Problems with a singing MC . . .

[Lifelongdagger]

I want my MC to break into song, but am having difficulty in portaying the scene. I know all the show/tell arguments, and wondered where singing fits in here. I want to show how the character sings - first mumbling, then building to a crescendo, then finishing in a plaintive, reflective tone and I also want to show the lyrics, as he sings them. This all seems incredibly complicated, and I would treasure any advice that you good people might have to offer.

Many thanks,

Ian

[althrasher]

Maybe you could break up the lyrics and describe the musical inflection as he sings each line? I don't know, though. I don't think you need to put all that explanation in there. Music is ineffable for a reason.

[Toothpaste]

I have a few songs in my book.

You could try something like.



He looked around, and quietly began to sing:

I love singing
singing fun
sing sing sing
everyone

As he continued, his confidence grew, as did his voice:

Singing rules
life is good
singing is da bomb
life is swell

He was deep in his own thoughts now, his voice was still loud, but his gaze was far off, reflective.

And now that I sing
and now that I sing
and now that I sing
I sing all the tiiiiiiiiiiiiiime!

[Willowmound]

Toothpaste, that's beautiful.

[Lifelongdagger]

Thanks Althrasher and toothpaste,

I can see what you mean about the ineffability of song, Althrasher, it's just that being able to construct this scene will, I hope, help the reader into the tortured inner world of the MC.

Toothpaste,
I had already gone with almost exactly as you suggested, and I think it works well. I just wasn't sure if this was the accepted form.

Many thanks,

Ian

[Zelenka]

I had a wannabe opera singer in the first draft of my fantasy novel, and I described her singing, though it was easier there because she was meant to be absolutely awful. It was more of a send-up, so I usually would say something like 'he heard a sound like a cat caught in a mangle, then slowly reaslied there were words as well as shrieks...' then I would put a bit of the lyrics in, usually dire. I did sometimes write the lyrics a little phonetically, if she was wailing one particular word, as in 'My love, I tear out my heart for theeeeee!' which was probably a bit silly but I was going for humour.

[maestrowork]

Yip. Just break the lyrics up, and describe the whole like you would any other kind of action.

And here's a scene from The Pacific Between:

“I don’t know any of these songs,” I whine. I sit on the hardwood floor. Someone thrusts a microphone in my hand.

“How about My Way?”

“Oh God.”

“Here is a good one—You Light Up My Life.”

“Oh God.”

“How about The Sounds of Silence?”

“No. Hell, no.”

“Don’t be difficult, Greg.”

“I’m not. I don’t know any of these songs.”

“Everyone knows New York, New York.”

“Stop this madness.”

“Greg, pick something already.”

“Total Eclipse of the Heart?”

The DVD spins and a lovely rose garden appears on the TV screen. A young Asian couple runs hand-in-hand along a stone path, in slow motion, flipping their heads side to side. They’re so incredibly happy together that it seems they’ll turn into giant clams. The cheesy orchestration swells, and the words bubble in purple across the screen. I start out pretty well—one note at a time, I can pretty much keep up with the annoying synthesizer music. Then the chorus picks up and I’m quickly lost. The music rushes like a roller coaster in a downhill spiral. I try to keep up. Eventually, I give up and just belt it out. By the last stretch of crescendos, I’m rowdily screeching at the top of my lungs.

[Lifelongdagger]

Thanks so much for the help, guys.

Any suggestions on the following :


Henry found the platform deep under ground, and waited. He heard the scampering of rats, and edged closer to the platform edge to watch them dart between the metal bars of the tracks, in and out of the daytime debris. The silence was profound, and the air stale and dead. He became cold, and clasped his jacket around him. As he leant back against the platform wall, he closed his eyes, and a tune popped into his head. He began to mumble along, hoarse and low.

'How strange it was, how sweet and strange,
There was never a dream to compare
With those hazy, crazy nights we met
When a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.'

He sang the next verse a little louder, now lost in a faded memory, and reached a crescendo with the last line.

'This heart of mine beat loud and fast
Like a merry-go-round in a fair.
We were dancing cheek to cheek
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.'

A train screeched out of the tunnel, and stopped in front of him. Several passengers alighted, and passed him on their way to the surface. He was aware of their mirth, and of their pointing, but was not a part of their world and began the final verse quietly, sensitively, enunciating the final line barely above a whisper, tears streaming down his face.

'When dawn came stealing up all gold and blue
To interrupt our rendezvous,
I still remember how you smiled and said,
Was that a dream or was it true?'

Alone again, he sank to the floor, his eyes wide and vacant, and the train pulled steadily away.

[Toothpaste]

I think that works! And can I say how much I love that song! I had to learn that song in my last year of highschool . . . though we only sang the first bit, not this part, but that last line with the nightingale was always my favourite melodically.

[mikeland]

If you're still looking for confirmation that you're on the right track, check out pp. 247-8 in The Gathering by Anne Enright (US trade paperback edition). Recent book, similar formatting, but no italics.

[job]

Here's one example, just to add to excellent examples above.


The song starts out in the POV of an observer. Here's what she sees and hears ...


Down the Lane, two men took shape in the fog. The big one on the right was upright but unsteady on his pins. The scrawny-looking cove on the left was holding them both up.

They were roaring drunk, which wasn't an astonishment in this street. They were singing.


". . . A pretty little oyster girl I chanced for to meet.
I lifted up her basket lid and boldly I did peek,
just to see if she haaaad any oysters."

Doyle whistled a long irritated breath out between his teeth. "That's 'im. Kendall's the big man on the right. Cup-shot, the both of them." He wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat. "Just what I need. Drunks with knives."


That is the POV character reacting to the song and to the singer.
The song itself isn't important.
What other people are thinking about and talking about is important.

Now we go into 125 words of scene description, ending with her comment on the song ... (still in the girl's POV)


Voices carried in the rain. She knew the song about the oyster girl. It warned a man not to trust a lass he met on the streets. Sadly true.

This brings us to a bit more dialog, the end of the chapter. The next chapter opens in the POV of the singer. There's 180 words easing us into the scene. While this other action is going on, we don't hear the words of the song. We just skip them. Then,



A fine day. An excellent day. More than enough reason to raise his voice in song, entertaining Katherine Lane.

"Have you got a little room that's empty and nearby,
Where me and my pretty little oyster girl may lie . . ."

He tipped his head back and let rain fall on his face. Heaven. He'd been back less than a week, home from the heat and stink of Corfu and points east. The cold pulled the poisons out of his lungs. It was good to breathe weather with some weight to it.
Adrian sang off-key, rapping his cane along the slats and shutters in time with the music. He wasn't drunk. Adrian didn't get drunk, not in his profession. He just couldn't sing worth a damn.

"While we bargain for her basket of oysters."

The brothels were islands of warmth and light floating in the fog. Upstairs, on the second floor, a couple of black-skinned ladies leaned out the window with their long oiled hair hanging down. The crimson and yellow robes across their shoulders were the brightest thing in these streets. Their little dark breasts were propped up naked on their arms, looking chilly. He looked like a man with coin in his pocket and sounded drunk enough to squander it. They called after him as he passed, raucous as seagulls, selling themselves. He waved and kept on singing.

"We hadn't been upstairs for a quarter hour or more
When the pretty little oyster girl astarted for the door.
She'd gone and picked me pocket and then down the stairs she tore."

The street bucked under him in a heavy groundswell. He rode it out. Didn't even stumble. Walking the bridge taught you to keep your feet. The captain had to set an example. Adrian didn't need to go propping him up. He didn't have to grin like that either.

"She left me with a basketful of--"

A woman's scream of terror and pain cut the fog.


The general idea is that the song is part of the ongoing action. It's part of the scene. Things happen around, and under, and behind it. People think about things while the song is going onward. They react to and think about the song.

The song itself sets out a timeline. All the other action has to march to the time it takes to sing the song. And you pick the length of the sections of song because they work with what else you're doing.

The rest of the stuff going forward determines which lines get 'heard' and which are just assumed to have passed
The whole song isn't here.

Now ... if you want to include every line of the song ... you can't do this.
Then you need big chunks.

Do you need the whole song for some reason?
Or do you really need the reactions to this singing?


*********************
So.
Lookit ...

Henry found the platform deep under ground, and waited. He heard the scampering of rats, and edged closer to the platform edge to watch them dart between the metal bars of the tracks, in and out of the daytime debris. The silence was profound, and the air stale and dead. He became cold, and clasped his jacket around him. As he leant back against the platform wall, he closed his eyes, and a tune popped into his head. He began to mumble along, hoarse and low.

'How strange it was, how sweet and strange,
There was never a dream to compare
With those hazy, crazy nights we met
When a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.'

He sang the next verse a little louder, now lost in a faded memory, and reached a crescendo with the last line.

Maybe you want to mix it up a little:


Henry found the platform deep under ground. Rats scampered.. He edged close to the platform edge. He began to mumble along, hoarse and low.

'How strange it was, how sweet and strange,
There was never a dream to compare ..."

Rats darted between the metal bars of the tracks, in and out. In and out.

" ... a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square."

The silence around him was profound, the air stale and dead. He became cold, and clasped his jacket around him. He sang a little louder.

"Like a merry-go-round in a fair.
We were dancing ..."

Maybe think about what parts of the song have the most meaning.