Bubbles up: The joy of simple songs' magic should always be enough | MARK HUGHES COBB
Since I first started trying to write songs, about age 13, I've envied those with the heartstring-quick-cut knack.
I've queried songwriters from Vernon's own Dan Penn ("The Dark End of the Street," "Cry Like a Baby," "I'm Your Puppet," "Do Right Woman, Do Right Man") to Richard Thompson, Aimee Mann, Hugh Martin, Brittany Howard, Randy Owen, Patterson Hood, Todd Snider, Miranda Lambert, Waylon Jennings, Daryl Hall, Steven Van Zandt, Carlene Carter, Ray Stevens, Harry Connick Jr., Kenny Chesney, Johnny Shines, Bryan Adams, Pat DiNizio, Adam Duritz, Jim James, Boz Scaggs, Chris Difford, and members of Widespread Panic, Soundgarden, Squeeze, the Doobie Brothers, Live, Chicago, the Go-Gos, The Bangles, Trout Fishing in America, Needtobreathe, the Avett Brothers, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and guess what?
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There's no trick.
Except .... Dan recalls being wrung out, trying to write a follow-up for the Boxtops, when Spooner Oldham, sitting at the same table, said "I could just cry like a baby."
Ding.
Bobby Braddock and Curly Putnam came up with an idea that started "He said, 'I'll love you 'til I die.' She told him 'You'll forget in time.' " George Jones called it "morbid." His producer toted an inch-thick book of ongoing rewrites. Fast-forward 18 months, and folks began weeping at the 1:50 mark as the gut-punch realization kicks in. "He Stopped Loving Her Today" revived Jones' career, became iconic.
That churn of write, rewrite, add a bridge, rewrite, try another tack, listen to a producer, ignore a producer, listen to the singer, cave in to the singer, is not atypical. It don't come easy, sayeth Ringo Starr, with a little help from friend George Harrison. Despite their other pal, the bass player, oozing melodies the way the rest of us produce sweat in this 2023 swelter, songwriting takes craft, elbow grease, and sometimes a trace of luck.
Magic happens when rhythm and melody hook you (the pledge: something familiar, or at least bypassing attempts at dissection), the words move you (the turn: something unexpected happens, a new way of seeing or thinking or feeling), and et voila, the prestige: It rolls together within 3:33 (or 7:47, if you're prog-rock), and for the rest of your days, you vividly recall where and who you were when you first got tricked.
While I wouldn't call myself a Parrothead — averse to joining in general and bandwagons in particular — I often enjoyed Jimmy Buffett's easy-breezy way with no-apparent-sweat magic. I can hum, and have played, "Come Monday" and "A Pirate Looks at 40" a time or three, and as a beach bum on spring break, crooned along with pals and gals on that one song suggesting we imbibe and have a glorious time (G-rated version).
That could reefer, er, refer, to several from his ouevre, but I mean the one with a bluntly salacious word, written as a parody of country, like John Prine and Steve Goodman's "You Never Even Called Me By My Name." Buffett wrote "Why Don't We .... " etc, under the pseudonym Marvin Gardens. Prine didn't even want to be credited for his part in Goodman's song, not wishing to offend the country community.
Funny how otherwise clever writers can misunderstand our craving for musical whimsy and heartache.
For those who dismiss Margaritaville, give "Come Monday" a listen. The backing's syrupy for my taste, but relish the difficult simplicity of: "And darlin' since I love you so/that's the reason I just let you go."
It's more poignant when you realize it was true: Jimmy did find his way back to then-girlfriend Jane, who became his second wife, mother to their three kids, and last week, his widow.
Will Kimbrough is another Mobile-raised singer-songwriter-guitar wizard-producer, one of many mourning the loss of a friend and fellow artist, a guy who spent his craft making things lighter, a dose funnier, and often wittily prettier, for anyone who choose to sail along.
Will would never be so crass as to use an occasion of mourning to draw attention to himself, but I'm the guy who raised his paw when crass was ladled out, misunderstanding it for "class."
Will and Jimmy collaborated on projects, became pals and compatriots. Will's a beautiful singer, and one of the most fluid and creative guitarists alive, hence the nickname "alien," though I prefer "wizard." He's played and sung with the Coral Reefer Band live and in studios; Will and Jimmy co-wrote tunes that appeared on the 21st century Buffett discs.
During a 2006 talk for his album "Americanitis," and a Bama Theatre performance, Will told me a story that broke down to "So I'm sitting on the beach in St. Barth's, writing with Jimmy, when up walks Roger Waters …. After 30 years in the business, I'm FINALLY a rock star." In his blog, Will expanded on that glorious time, concluding with "Oh, the life of a would-be internationally licensed rock star."
Will co-wrote one titled "Bubbles Up" (a scuba term for finding your way to the surface when you've gotten disoriented). Jimmy cut it before his tragic illness took over: "So when the journey gets long/just know that you are loved/there's light up above/and the joy, there is always enough/Bubbles up."
Ringo's old bass player posted: "... We had a real fun session and he played me some of his new songs. One, in particular, I loved was the song, ‘Bubbles Up.' And I told him that not only was the song great but the vocal was probably the best I’ve heard him sing ever….
"So long, Jim. You are a very special man and friend and it was a great privilege to get to know you and love you. Bubbles up, my friend.
"Love, Paul."
By God, St. Michael and St. George, I believe Sir Paul McCartney just knighted Will Kimbrough an internationally licensed rock star.
The joy should always be enough.
Reach Tusk Editor Mark Hughes Cobb at [email protected].
This article originally appeared on The Tuscaloosa News: There's light up above, you are loved: bubbles up | MARK HUGHES COBB
