I’ve often thought that if I had ever become an English teacher it would have been interesting to analyze the lyrics of songs as class assignments. So many songs are poetry in their own right (I’m looking at you Diamonds and Rust) but will never be recognized as such; at least not in that respected canon of what really counts.

(And whilst I don’t envision Harold Bloom excitedly rushing home to tease out the classical allusions buried within ‘Can’t Feel My Face’ anytime soon, the thing is, that song lyrics often assume a separate meaning for listeners than the original writer may have intended for himself).

And that is, simply part of the art.

(If you are reading this, Spock, you might just want to stop and do something else for a while, say, heave quietly. My brother is not good with tolerating anything that he considers to verge on Touchy-Feely-Eat-Pray-Love s**t …)

I am a big fan of the Arctic Monkeys who were in turn influenced by the eccentric Brit Punk-poet John Cooper Clarke.

One song in particular from the AM album called I Wanna Be Yours is actually based on one of Cooper Clarke’s poems.

On first listen, it’s simple, straight-up courtship stuff yet somehow extremely sincere in that basic Northern England kind of way, where historically, men have not been known for saying much more than “Alright then?” as a possible declaration of interest; of course, with lyrics like “I Wanna be your vacuum cleaner, breathing in your dust, I wanna be your Ford Cortina, I will never rust” you may not be feeling especially wooed but part of vocalist Alex Turner’s (considerable) skill is that he can build on layers of emotion till by the time he’s crooning “secrets I have held in my heart are harder to hide than I thought” I not only Wanna Be His but I believe everything he says.

These are not Michael Bublé songs.

Another fav for me, since you ask, is Cornerstone, which chronicles trying to start over again after the devastation of a break-up and struggling not to be haunted by the lover everywhere he goes:

I thought I saw you in the rusty hook
Huddled up in a wicker chair
I wandered over for a closer look
And kissed whoever was sitting there

She was close, and she held me very tightly
‘Til I asked awfully politely,Please
Can I call you her name?

I remember walking home in the steel grey chill of many December nights after work with my headphones on, listening to this song on repeat beneath the soft warmth of my hood, feeling as though there was a single spur within my heart that I was leaning on and genuinely wondering if the sadness would eventually destroy me.

Somehow the identification of that pain – oooh, look there, that feeling you have, it feels like THIS doesn’t it – is helpful to me.

I don’t know why.