Pierre Lemoine looked down at the lyrics he had just jotted in his notebook—embarrassed, almost like they didn't matter. But to me, his song was anything but ordinary.
In fact, he had unknowingly made a fundamental mistake when composing "Snowman."
He had used the most traditional structure of a ballad:
8-bar intro – 8-bar A part – 8-bar B part – 16-bar chorus – second verse repeated – chorus again.
The issue with that?
When the chorus shines too bright, it risks overshadowing the A and B parts, making the buildup feel weak in comparison.
"This kind of song needs to lean boldly into the chorus."
That's what I told myself as I mentally mapped out a new structure.
I would compress both A and B sections, trimming each to 8 bars and placing them strategically before repeated choruses.
Some might scoff:
"Isn't that just repeating the chorus over and over?"
To which I'd reply:
"So what if it is?"
If it sounds good, then it is good.
This hook-style format is common in dance music—and perfectly adaptable to ballads.
It might seem unconventional now, but in time, even ballads will embrace this shift.
I sat at the piano, turned to Pierre, and said:
"We'll jump right into the chorus after the intro. Try to follow along."
He raised a brow but nodded, trusting me.
As I played, he hummed along, quickly growing comfortable with the new flow.
When the first verse ended, I continued playing and added:
"The second verse mirrors the first, and then we'll finish with the chorus repeated three times."
This time, Pierre didn't hum—he sang, lyrics and all.
It made sense—he had written the original, so the melody was second nature to him.
❄ "Like white snowflowers, swaying in my heart,
Disappearing the moment they touch…" ❄
The small studio transformed into an intimate concert hall.
As I played, I glanced over—his eyes closed, voice full of emotion.
❄ "Like a cold winter night,
My heart trembles, afraid you'll vanish if I close my eyes…" ❄
Even when the music stopped, Pierre sat in silence, lost in the lingering echo of his own voice.
"So, what do you think? I just adjusted the structure of your original."
He opened his eyes, blinking in disbelief.
"Wait... this is really the song I wrote?"
He stared at the piano as if it had just performed a miracle. Then, as if inspired, he said:
"Could you play it one more time?"
"Absolutely. Actually, I'll go ahead and make you a proper backing track."
I opened my software, selected a beautiful grand piano tone, hit record, and let the metronome tick in.
Click — Click — Click — Click
I played and captured the first verse.
Then duplicated the second, since it shared the same structure.
Efficient. Seamless.
Pierre was still deep in his notebook, scribbling lyrics.
"He's locked in."
Rather than disturb him, I decided to enhance the arrangement.
Since I was already editing, why not make it shine?
Drum track: kick, snare, hi-hats—laid down with confident clicks.
Then, I added a digital bass line copied from the left hand of the piano.
Instead of the classic analog contrabass typical of ballads, I opted for a more rhythmic, digital texture.
The walking bass could be refined later during the live recording session.
That filled out the low and midrange.
Now for the highs.
I layered strings: violin, viola, and cello.
To heighten the wintry mood, I added chime bells and acoustic guitar loops, delicately placed for warmth.
All that took just 20 minutes.
Pierre hadn't looked up once.
"That should be enough for now."
Of course, I could polish more—but my process is to finish about 70% before live instrument recordings.
Perfection doesn't exist, and once real musicians step in, the sound evolves anyway.
Especially with slow-tempo ballads.
"Pierre, want to hear it?"
"Already? You finished the piano recording?"
I pressed play on the speakers, replying offhandedly:
"Not just that—I've finished the entire arrangement."
"...What?"
He tilted his head, clearly skeptical.
His doubt was fair.
Completing a full arrangement in 20 minutes is practically unheard of.
Even recording the piano alone usually takes that long.
But I'm not just any composer.
In my previous life, I arranged and copied well over 10,000 songs.
And my mind is packed with future music trends and tech.
This wasn't even the main act—just the warm-up.
It was time to show Pierre how his song had been reborn.
When the music played, Pierre froze.
He had expected piano—but what filled the room was a sweeping orchestral intro.
Violin, viola, cello, all harmonizing in a dramatic 8-bar entrance.
Then came the A section: drums, bass, soft guitar, and of course, piano.
His eyes widened.
"No way…"
It was as if I had composed it from memory.
But really, I just heard it in my mind and translated it into sound.
When he turned to look at me, I flashed a grin.
"So? Sounds pretty good, right?"
In that moment, Pierre had a strange thought:
I reminded him of the painter Bob Ross from EBS, who could conjure lakes and mountains with a few strokes of the brush.
Except I was painting with sound.
Even when I'd only changed the structure, the song already sounded better—
But this arrangement?
It could release tomorrow and feel complete.
He was in awe.
That awe came with admiration, maybe even jealousy.
"How… how can you make something this good?"
I answered casually:
"Anyone can do it. You just need practice."
Pierre squinted, unconvinced.
"You're telling me this is all from practice?"
"What, you think I used magic?"
Truth be told—yes, it probably seemed like magic.
Still stunned, Pierre watched me step closer and glance at the lyrics he'd written.
"Now this is real magic. I can't write lyrics to save my life."
"It's just a few lines…"
He sounded bashful, but I shook my head firmly.
"No, it's not just a few lines. Great songs come alive when great lyrics and a great singer bring them to life.
I write the music, you sing it. That's how we create magic—together."
Pierre was speechless.
I scanned his lyrics again and smiled.
"'Even in darkness, the stars still shine.'
That line? It hits home. That's the kind of lyric that stays with people."
"I only wrote it because it popped into my head…"
"Lines like that don't just pop up. They come from a deep place—your feelings."
His expression shifted, and I seized the moment:
"So please… don't say 'just lyrics' or 'just a few lines.'
Great lyrics breathe life into a song.
And it's the singer's voice that completes it.
Don't sell yourself short."
Pierre looked like I'd smacked him awake.
"Maybe… the real magic is Julien himself."
Younger than him, yet with a commanding presence.
Who else in this industry offered advice with such sincerity?
He felt almost ashamed.
I was right.
As a singer, his job was to share good songs with the world.
So obvious—but so easy to forget.
I had conviction, pride, and clear direction.
Behind that calm voice was someone who had likely weathered countless storms.
"Thank you, Julien. I've learned a lot from you today."
At that moment, Pierre's eyes sparkled—like the genius vocalist I remembered from my past life.
"Ah, and this—"
He flipped to a page in his notebook and handed it to me.
Lyrics, neatly written: "Snowman."
"You finished this already?"
"Yes. I know I should've asked first, but I couldn't help myself.
Would you be okay if I wrote the lyrics?"
"Of course! Like I said, lyrics aren't my thing. Go for it!"
I skimmed through. Clean. Emotional. Perfect.
"Also… I'd like to change the title to 'Snowflower' instead of 'Snowman.'"
"You don't have to. If you like 'Snowman,' keep it."
But Pierre shook his head.
"After hearing your arrangement, the second song felt like snowflakes fluttering across a snowy field.
And since the chorus repeats, the name Snowflower just fits better. Is that okay?"
I considered it, then smiled.
"If that's how you feel—absolutely. It's a beautiful title."
Pierre looked relieved.
"Then it's settled. The song's title is Snowflower.
I can't wait to release this album."
Honestly? Neither could I.
My heart raced for the first time in ages.
"Let's make it unforgettable."
We exchanged a smile that said it all.