#7: Songwriting

The annex had a whiteboard, a projector hooked to the ceiling, desks that held two at a time, and the scent of paint primer. Every trainee had their instrument, as was required.

Matt Kovatar stood at the front of the annex with a slideshow pointer in his hand. An official Minarin slideshow on songwriting projected on the board, with an example of a written work.

“As you can see, we have a set of chords above the lyrics, and they’re all timed with the rhythm. The CEO wrote this, and he went as simple as possible for even beginners to understand.” Matt disagreed with the way this example was written. He narrowed his sharp eyes whenever he stopped speaking. “Listen, in this class you can use these same chords, but for the good of your craft, I suggest you try something different.”

Jeff sat in the middle row. As he looked more and more at the lyrics and chords, the emptier he felt. This wasn’t a recorded song as far as he knew, but it had less substance with what was on the radio this past year. He kept his back straight, and his eyes up front. Any other posture was rude against his teacher.

“You might have a collection of your own lyrics. Go ahead and use it if we haven’t heard it. Just put it on the notepad we’ve provided. Otherwise, put pen to paper.” Matt ended the slideshow. “If you have any questions, don’t be afraid to ask. I might have a spiky jacket, but I’m not that scary.”

While the trainees began work, he walked around them, making sure they were on task. A few sixteen-year-olds gathered around one another, speaking over the top of the whole class.

“Hey!” Matt yelled. “Keep your voices down! We’re here to sing, not chat.”

Though the yell was directed elsewhere, Jeff flinched while tuning his amplifier. He played a bassline, then, with one ready-made stanza, he sang along and added the chords in line with the words as shown on the slideshow. When Matt loomed over him, he jumped again, then caught his breath.

A man with hawk eyes and few words, Matt was like a guardian spirit.

With a solid bassline, he wrote a chorus unlike the first stanza, then changed up the chords. On the side of the page, he added staves and some notes. The next time Matt passed around him, perhaps he would notice and praise him.

Matt was the only person he had the courage to speak to in this class, and that courage was slight. He assumed everyone was a Wita local. There was no way he’d fit in with the city slickers. Perhaps if he didn’t play well with others, he wouldn’t fit in with Minarin, either. Uh-oh. His thoughts were snowballing. Whatever bad thought invaded his mind would probably never happen, and if he breathed like his therapist told him to, things wouldn’t be so bad.

Matt stopped by Jeff for the last time, scowled, and moved back to the front of the annex. “It’s break time. Turn in your sheets, even if you’re not finished.”

Everyone turned off their instruments. Jeff approached, his hands shaking, and returned his worksheet.