Mary Hannah Cross
On the phenomenon of lyrics substitution
Dear Bolu,
In 2008, Rooftop MCs released “Lagimo,” one of the best gospel hip-hop songs to come out of Nigeria to date. It has a chorus so fun and catchy that it’s easy to forget its message—a plea to God for a lesson in humility. The lyrics (literal translation) go thus:
Orí mí wú o (My head is swelling)
Ẹ la gi mọ (Hit it with a stick)
Growing up, our interaction with the chorus of “Lagimo” was a bit playful, and you can probably guess why. If someone heard you singing it out loud, they would make it their mission to hit you on the head with a piece of wood (a ruler, for example) for the simple reason that you asked for it. The fun was either in landing a surprise hit or the chase to execute the singer's order. Sometimes they'd go too far and whack you hard, leading to a fight.
"You said your head was swelling, and we should hit it," they'd say in defence.
Were they wrong to whack you at all? Maybe. But it's my earliest recollection of how the lyrics of a song can be more than just that—more than mere words being sung. They can have a life and meaning outside of the song that birthed them, interpreted as the genuine thoughts and feelings of whoever is mouthing them. This is where the "it's just a song" card is often played in defence of singing.
Broadly speaking, I identify three reasons why one may need to hold up the "it's just a song" card. First, if there are reservations about the artist's life outside their music. Perhaps they've been convicted of a crime or are known to have certain beliefs.
“Salaam, brother. Why are you singing ‘I Believe I Can Fly’? Don’t you know the singer has been convicted of sex trafficking?”
“I know, brother, but it’s just a song.”
Second, if there are reservations about the recurrent themes in the artist’s songs. Perhaps all they sing about is drugs, guns, or sex. Perhaps they are caustic when they sing about certain people, or they are quick to praise a terrible government.
“Girl, why are you listening to him? Don’t you know how his songs portray women?”
“Ah, sister, but it’s just a song.”
The third reason, which is the focus here, is if there’s a line in the song you disagree with or simply can’t bring yourself to say for whatever reason. You may love the track, but when it comes time to sing along to that part, you keep mute, mumble the lyrics, or sing with a banner over your head that says, “It’s only a song; I neither believe nor endorse this message.”
Now, whether we should be wholly judged for the lyrics we sing is another question entirely. But one solution I’ve found to mouthing lyrics I’m uncomfortable with is substituting them.
One of the finest examples of this is in the chorus of Bruno Mars' "Marry You": "It's a beautiful night, we're looking for something dumb to do; Hey baby, I think I wanna marry you." Years ago, I read a friend write that she wasn't pleased with those lyrics because marriage is not a "dumb" thing to do. I thought it was funny, and I still do. Since then, I've replaced dumb with fun every time I've sung Marry You.
Another example is Camera Obscura’s “Sweetest Thing” where, singing about her love, she says: “When you’re lucid, you’re the sweetest thing; I would trade my mother to hear you sing.” Okaay? Sure, you’re the sweetest thing, and maybe it’s the “black” in me, but I wouldn’t trade my mother for that. Maybe she says so because she has a terrible mother, or perhaps it’s hyperbole. I can’t say. I simply can’t say what she says, so I substitute mother for rocker when I sing. I don’t have a rocker, of course, but if I did, I’d trade it to hear you sing.
My faith—or its vestiges—also gets in the way of certain songs, such as Ghost’s “Mary On a Cross.” For all the love I have for the track, I cannot say what he says in the chorus. Instead, I devise a clever set of substitutions that leave me with: “You go down just like only Mary; Mary Hannah, Mary Hannah Cross.” And the song still hits.
Sometimes, lyrics substitution manifests as simple gender swaps. It could be replacing “girl” with “boy”—or vice-versa, as in Di’Ja’s “Awww”: “Girl you all that I want; ‘Cause you got what I need.”
You’ll find that it’s not always easy to perform such substitutions, however. In Aṣa’s “Be My Man,” for example: “You’ll be my man; And I will be your woman everyday,” I’m not sure how you’d swap genders without ruining the song. Similarly, in Raye’s “Where is my Husband!”: “Baby, where the hell is my husband?” do you replace “husband” with “wifey” for conceptual and syllabic consistency? Perhaps, but then the song falls flat and you don’t enjoy it nearly as much.
For songs like Aṣa’s, Raye’s, or Aldous Harding’s “Imagining My Man,” there’s no escaping holding that banner above your head when you sing along. It’s just a song, please, I’m not exactly imagining my man.
Lyrics substitution is not a science. It helps if what you’re substituting is conceptually consistent, but it doesn’t always have to be. And that’s the beauty: you can say anything, even for the fun of it—like how I ad-lib it all when I sing George Ezra’s “Budapest” because, for a long time, I couldn’t tell what he was saying.
I watched someone say once that people shouldn’t engage with songs if they wouldn’t sing them exactly the way the artist wrote them. I think that’s how not to engage with art—with rules and bounds. People are allowed to make songs “theirs,” and lyrics substitution is one way to do that.
All of this to say, dear friend, that if you sang “Lagimo” close to me, I would absolutely whack you on the head. Unless, of course, you substitute the lyrics.
Fin.
P.S.
I’ve always found it ironic that the remedy Lagimo proposes for a swelling head (getting whacked) is the very thing most likely to cause even more swelling.
P.P.S.
On the verge of sending this, I worked out substitute lyrics for Aṣa’s “Be My Man”: “I’ll be your man; And you will be my woman everyday”. It works, right? Right?
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- Wolemercy