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Episode 6: A Songwriter Is A Songwriter · Women's Writes

• 0:03
  Hi, I'm Parker Welling, and this is Women's Writes.
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  I've spent my career writing songs in Nashville,
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  and on these many episodes, I'm taking you with
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  me on deep dives behind songs and songwriting,
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  stories, questions, history, and creative mysteries
• 0:37
  I can't stop thinking about. Let's get into it.
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  There's a song I can't stop thinking about, because
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  you will literally never guess who wrote it.
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  The lyric goes, trying to stay the size you think
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  that I should stay. I used to dream about what
• 0:54
  I would be. Last night, I dreamed about a washing
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  machine, and it's called, I Can't Do That Anymore.
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  It was recorded by Faith Hill, and it was a big
• 1:01
  hit for her. It's a great song, but the part
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  I can't stop thinking about is that it was written
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  by a man, by himself, and not just anybody, somebody
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  you know, and you probably would never expect.
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  Any guesses? It was Alan Jackson. I know, it's
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  crazy, how did Alan Jackson, by himself, write
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  the struggle of a housewife losing herself so
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  well? Obviously I don't know what Alan was pulling
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  from when he wrote that song, and that's kind
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  of the point. Alan may not have known what it
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  felt like to lose himself as a housewife inside
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  a marriage, but I've started wondering if empathy
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  in songwriting isn't about perfectly imagining
• 1:40
  somebody else's feelings from scratch. Maybe
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  it's finding the feeling in somebody else's story
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  that you already know from yours. The details
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  don't have to match. And I've actually watched
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  that happen in one of my own songs. When I walked
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  into the room to write Blue Tacoma with Russell
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  Dickerson and Casey Brown, I already had the
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  chorus. And that chorus started in a really specific
• 2:01
  place. An ex -boyfriend of mine, somebody I had
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  taken a ton of road trips with, had bought a
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  Toyota Tacoma. And for whatever reason, that
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  one detail sent me down a path. So when I wrote
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  that chorus, I was looking backward. I was reliving
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  the good parts of a relationship that was over,
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  romanticizing the memories a little bit through
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  heartbreak of knowing that they were always going
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  to be in the past. Russell heard the exact same
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  chorus and looked in the opposite direction.
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  He was looking at the present. He heard Kailey,
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  his wife. I was looking backward at something
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  that had ended and Russell was looking around
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  at something he still had. Past and present,
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  heartbreak and love, two completely different
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  truths and somehow the same chorus held both
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  of them. And that oddly specific detail from
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  my life, the real Tacoma, became so real in Russell's
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  version of the song that after we wrote it, he
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  and Kailey rented one and drove it down the Pacific
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  Coast Highway. Which is kind of incredible if
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  you think about it. A truck from one relationship
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  became the vehicle, literally and figuratively,
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  for Russell to tell a story about his. And I
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  think maybe a song is big enough to hold more
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  than one truth. And I think that's the part where
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  songwriters get interesting, because the details
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  are what make the feeling real. A Tacoma is specific.
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  A washing machine is specific. You may not have
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  either one in your story, but the specificity
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  gives you somewhere to enter it. Maybe that's
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  why the songwriter doesn't have to hand the artist
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  their experience. We just have to be honest enough
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  about ours that it gives them somewhere to access
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  theirs. The details don't tell them what to feel.
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  They give the feeling somewhere to live. And
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  once an artist hears the song, they get to do
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  the same thing. They find their own door. Sarah
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  Buxton, Deanna Bryant, and Dave Berg wrote Stupid
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  Boy. Sarah recorded it first, and then Keith
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  Urban heard it, and Keith recorded Stupid Boy.
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  Think about how interesting that is. The same
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  basic song moves from a woman singing it to a
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  man singing it. And Keith doesn't suddenly need
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  to have Sarah's experience for the song to work.
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  He needs to find his experience inside it. And
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  we don't sit there listening to the record thinking,
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  wait a minute, who's allowed to feel this? We
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  just ask the question we ask of every great performance.
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  Do I believe you? And we do. And once I started
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  looking at it this way, I started seeing it everywhere.
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  Women writing songs for men, men writing songs
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  for women, songs moving from one gender to another,
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  one life to another, one truth to another. And
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  once the record starts, none of it really matters.
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  You don't hear crazy and think a man wrote this.
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  And you don't hear, my heroes have always been
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  cowboys, and think, a woman wrote this. But a
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  man wrote crazy, and a woman wrote, my heroes
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  have always been cowboys. You hear Patsy, you
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  hear Willie, you hear the song. And maybe if
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  we did our job well enough, you hear yourself.
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  And I think that's the simplest answer. A songwriter
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  is a songwriter. Because the artist isn't the
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  last person who gets to find themselves in a
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  song. You do it too, the listener. I brought
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  blew Tacoma into a room carrying one story. Russell
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  heard another. Then Russell recorded it. He sent
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  it out into the world. And now somebody hears
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  that song and thinks about the person sitting
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  next to them. Maybe they hear a relationship
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  they're right in the middle of. Maybe they hear
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  a beginning of something. Maybe they hear the
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  person they hope they're still driving around
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  with 40 years from now. And I can't help but
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  wonder if somebody out there hears exactly what
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  I heard when I wrote it. Maybe somebody else
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  is driving around, romanticizing the past, missing
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  somebody, remembering the good parts a little
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  more clearly than the bad ones. They don't know
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  that's where the song started for me, and they
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  don't have to. My story gave Russell somewhere
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  to put his, and Russell's record gave somebody
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  else somewhere to put theirs. Same words, different
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  people, different lives, different truths, and
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  none of them cancel the others out. And I think
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  that's what happens to a great song once you
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  let it go. It doesn't become less true as it
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  moves further away from the person who wrote
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  it. It gets bigger. It makes room. Maybe empathy
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  isn't perfectly understanding an experience you've
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  never had. Maybe it's finding the feeling in
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  somebody else's story that you already know from
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  yours. That's how Alan Jackson can write Faith
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  Hill. And that's how I can write a chorus out
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  of Heartbreak and Russell can hear the love of
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  his life. That's how somebody we'll never meet
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  can hear that same song and find their own life
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  inside of it. The details belong to us. The feelings
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  belong to everybody. Our truths don't even have
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  to be the same, because a great song is big enough
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  to hold more than one truth. You hear the writer.
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  You hear the artist. You hear the song. And maybe,
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  if we did our job well enough, you hear yourself.
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  And I think that's the whole thing. A songwriter
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  is a songwriter.