Changing the Words

People get song lyrics wrong. They mishear them, or they appropriate them to better fit their own moods, their own philosophies, their own life situations. They create parodies, intentionally or not.

In my life, I’ve done all of these things quite a bit.

But then, most of us have. I have distinctive memories of a college open mic night, and one friend singing Avril Lavigne’s “I’m With You,” only to unironically sing that “it’s a damp, cold night” as opposed to the actual words, describing it as “a damn cold night.” Another friend snickered at the implication of a more naïve understanding of the lyrics, or that the singer—not prone to cursing—had consciously changed them. I didn’t point out the irony that knowing, and taking so seriously Avril Lavigne lyrics didn’t necessarily boost my friend’s credibility as a music aficionado, or the rougher-around-the-edges persona she projected.

I think that my tendency to change the words—intentionally or not—relates to the degree to which I privilege words in the first place. I love music—instrumentation, rhythm, vocal technique, etc.—to no end, but I haven’t studied these elements in any formal way and am not naturally predisposed to understand them. I consider myself to have started out with some innate skill with words, amplified by a BA in English and two graduate degrees in writing. In sum, my comprehension of music, relative to words, is limited to say the least.

So it is that I take to the lyrics, analyzing them, memorizing them, and bending them to my worldview in ways that are not always intellectually honest, fair to the songwriter’s intentions, or, frankly accurate. This tendency took on a new dimension after my son was born.

I sing to Riley a lot. I sang to him when he was still in Heather’s belly, the Beatles song “I Will,” and sang it to him again in the hospital and most days after. But just one song won’t do over the course of even a few days, let alone months or years. “I Will” came to sometimes leads off a three-song Beatles set, followed by “In My Life” and “You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away” (sometimes a fourth song, “Help,” for good measure). Or sometimes I segue from it to “Rainbow Connection.” Billy Joel’s “The Longest Time” and “Na Na Hey Hey (Kiss Him Goodbye)” in the style of The Nylons are go-tos for diaper changes and bath time.

And there are nighttime songs. Sometimes, the process of falling asleep can take hours and thus involves a deep roster of deep cuts—whatever songs I can think of enough words from to justify trying to sing. The standards are “Leaving on a Jet Plane,” which I began singing to Riley in those first weeks of his life, and “Tonight You Belong To Me,” which Heather introduced around the same time.

There’s something frightening about laying down a baby to sleep. As Riley has grown older—mobile and curious—he’s probably objectively more dangerous to himself in his waking state. And yet, there remains a fear: what if he were to fall asleep and not wake up?

So it was that from very early on, we changed key words in these makeshift lullabies. The first verse of “Jet Plane” includes the words, “I’m ready, I’m so lonesome I could die.” The idea of Riley feeling lonesome was sad enough, but the idea of introducing the concept he might die? Unthinkable. So it was that, for me, these words became “I’m ready, I’m so lonesome I could cry” evermore.

And “Tonight?” With its, “I know, in the dawn, that you will be gone?” Unacceptable. Heather and I both remember changing it, so I can’t say with certainty who actually made the modification first, but it became for us both, “I know, in the dawn, that you will never be gone.”

What are these idiosyncrasies taken to obsessive extremes? Has the weight of parenthood, and our love of this child turned two moderately anxious people into superstitious zealots?

Maybe so, but lest you think that every change of words I’ve introduced to my son has such gravitas, I should also note that, over time, I’ve changed “Tonight’s” “My darling, I know,” to “my Riley, I know,” not out of fear, but to personalize it. So he can hear his name an extra time. That, and the lilt of the syllables of his name feels more playful, a smidge more like a lullaby to my ear.

And “The Longest Time,” has its, “I had second thoughts at the start. I said to myself, ‘hold onto your heart,’” demonstrating a wary speaker who has been hurt in romance before. My version, sung for my son?

I had second thoughts at the start. I said to myself, hold onto your farts.

Often as not, I squeeze in a mouth-fart-sound between that and the next lyrics, or if he’s on the changing table, blow in his tummy. More often than not he laughs.

So it is that we make our own music.