Last night I received a lovely email from a reader who had just finished Manistique.
The wrote to tell me how much they enjoyed the book, and then said this:
”I enjoyed the world it was set within and the musicality with which the world was described… the rhythm, refrain, development, coda...”
Now I’m a musician and so this comment meant a lot to me. Even more so because I think about the music of prose a lot. I’m not the first one to talk about the rhythm of sentences, the rise, the fall or how they can speed up and drive ahead of the beat, or just lag behind it. It’s a concept I learned from my good friend Larry the bass player.
Larry is a master of building a groove with the drummer and getting in that sweet spot musicians know as “the pocket.” In a bluesy shuffle, he told me, you play just a hair behind the beat. This was something Ray Charles was a master of. There’s a great story of him calling out “1” to his band, then the bass player going and getting his instrument, tuning it, then walking back to his place… and then Ray called out “2.”
The song never drags, because the musicians are aware of the holding back. It sits in the pocket.
Or in a more driving song, think Chuck Berry, musicians will play just slightly ahead of the beat, pushing the song on… so much that you think the whole thing is going to drive off the cliff or end up like Keaton’s train in The General. But it doesn’t.
I often write first drafts to music. Sometimes after revision (which is in silence), I will put music back on and read, to see if I have captured the cadence. For the last two books, and the new one I’m working on, I’ve formed playlists for climactic scenes. In Manistique there is a climactic scene where Luke is in a large house, roaming the hallways looking for goons. In the scene in my head Little Anthony and the Imperials are playing, Shimmy shimmy ko ko bop, and then Tommy James does Draggin’ the line (followed of course by Hanky Panky, when the action cranks up.)
It’s vital to me to have a snap, a bop… or yes, to play in the pocket in these scenes.
For the new Luke Fischer, Three Minute Hero, there was a scene that I know needed a playlist. These songs don’t come to my while I’m writing, it’s more when I’m doing something without thinking about it—like torturing my body on the treadmill. A song will come on over my headphones, and I go, oh yeah that one.
For the following scene (I’m pretty sure it doesn’t spoil anything), I landed on a trio of tunes by The Stranglers: Golden Brown, Always the Sun, and their cover of 96 Tears. It was the last song that played repeatedly for this part of the scene.
Calvin had picked up his pace, he wasn’t quite jogging yet but he would be soon. He was a man with a purpose, and I think the purpose was to lay some people out. I made my way through the wheat field, shush-shushing through the stalks. I held my weapon of choice, a rusted shovel less pointed than a kid’s fork.
Some figures stood by the lone car on the airstrip, next to the duster plane and the Cessna. I scanned over to the hanger where the planes had come out, then further over to a farmhouse, and another out building. The name popped into my head, that’s what they call them, out buildings. I was going need some sort of out.
Calvin started to run. There was a shot, but I couldn’t tell if it came from him or someone on the strip. I suddenly felt naked, like one of those dolls you shoot at the fair, or targets, or fucking milk bottles or something. It didn’t matter. I needed to move. Now.
I peeled off right, heading for the farmhouse. I glanced over at Calvin, who for sure was firing now. He was also yelling. It was mostly a string of fucks. I cranked it, my body resisting the sprint, until I told it to shut up. My calves burned. More shots, but nothing in my direction. Or so it seemed. I reached the yard just as someone came out of the house. It was a guy my size wearing a tan suit and eating a sandwich.
“Who the hell are you?” he shouted at me with a mouthful of food.
I ran up to him and beaned him right in the head with the shovel. He hit the ground. I thought I’d put him out until he groaned, and swung an arm at me. He grabbed my leg and took me down with him.
“Come here you fucker.”
I’d dropped the spade, and now scrambled back to grab it. Tan-suit guy got on all fours and came at me like a rabid dog. Instead of foam at the mouth he had a long streak of mustard across his face, and a line of blood from where I’d nailed him. I grabbed the shovel and bounced up. Taking a step back, I wound up and swung for the bleachers. The spade clanged against his head and he went down for good.
If you haven’t already, you can listen to the voiceover of the author (me) reading this short scene. Click the play button at the start of the post.
And for extra fun, read this scene with this tune playing in the background.
I’ll leave it there for now. But shoot me a comment or a tweet… tell me how you use music in your writing, or how you think about the rhythm of sentences.
As always, thanks for reading… and listening. Tell your friends, write your local politician, and hug your cat. Until next time… there’s always the sun.