First and foremost, songs are written for the songwriter. These exorcisms can be about any aspect of the (individual) human condition, and can cover any topic, but they are solely created for the purpose of creation. The only real reason for their existence is to create something that wasn't there before. It is not to say that nobody will hear these, it is that any attention they receive is a (potentially unwanted in the cases of some post death releases) bonus. In Freudian terms, they are the ID: the completely unselfconcious, instinctive, untarnished product. The labour of love, or as Alan Moore would have it, Magic. From my own pick of this year's albums the likes of Nick Cave, David Lynch's work with Sparklehorse and Dangermouse, Will Oldham and Glenn Branca fit this model; Rufus Wainwright's All Days Are Nights is a lament to Kate McGarigle, his late mother. Bon Iver's 2008 minimalist post-mortem of lost love in For Emma, Forever Ago is another. Beethoven continued to create even though he couldn't hear his own creations.
Even if these were the only musicians left in the world, their compulsion to create would draw them towards making music for creation's sake. This period seems to bookend the careers of many great musicians; most artists start out writing for themselves, and if they reach an audience and persevere, they continue to write for themselves. Springsteen, Roky Erickson, Teenage Fanclub, Paul Weller and Gil-Scott Heron are all well into their musical careers, but have released albums in 2010 that there wasn't necessarily huge demand for, but the world is a much better place for having. Create it, set it free and if it flies then so be it.
Perhaps it is that they are now free of financial restrictions, but I'd like to think it is because they don't know what else to do but create and articulate. Because of the purity of their endeavours it exudes verisimilitude (in joke for Teenage Fanclub fans) and finds an audience.
It's easy to say that this is the most noble of groups. Perhaps it is; as a society people have rightly become more and more skeptical of marketing and advertising that self expression that is free of outside influences becomes more and more rare. It is, however, worth noting that some of the greatest ever works of art were commissions. Nick Cave and Warren Ellis's soundtrack work for The Proposition and The Assasination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford are undoubtedly works of genius, but what is a soundtrack if not a hired gun (pun intended) to aid comprehension of the film? Clearly there is a place for the more calculated, knowing work within Art.
Which brings me to the second group of song "owners" - the audience (nothing to do with Sophie Ellis Bextor). By "audience" I do not refer to everyone who hears the song, I mean everyone who "gets" the song or piece of music. Hear the vast majority of music played on the radio and you will very rarely listen. You will *hear it*, maybe even sing along, but there will not be enough in it to make you comprehend or empathise with the emotions conveyed. Music that forces you to listen to "what is being said" (both verbally and/or musically) is special, and when you get this connection - this gift from the writer - you become "the audience". At this point both the audience and the writer can have some ownership of the "soul" of the song - the intangible, magical part that can make you dance, smile, cry, riot or contemplate.
Listen to artists such as The Dresden Dolls, Momus or Tindersticks and it is the level of intimate detail that appeals and makes these songs resonate. Not everyone who loves Arab Strap has had a drugs fuelled weekend in Scotland that ended with their friend eating a bag of sugar, but such personal narrative (the key word!) is endearing. I believe it was Dizzee Rascal who said "just because he wrote Baa Baa black sheep doesn't make him a shepherd". It is for this reason that fans of bands like The Smiths, Bowie or Manic Street Preachers get so terratorial about their favourites. These acts don't provide soundtracks to the lives of their fans, they define them.
It is in the final group where ownership of a song gets into difficulties. When a song is owned by everyone it can be the perfect representation of an era or cultural event - think of how often The Beatles are used to define the 60's, or Hendrix's take on Dylan is used over images of the Vietnam War. It is also the most difficult area to express artistically. Whether it is because there is an intrinsic distrust of mass consensus, whether the magic of a song is dilluted by so many admirers or whether it is a betrayal of our trust and something that seemed so personal, it is particularly difficult for ownership to change from an audience to everyone.
That is not to say that all "everyone" songs are without merit. Amongst my favourite pieces of music are Reach Out (I'll Be There) by The Four Tops and Al Green's version of I Say A Little Prayer. Anyone who has been at a football match, or a masterful stadium show knows that there is a special attraction to such tribal ritual. There are groups and individuals who can regain mass appeal without losing sight of their Art. Pop can be a vibrant exciting medium that has produced that rarest of beasts - music for the heart, the head and the feet at the same time. In the past year I have bought albums by Hella and Sun 0))) but I have enjoyed Lady Gaga's Bad Romance and Tinie Tempah's Pass Out, the latter of which is a brilliantly thrilling piece of inventive pop. It has a danger, darkness and edginess to it that has been common in great Pop music from Elvis to Frankie Goes To Hollywood.
Problems arise when an act that is held dearly on a personal level becomes public property. Any number of Biffy Clyro fans are feeling betrayal over their band's single Many of Horror being sanitised and renamed for whichever of this year's particularly vaccuous contenders won X-Factor. Given that they are a band which cultivates the same passionate fanbase that took the anti-Cowell Rage Against The Machine to Christmas number one last year, the effects may be far reaching. Snow Patrol fell into the same trap, as have Kings of Leon. I will admit to having mixed feelings when a Mogwai track was used in Sex In the City and having to convince myself of the merits of the Manic Street Preachers "one last shot at mass consumption" on Strictly Come Dancing. Bob Dylan shilling coffee is one of the greatest tragedies of the last century. Obviously, everybody needs a payday, but only if the short term gain outweighs the long-term damage. Notoriety on your own terms is the ultimate.
Given that we attach such personal values to songs as an audience, it is little wonder that we feel cheated when we lose our stake in the ownership to people who haven't put in the hours. As Nirvana once sang "he's the one who likes all our pretty songs and he likes to sing along, and he likes to shoot his gun but he knows not what it means". Great songs can be very fragile things. Unchained Melody was once a particularly beautiful musical number, but has been defiled by so many unworthy suitors that it's greatness is lost, probably for at least a generation.
As Stewart Lee points out in his excellent treatise on comedy That's How I Escaped My Certain Fate, it is absolutely necessary to cull, refine and challenge the less dedicated members of a fanbase with more questioning work. Not only does this mean that the artist is free to go wherever they want creatively, but it shows in great detail the required symbiosis between artist/performer and audience. Nobody wants to play to an empty room, but nobody wants to be stuck playing karaoke versions of songs they have performed thousands of times over. The medium is the message, we need to make sure the message gets through.
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