The word “saudade” (sow-DAH-djee) is at the heart of bossa nova. While difficult to translate, it means, roughly, a longing, yearning and sadness, all felt simultaneously. It’s often associated with homesickness, but it can apply to a feeling for a person or thing also. The most poetic translation I’ve seen for it is “happy sad.”
From the moment I first saw those two words together, I knew I wanted to write a song with that title. Without getting too analytical about it, I believe that my basic disposition is, and always has been, happy sad. I’ll sometimes see pictures of myself when I was a little kid, like three or four years old, and I have such a melancholy expression on my face. What could possibly be weighing on my mind? By all accounts, I was a pretty happy kid. But there was always an undercurrent of sadness there too.
I think that’s one of the reasons I’m so attracted to Brazilian music. French music too.
I wrote the melody to this song and tried to put words to it. Months passed. Nothing stuck except that title line. Finally, I gave the melody to one of my favorite collaborators, Boo Hewerdine. Accomplished pro that he is, he came back to me in a matter of days with the perfect lyric.
There’s an alternate version of this song with a lush string chart. But in the end, we felt like the combination of the trombone and the alto flute were a more complimentary color to Molly’s vocal, and the song.
This was written during a Jill Sobule recording session. As I recall, her producer Brad Jones was working on a vocal comp and there was an hour or so of downtime. So Jill, Robin Eaton and I started to mess around at the Wurlitzer electric piano in the studio, and out popped this song. We finished it just as Brad was finishing his comp, and with the song fresh out of the oven, we cut a version that ended up on Jill’s Underdog Victorious record. A few years later, Molly and I recorded it for the Swan Dive album. It’s a deceptive song. Sweet on the outside, dark on the inside.
In its life beyond our albums, it was featured on an episode of The L Word, and used for an in-store compilation sold in the Meijer discount store chain. In the second case, I’m pretty sure they didn’t listen very closely to the lyrics.
The performance segment of the video, directed by our brilliant friend Kip Kubin, was filmed in New Harmony, Indiana, inside the garden labyrinth. Surely one of the most picturesque settings ever for a video. That’s Molly’s nephew Elliot on pedal steel. He doesn’t actually play, but he did a great job miming it. The Mexican dream sequence stuff was shot at Kip’s house. I enjoyed shrinking inside my suit, and becoming a mustachioed baby.
I’m delighted that Microcosmodischi is making this the lead track.
Here’s another song written in Toronto. That city has been good for my creativity. This time, I was there as part of the Creative Coalition, a weeklong event that brought songwriters together for co-writing and recording. There were about thirty of us in attendance. We’d meet every morning at a local studio, be assigned our partners for the day, then get down to writing and recording. The goal was to have something finished to play by the end of the night. A lot of pressure, but a blast. I like the kind of friendly competition that springs up in those situations. A touch of the Brill Building in the early ’60s.
My partner on this song was Rebecca Valadez, a Latin Grammy winning vocalist with a terrific voice, and a silly sense of humor. It was one of those songs that seems to get written in between jokes, one-liners and lots of laughter. Rebecca were sitting together in the corner of a dimly lit room. That much I remember. There was a real sweetness about the melody and lyric that made us think it would be a great wedding song.
The recording came together easily, and the beautiful sax solo is by my old friend Bryan Cumming. He used to play with Molly and I a hundred years ago in another band, Wild About Harry.
Back in the days when songwriters wore shirts and ties, there was a tradition of writing English lyrics to foreign melodies. Johnny Mercer did it for “Autumn Leaves.” Sam L. Lewis did it for “Gloomy Sunday.” Paul Anka did it for “My Way.” I guess the romance of that appealed to me, because during a visit to Korea, when I heard a band called Clazziquai play a lovely bossa tune, I immediately wanted to write English lyrics to it. Oddly, the song already shared a title, “Gentle Rain,” with a fairly well-known bossa tune written in the ‘60s by Luiz Bonfa. As I approached the melody, I tried to change the title, but couldn’t find anything that fit as well. So I just wrote my lyric around the existing title. I guess the world could use a little more gentle rain.
I was in Toronto, teaching a songwriting workshop at Humber College. The special guest lecturer for the week was Ron Sexsmith. I’d always liked Ron’s records, especially his second one called Other Songs. It’s full of great tracks – “Strawberry Blonde,” “Pretty Little Cemetery,” “Child Star . . . ” After Ron’s talk, he played a few songs from his new album, Time Being. I bought a copy and took it back to the hotel that evening to listen through headphones. As soon as it was through, I picked up my guitar and out popped the whole melody to “You Deserve A Song,” with the title attached. I’d been wanting to write a song for my girlfriend, and this seemed perfect. Romantic, sweet, simple. While it doesn’t sound anything like Ron Sexsmith, I think it was his album that somehow made the song possible. It’s mysterious how that happens. I remember talking to Ben Folds about this once. This thing of listening to a record, then sitting down to write, while you’re still under its influence. He called it “taking an impression.” I like that.
A week later, my friend Angela Kaset helped me finish the lyric. “A secret serenade that holds you in its sway.” Good line. Again, it was recorded at home on the laptop. Jim Hoke played the breathy Stan Getz-style sax. I keep hoping that this song gets picked up for a movie. C’mon, music supervisors.
Oh, after the album came out, I sent an mp3 of the song to Ron, letting him know that his album inspired me. I got a nice email back, saying he thought the song was great. That meant a lot.
The word “saudade” (sow-DAH-djee) is at the heart of bossa nova. While difficult to translate, it means, roughly, a longing, yearning and sadness, all felt simultaneously. It’s often associated with homesickness, but it can apply to a feeling for a person or thing also. The most poetic translation I’ve seen for it is “happy sad.” 
