom of the Barrel," everything slotted into place. A day or two after that, the bridge showed up in similar fashion. Hard to say if it counts as memory or new creation when it works like that.

Verses took a little longer (you can see at least one lousy first draft on the verso above). I asked the band for help. The exchange that followed yielded the final rhyme—Thomas's suggestion—as well as exposing an embarrassing gap in my education.

I retitled it "Last Call" and recorded a demo. Only after sending it to the band did I figure out how to strengthen a line in the second pre-chorus. So the final version is draft four, I think, depending on how we count the scraps? It's kind of fitting, for a song that's ultimately about finding meaning in a life that has unexpectedly fallen into bits and pieces. 

Here's some of the songwriting stuff that's been making me think lately. (The post is overdue, but I logged about fifteen hours of solo performance this week on top of the two day gigs, and I'm just happy to be putting anything here.)

• Ted Gioia on Sappho and the badassery of love songs. God, this is awesome. One thing Gioia mentions is the contempt that critics often have for expressions of emotion, despite the bravery and vulnerability such expressions require. (He doesn't get into the causes of that contempt, but I would bet there's a healthy amount of neo-Platonic sexism involved, the same bias that considers physical expression vulgar and dismisses the pop that teen girls enjoy.)
• Lyrics or music? Where does your ear go, what do you write first? I like hearing from other musicians on this. I rarely write a melody that doesn't come from a line of lyrics. The music is so tied to that meaning for me that I'm always a little awed when I encounter someone who can work on a melody without needing the words.
• An example of one of those people: The NYT Amplifier blog compiled a playlist of Eno tracks. (I have not yet seen the Eno movie, whose contents are digitally shuffled into different orders at different screenings. One of the most interesting classes I ever took was on narrative structure—how the order of the telling, a.k.a. fabula, influences our understanding of the subject—and I suspect I could spend a year analyzing this thing.)
• The Guardian discusses whether lyrics can ever be literature when they are divorced from their music. I tend to think of this sort of a question as a trolley problem—interesting in the abstract, pointless in practice. It's largely irrelevant to the working artist. Still, I'm gratified to know that critics do consider it, when a lot of listeners ignore lyrics entirely. 
• Art Levy breaks down writing an album, song by song. Levy's music incorporates visual art, and his experimental approach makes me feel as though my own long, roundabout process on Posthistoric might not be quite as dysfunctional as I tend to assume. (Coincidentally, he did much of this work on an Ibanez Artcore, the same guitar I usually play live. It's a lovely, versatile instrument.)

Last, this isn't a songwriting link, but writer Sarah Gailey has compiled a thorough list of resources for political actions Americans can take against the continuing genocide in Palestine, as well as ways to donate to victims, refugees, and communities. Here's your reminder that music is one of our strongest weapons against despair.

Thanks to the great karaoke experiment, I have been thinking a lot about the hidden workings of cover songs. You don't have to read that post before this one, but it might clarify a point or two.

In 2016, I was part of a loose ensemble that played tribute shows every so often. As November approached, we were rehearsing a set of TV theme songs. It was silly but fun; many of the songs represented fond memories from childhood and adolescence, even if we knew as adults that some of the shows weren't actually all that good. 

The show was the Friday after the election. I went into it thinking I didn't want to do it at all. It was time for punk, the harder-edged art of outrage and resistance. But as we played, people began singing along, and it could not have been clearer that they were clinging to these familiar songs as to a lifeline.

Since then I've learned that people do in fact turn to familiar media in times of depression or fear. (I can't remember where I read about this study. Someone measured it, though.) This seems both wonderful and dangerous. On the one hand: what a testament to the power of art. On the other: well, it's not as though things have gotten any less depressing and scary, and we cannot spend the rest of our lives retreating into the comforts of childhood TV when the times call for new ideas and actions.

In her lovely and terrifying piece "The Great Unconformity" (s/o to Hope Rehak for reminding me to read it), Sarah Kendzior mentions that the current media landscape makes shared experiences more difficult. Various digital archives have been deleted; many people have chucked their physical media; the number of channels and stations has expanded, fragmenting audiences into smaller and smaller subgroups. 

Kendzior's beat is fascism, but what she's describing matches my experience in the world of cover songs. Beyond a few obvious hits, finding music that a good chunk of the audience will recognize usually means reaching back twenty years or more. It makes me uneasy for the same reason that the TV gig did. 

Media fragmentation is only part of the problem here. The new songs themselves are fragmented too, popular because they are shared in 90-second clips via TikTok or Reels or whatever. There are riffs and hooks I know solely because they're featured in ads. (I suspect some songs are even engineered to be optimal for these shorter clips—the full songs do not reward familiarity.) So the crowds continue to shout along to "Sweet Caroline," because there is so little to replace it.

Ted Gioia notes that sales of old music have been outstripping sales of new music for a while—not because the new music isn't there, but because the mechanisms of profit currently encourage the rights holders to exploit their existing properties. Anyway—and maybe obviously—the people profiting from the sales are often not the artists; they're the shareholders and private equity D-bags behind the consolidation of media companies. As the money flows to them, fewer artists can afford to make music at all. Eventually, more listeners may have to turn to the old stuff for meaning. If that's the only hard media you own, and the streaming landscape is so cluttered with AI and payola algorithms that you can't find new releases, where else can you go?

In effect, multiple engines of media are pushing us to nostalgia. Kurt Andersen, in Evil Geniuses, discusses nostalgia as a cultural touchstone of conservatism and fascist movements. It helps reinforce the myth of a bygone Golden Age: the era, in fact, of the bumbling white sitcom dad and his eternally patient, eternally hot stay-at-home spouse. 

This is not to say that all nostalgia is bad. Familiarity is part of the pleasure of music, after all. But it can't be everything. If an American nostalgia evokes the music of the 1950s and early 1960s, then it presents a cultural landscape with very few women's voices, one in which the Race Records are safely segregated away from the impressionable ears of white kids. As listeners, as musicians, we owe it to ourselves to ask what familiarity omits.

Andersen credits the architects and executors of contemporary fascism with more intellect than I'm certain they all deserve. I don't believe the executives of Spotify give a shit about any cultural consequences when they engineer streaming royalties away from artists; they just want more money. But indifference and venality can enable fascism quite as easily as genius can. All they ask you to do is sing along.

Several weeks ago, my friend Allison asked about my availability for an "elaborate karaoke scheme." Allison is a formidable observer of media, and she had, it emerged, hatched a plan to evaluate karaoke songs by their own merits, divorced from the merits of the performance. 

As it happens, this idea dovetails with some hypotheses I've begun to develop after several years of cover-song gigs. A number of songs—even giant hits, even by songwriters I otherwise adore—are secretly boring, relying on production magic* or performer charisma.** Throw in a different performer and an unvarnished vocal, and the song reveals itself as a dud. We've all seen people figure this out on stage in karaoke bars, blanching at the realization that there are five more verses exactly like this. 

Allison, though, went farther than I ever have, developing an NCAA-style seeding system and researching the most popular karaoke songbooks. She assembled a group of performers, most of us with backgrounds in theater and hardcore karaoke experience, and she had us all submit lists of our own top songs, the songs we didn't necessarily want to sing ourselves but that we thought were good karaoke choices in general, and the songs we would automatically downvote. ("Love Shack" received the most downvotes, and so was excluded. Most of us quite like the B-52s, but we do not ever need to hear another group of drunk strangers shout that song in the general direction of a mic.) Then she booked a private karaoke room, and we got to work.

There was a play-in bracket, with spirited discussions of the songs in terms of degree of difficulty, perceived degree of difficulty, length, lyrical surprises, opportunities to showboat, opportunities for audience participation, the elusive quality of "keep-pumping-ness," and other merits. Votes determined which songs would advance; a song that did advance would be performed by a different singer in the next round, so that we could consider the song apart from its original performance. The bartender—intrigued, after her initial surprise at our quantity of office supplies***—gave the tie-breaking vote in at least one contest. 

This was a lot of singing and discussing, for all of us. There were props and costume changes. There was dancing, obviously, and there were impressions of Elvis, Britney, and Miley. We winnowed the list down to the Sweet 16; those competitions will happen in another couple of months. 

Even though we do not yet have a winner, we've reached some interesting results:

• Length can doom a song. Allison posits that five minutes is the cutoff point. (Again, standards for karaoke are way different from standards for radio or streaming or albums.) 
• Most of the songs that advanced are on the old side. I suspect that karaoke operates by a different rule of familiarity than pop radio (where hits often adhere to the MAYA principle Derek Thompson describes in Hit Makers, essentially a balance between familiarity and newness). But mainstream pop has also seen a widespread shift from major key to minor, as well as a general slowing of tempos—which means that older songs are just going to do better in terms of keep-pumping-ness. (This is something I've noticed in cover gigs, too; the directive is often "uptempo and fun," and it can be a struggle to find newer songs that meet those criteria.)
• Most of the successful songs were in the alto-tenor vocal range, relatively singable regardless of the performer's gender. Several with higher tessituras ("Dancing Queen," "Party in the USA," "Good Luck Babe") were eliminated in the first round. 
• Often, the better karaoke song is not the better song. 
• There has to be a whole separate bracket competition for best duets and group songs.

So! Further study is needed! But this is a gloriously goofy endeavor. It needs a much bigger dataset. You should probably do it with your friends.

*AutoTune is obviously a big culprit here, as is the recent-ish production technique known as The Surge (creating an exciting chorus through a synthy crescendo rather than a change in melody or chord progression). Mainstream pop in the past couple of decades has also seen a decline in melodic variation as producers try to formulate songs that will game algorithms and feel just familiar enough to listeners. 
**"One Way or Another" and "Brass in Pocket" are both on this list for me, though I know many people who love them, and I am not here to convince anyone not to love them. Different things bore different people.
***Shout out to Thomas, who lent me a lab coat.

Last week I was working on lyrics for a patter song when I hit a sticking point: What was the best way to fill the four syllables in this line?

I texted the band for suggestions of acts that scan like "cauliflower" (i.e., trochee trochee). The thing is, though, that scansion is highly personal—try sight-singing from another songwriter's lyric sheet if you don't believe me. It can be specific to the song and the vocal delivery as well. And I hadn't recorded or shared a demo yet.

Thomas came back with a list:
owl city (great example of how a word that looks like a monosyllable turns into two when you sing it)
yo la tengo
michael doughty
billy idol

None felt quite right. I recorded the demo with "Mats reunion," which also didn't feel quite right but at least let me finish without using cauliflower. (I once sent out a demo with the line "I don't want a cauliflower"; Charlie suggested I was missing the opportunity to rhyme it with "I don't want a golden shower.")

When I sent out the demo, Charlie—with the added benefit of context—replied with his own list, as well as the criteria he had gleaned from the rest of the song:
Jesus Lizard show
Lizard Wizard show
Sleater-Kinney show
7 Seconds show
Mr Bungle show
Stabbing Westward show
Smashing Pumpkins show
Jon Bon Jovi show
Jason Isbell show
Billie Eilish show

(Criteria: 4 syllables, currently touring, loud enough to necessitate earplugs, theoretically popular with undateable dudes)

I can confirm that the last Jesus Lizard show I saw was loud enough for earplugs and full of guys I might think twice before dating. What I cannot do, however, is get that combination of s and z sounds out of my mouth in rhythm. It's kind of a fast song; it needs a hard sound or two.

Thomas, ever loyal to the band that brought us all together, suggested "tmbg"—either the abbreviation or the full name of the band, mushed together—but I don't think I can make that work either. So I'm still looking. I think this may become something we change up in live shows. Might as well open the comments here to additional ideas, yeah?

A few years ago I was chatting with a luthier about various resources for learning string instruments. I forget what prompted it, but he commented, "You never practice as hard as you do in high school."

This is, in my experience, not true. I get it: you have more time in high school, and it feels as though these skills might turn out to define you. (In truth there is no time limit on when or how you define yourself. But teenage intensity is real and urgent.) I did practice some things—vocal music, writing—really hard in high school. But I had my first guitar then, the Gibson LG0 that my mom's friend sold me at a yard sale, and I had absolutely no clue what to do with it.

It took years, in fact, before I knew enough of both guitar and music that I could work effectively on that instrument. Several of my most intense stretches of practice have been relatively recent; they've come on arts residencies that afforded time for hours of daily woodshedding. And I don't feel as though these parts of my work are behind me. The more I learn, the more aware I am of how much I want to do.

My first experience with deep guitar practice was when I took Charles Kim's theory/composition courses. Our main textbook was a huge Hal Leonard compilation of Beatles songs. I played through in alphabetical order, gradually getting my hands used to the chord shapes and unraveling the music I'd grown up singing along with. At about the same time, my friend Jesse was running the weekly open mic at the Holiday Club; I started going with a handful of buddies. I had written and arranged songs before—I was in college a cappella, as well as a folk duo that I hope came off as charmingly lo-fi—but things changed when I was playing for the same people every week. I grew impatient with the limitations of my repertoire and my playing. So I had to write new songs, and I had to practice. 

I should note that there's a distinction between practicing instrumental technique and practicing to learn repertoire. The best practice, for me, combines the two. I can't always apply what I learn from Hanon-style scales and drills, but if I learn a pattern from digging deep into a song, it stays with me. (Simon Callow says much the same thing in Being an Actor: Only the lessons of performance stick. That's not a direct quote, because I seem to have left my copy at the old house. But it's the idea.)

"Half" was a turning point for both songwriting and play. (I think it and "Grace" are the only songs from that era that I've kept and recorded with the Baguettes.) I hadn't done much fingerpicking before, and I really didn't want to mess it up in front of a crowd of musicians. Plus, I liked the song; I wanted to keep singing it; I kept discovering stuff as I worked. I practiced until the tip of my right middle finger, rasping against the steel strings, developed a large, nipple-like blood blister. 

Then I kept playing.

The Blister Test has become my shorthand for whether a song demands that sort of compulsive play. It doesn't mean a literal blister in every case, thank goodness (though both the Gibson and the Telecaster have now been baptized in blood). But if I don't want to keep playing a new song, something's wrong with it.

I sometimes wish I had a better vocabulary of rhetoric. I nerd out very hard over nomenclature and grammar; there is a reason I'm in a band with Charlie, who once drafted a song called "I'm Like a Simile, You're a Metaphor," and Zach, who introduced us all to the concept of pataphor during a rehearsal.

This week a favorite lyric glided into my thoughts: "I'm not expecting that I'll end up with you just because I need to / I shouldn't count on having air around me just because I breathe." That's from the Loud Family's complicated meditation "Not Expecting Both Contempo and Classique," a song that also namechecks "the full devouring will of Aubrey Beardsley in his grave"; there is, as the kids say, a lot to unpack there.

It's been long enough since I first heard the song that I can no longer remember which heartbreak it evoked then. (I've got a guess or two, but on the whole it's a relief to know that I could forget.) I would have been in college—which is when I was most likely to know the name of the device Scott Miller used in that pair of lines. But I don't think I did know then, and it's driving me to distraction now. It's sort of—analogy by juxtaposition? It's not exactly an indirect metaphor (which omits the thing compared), and it's not just plain juxtaposition (which seems, in most examples I can find, to operate more like Shakespearean antithesis, creating contrast by adjacency). Thomas suggested "extrapolative analogy," which I think is more commonly applied in situations of logical fallacy, though I might have to get a JSTOR subscription to know for sure. 

​The efforts to figure it out have led me to some unexpected places, including discussions of programming language and math and whatever this is. I even dug into an old comp lit text, A Dictionary of Narratology (which at least reminded me that, as much as I like rhetoric, I'm glad not to be thinking about lit theory all day).

It's all beside the point of the song, of course. Any song has to work on its own terms, not by ticking a certain number of literary boxes; a rhetorical device can succeed without writer or audience knowing what it's called. But I really like knowing the names for things, and I wish I could figure this out.

Earlier this year, my homemade Roterfaden cover gave out (to be clear, my amateur stitchwork has lasted just fine, but the spring in the wallet clip has sprung its last). This has resulted in the music notebook getting a bit banged up. 

Today, in the grocery store, I reached into my bag for my list. I spotted a bit of paper with my handwriting, and I pulled. And then gazed in dismay at the scrap of lyrics I was holding. (Did I succeed in finding the list while I was in the store? No. Did I remember to buy coriander? Also no.)

Most of the pages that have come free represent either completed songs ("Wake," "Who You Fooling," "The Comeback Kid") or pieces I have tried and found wanting ("Hush Hush No No"), so I don't think I have fatally damaged any work in progress. I'm cranky all over again that Moleskine discontinued its hardcover staff-paper pocket notebooks. And part of me is just sitting back and marveling at this. Of course, of course, in a year when it sometimes seemed I was tearing my own life to pieces, I would destroy my music notebook. 

The thing is, though, that this image is perversely hopeful. The notebook looks like this because I refuse to stop carrying it. Music has been one of the few bright spots this year. I haven't given up on it, and it hasn't given up on me.

Ten years ago today, I convinced Charlie Crane, Thomas Zeitner, Zach Sigelko, and Sarah Scanlon to help me play some songs I'd written at a taping of Chicago Acoustic Underground. During that session, someone referred to the group as Liz and the Baguettes, everyone laughed, and that was that.

At the time, Charlie, Thomas, Zach, and I had already been playing together for a while as the Loudness War, itself in its second version (Loudness War Starship, I suppose). And Thomas, Zach, Sarah, and I were all in the Strange Tree production of The Dead Prince, a folk musical. When I wanted to expand my own sound beyond what I could do alone, it was natural to turn to the people with whom I was already making music.

The CAU session was not the first time we'd played music of mine—"Grace" had been in at least one Loudness War set earlier that year—but it was the first time we kind of recognized the project as something new. A few weeks later I played what was supposed to be a solo set at LiveWire, and the band joined me for most of it. By early 2014, we were recording an album at the Workshop Jones.

Since then the lineup has shifted a bit, ebbed and flowed as lives have changed. Liesl Downey joined us in the recording sessions for Everything I Think I Know Is Wrong. Andy Miles subbed in on drums once or twice. David Chervony played bass when Thomas went off to live in Hawaii. Julie Jurgens started singing harmony during the sessions for Highway Gothic. Every person has made it better.

Mostly this all feels like incredible luck. ​A lot of bands don't get to year ten. A lot of bands didn't survive COVID. A lot of songwriters burn out. A lot of bandmates can't stand each other. (It's possible that we have avoided quite a few problems by the simple expedient of never making enough money to afford cocaine.)

If you've listened, watched, clicked, clapped, danced, worn a T-shirt, booked us, shared a lineup, worked sound, stamped hands at the door: you're a part of this too. And I am so, so grateful. Thank you, friends.