What 20 Years in Music Taught Me About Crafting Delicious Copy

How to make your writing sing ... even if you can't carry a tune.

Your humble future corporate brand strategist: SXSW 2016

Long before I ever knew I’d spend the bulk of my career twisting phrases to give you warm-and-fuzzies about software, I spent the bulk of my evenings singing to half-empty bars while mowing down free Jameson shots.

Sure, I played a lot of covers–everything from John Mayer to 2Chainz–but I also did a fair share of writing and workshopping my own material. Why? Ain’t no cover bands on MTV. I figured if I played my cards right, one day I could be the opening act for the DJ, who opened for the rapper, who opened for the legacy rock act, who opened for the hot new popstar who opened for Beyonce at Coachella. 

Lemme tell you how that went: I finally found steady solo gigs in my 30s, played SXSW a couple of times, dropped an album on my 33rd birthday, and by 36 I was all flamed out. My liver had its number retired in multiple bars across the country, and I moved forward with making my hay behind a desk at one of the world’s ten largest tech conglomerates.

Here’s the thing: I wasn’t half-bad. Grammy winners once opened for me. And, yeah, I was often introduced as “the lyrical miracle” before slogging my way through word-slurred versions of my B-grade sensitive singer-songwriter shit. Maybe I never went all the way with it, but I don’t regret calling it a career while I still had (some of) my dignity intact.

But the real cherry on top of that whiskey-soaked sundae? All the late nights I whittled away singing and writing songs for an audience of a less-than-ideal size gave me the tools and insights to pivot into becoming a critically acclaimed copywriter. I may have been wasted, but my time sure wasn’t.

So let’s talk about what music taught me about writing, and what you can learn without essentially taking a gap decade in your 20s.

Verse 1: Brevity, baby.

Ads might clog up your internet, but ads themselves ain’t the internet. They come with character limits. 

You can’t spin 5,000-word yarns on a full-bleed print placement or a billboard. You gotta be quick and quippy. If you wanna be a memorable musician? Well, the same rules apply. You can only say so much in four minutes; you can’t waste a literal breath.

“I’m a hot girl / I do hot shit” is quotable. You could slap that (with Thee Stallion’s permission) on an Aviator Nation ad and it’d sink your hooks in you. Quick twists of six words or less in 60-point font will grab your eyes. Just stay on brand and on message and you can explain the rest later. To mama-bird a tired pop music cliche … “Don’t bore us; get to the chorus.”

Verse 2: You gotta find your rhythm.

Great lyricists slay at alliteration and cadence. Earl Sweatshirt once dropped a charting chorus-less single that made absolute non-sense but was a masterclass on internal rhyming. His syllable-splitting 2013 showcase “Whoa” is a flex of hip-hop’s highest order. 

On the track, his voice blends into the mix and becomes another instrument, with layers upon layers of internal rhyming that would ruin mere mortals. You can listen to him shape-shift down the alphabet from A, to E, to I, to O, to U without drawing attention to it. 

What’s he saying? I haven’t the foggiest. Something about “new syringes from the loony clinic.” That’s rhythm. It’s the shit that sounds good.

Great copy does that, too. Take M&M’s “melt in your mouth, not in your hands.” Four syllables. Comma. Four syllables. Perfectly rhythmic. Also, a subtle accent of M and the short-O vowel sound. Well done. 

Here’s another: “Maybe she’s born with it; maybe it’s Maybelline.” The rhythm and alliteration in this couplet are so iconic that over half a century later, folks are still riffing off of it. Again, more M. Plus, a double-shot of six-syllable gold around a pause.

If I were to open up a club, I’d implore patrons to “Pop in. Pop off.” If I opened up an Italian restaurant, I’d call it “Lotsa Pasta.” I’m just giving you this shit for free. Y’all can run with it.

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Verse 3: Take inspiration from anywhere.

Your life experience is your competitive differentiator. What separates good from great is your ability to bring your whole self into what you put on paper. You reach your apex when you’re able to filter the core message through your own unique lens.

Creative ideas come from other fields, fresh ideas, and the five senses. Immerse yourself in ‘em. Let ‘em marinate. Start a swipe file and stash your sweetest morsels in there for easy recall later. 

The lame-core way to make this point would be to say “write what you know,” but if you’re reading this you’re probably not lame. Write what you live. This is as true in a lyric as it is in a brand narrative. 

Anyone can write a shitty campaign concept … it takes real heart to sell a shitty campaign concept and make it sing. Tell a story and put your panache into it. It’ll pay off handsomely, or at the very least make you a boatload of fun to work with. 

Coda: The music is already inside you … now, play it.

If you wanna be a creative professional who’s perpetually in demand, then you already have the passion to put it together and make it work. You just gotta practice. Unless you’re a prodigy, it takes repetition to unearth the buried treasure–keep digging.

So listen to music. Read ads you love. Deconstruct them and reconstruct them. What hits? What fits? What makes it the certified banger you think it is … the one you feel with your whole spirit? 

You’re human and so is your audience. Humans are wired to react to what sounds good and what feels fresh. Whether you’re singing to an empty bar or writing for a global audience, the same rules apply: keep it catchy, make it pretty, do it differently, then get the hell off the stage.

Speaking of–that’s my time. You’ve all been a beautiful audience; don’t forget to check out my Soundcloud. 

On second thought … well, maybe don’t. 

Thank you all so much and get home safe.

—John