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Do You Use Quotation Marks or Italics for Song and Album Titles?

I love music. I’ve been teaching myself to play guitar, and I can stumble my way through four or five songs without wanting to poke holes in my eardrums, but my main appreciation for music is when other people play it. I’m an avid Spotify user, and I take a lot of pride in my ability to make kickass playlists. One of my girlfriends has even given me the green light to create her hypothetical wedding reception playlist.

So obviously, when I write about a song or album, I know when to use quotation marks and when to use italics. Let’s discuss.

song titles in quotes

Photo by Jo.Anne11

Song Titles in “Quotes”

Song titles are always surrounded by quotation marks, like *NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye,” or “A Whole New World” from Disney’s Aladdin.

Album Titles in Italics

Album titles, on the other hand, are always italicized. For example, while I will openly admit to loving Journey’s power ballad “Faithfully,” I think pretty much every song on their Greatest Hits album should be sung at karaoke nights across the country.

PRACTICE

Sunday night was the closing ceremony of the Olympics, and I don’t know if you were paying attention, but the Spice Girls were there and dancing it up (well, except for Posh).

Take fifteen minutes and write about the hypothetical conversation the ladies of the group had in determining the songs they would play for the ceremony (or any other band in any other situation is fine too). Post your practice in the comments, and leave notes for other writers brave enough to publish as well.

About Liz Bureman

Liz Bureman has a more-than-healthy interest in proper grammatical structure, accurate spelling, and the underappreciated semicolon. When she's not diagramming sentences and reading blogs about how terribly written the Twilight series is, she edits for the Write Practice, causes trouble in Denver, and plays guitar very slowly and poorly. You can follow her on Twitter (@epbure), where she tweets more about music of the mid-90s than writing.

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  • http://www.AtUrbanMagazine.com/ Marla

    It was blowing up a
    storm when we started to practice, but that don’t stop Effie.  He thinks you gotta play no matter what.  If the tornado sirens go off down in town and
    one of our old ladies calls to tell us so, he’ll say, “Ya’ll can go get in your
    fraidey holes if you want to.  Me, I’m
    playing my fiddle.”

    Well, you can’t go to
    the storm cellar with your tail between your legs, so we stay, me and Vander
    and Larry, even though Larry, who plays the washtub, lost his house in the
    tornado of ’96 and he shakes when the sky rumbles.  And then Effie’ll start in on some song like “When
    The Roll Is Called Up Yonder,” just to put his spin on how things might turn
    out if a twister does find us.

    So we’re playing, me
    on the bass, and we’re looking out the window, where you can see the sky
    turning the color of a two-day bruise, and Larry’s sweating and Vander’s got
    his eyes shut like he does when he plays mandolin, and Effie, truth be told, is
    a flat-out bully.  So he’s getting the show
    list together and acting like everything’s business as usual.

    “I think we should
    start with “Sitting On The Front Porch,” he says.  Crowd pleaser, every time.  And then, “Baby’s Little Shoes.” And then “Walking
    With Clementine” for the old folks.  We’ll
    finish with “God Bless the U.S.A,” since the veteran’s home is bringing a bus.

    Lightning is hitting
    closer, the sky like the Fourth of July. 
    Larry’s done sat down, turned all pale as fresh milk.  Larry’s a big man.  He can’t button his overalls up all the way
    on the side, so when he doubles over and then falls out of the fold-up chair,
    none of us knows what to do.

    “I ain’t doing
    mouth-to-mouth,” Effie says, while the rest of us are trying to right him. 

    Larry comes to soon
    enough, just as the hail starts.

    “My new truck,” he
    says, and shakes his head. You know when people say you’re green at the gills?
    Well, Larry is.

    All our trucks are parked
    outside, and all of ‘em are getting blasted. 
    I see my old Dodge, the one I’ve had since May left me, the hail, big as
    cotton bols hitting it, and it makes me sick.

    And then I remember Effie’s truck.  His is
    in the carport.  Well, sure it is, I
    think.

    Vander, who preaches
    every other Sunday over in the Cavanaugh bottoms, says, “Shit fire,” and hits
    the wall.  We are in the town hall of
    Rudy, a little Craftsman house donated by Mayor Giles Walker’s family when he
    passed, and the photos of the veterans shake when he does it.

    The rain flashes down.  Pounding everything, soaking through my back
    windshield that was shattered by the hail.

    “Mercy sakes,” is all
    I can say.

    Larry stands up,
    grabbing my arm to do it.  He’s about as
    wide as he is tall, and he’s near about pulls me down.

    “I’m off like a prom
    dress,” he says, “so don’t try to stop me.” 
    And then he turns to Effie.

    “You’re about as
    helpful as a boar with teats,” he says, you know that? You act like you’re the
    bread and butter of The Frog Bayou Boys.” 
    He points to me.  “But Columbus
    here, he might not play as good as you like, but he’s the one got the news
    folks out here to do that story calling us the best band in the River Valley.  And he books every show, and when you get
    drunk, let’s just be honest here, when you get drunk, you can’t play worth
    shit.”

    Effie came after
    Larry.  Effie’s a little action figure of
    a man, but he fights mean, and it took Vander and me to stop him.

    We were holding Effie
    by his scrawny arms, and he was kicking, his cowboy boots flying off the wood
    floor, so that we were mostly holding him up.

    “You are a liar and a
    snake,” Larry Brammel.  “A liar and a
    snake.  You’re going to go straight to
    hell with gasoline drawers on, and when you do, I’ll play my fiddle on your
    grave.”

    Vander stepped in.  “Ya’ll cut it out.  Nobody’s dying,” he said.  “Effie,” he said, and pointed, “you and Larry
    need to quit showing your butts. That show on Saturday pays $100, plus they
    feed us.  We ain’t had a show like that
    since we played that Red, White and Bluegrass gig for the rich ladies who
    wanted to dress up in thousand dollar boots and wear tight jeans and drink beer
    in front of their husbands.”

    And then Vander bowed
    up, like I never seen him do before.  “And
    Effie, we ain’t playing “Walking With Clementine.” The old folks can do without
    it for one dang night.  I wrote my own
    song and I want to sing it.  It’s called “She
    Broke My Heart And Stole My Wallet.” That’ll get ‘em going,” Vander said. 

    I’d known Vander
    thirty-two years, and that was the first I’d heard of his songwriting.  His new girlfriend, the one who brought over the
    Mexican casserole when Vander’s wife died, was likely the inspiration for this
    new tune.

    Word was, she was
    over in Branson now, hooked up with a cowboy singer who wore a Bolo tie and
    colored his hair.

    Effie face was
    red.  He looked hotter than blue blazes,
    like he might catch fire at any minute.  And
    then he backed down, his shoulders falling. 
    He looked at all of us, me and Larry and Vander, and then he said, “Fine,
    that’s fine with me.  I been carrying you
    ya-hoos for way too long.”

    Larry cuffed him on
    the arm, and then they shook hands, and the rain fell, and the thunder roared,
    but nobody moved for a minute. 

    Effie had a bottle in
    his fiddle case, and he went to get it.  “Ain’t
    nobody driving till the rain stops,” he said. 
    “And that includes you, Larry.”

    And then we sat down,
    and passed the bottle until Vander started singing.  “I loved a girl from Minnesota.  Loved her with a passion true.  And then stole my dad burn wallet, took it out
    and followed you.  You must be a handsome
    cowboy.  You must look like Johnny
    Cash.  But when I find my little Cindy, I
    will tell her that she’s trash.”

    We were laughing
    then.  And Effie brought out his fiddle,
    and I picked up my bass, and Vander his mandolin.  Larry drug out the washtub, and we got back
    at it, the Frog Bayou Boys, just as good as new.

     
     

    • http://www.yvettecarol.com/ Yvette Carol

      Wow, Marla, if you’re not from those parts then you’ve got one wild imagination, girl! Well done, and then some. The phrasing, the way you used the anarchic terminology, and even the names were spot on, perfect. Beautiful!

      • http://www.AtUrbanMagazine.com/ Marla

         Thank you, Yvette.  I can’t take credit.  I live with these people and these voices.  It’s like music to me.  We get teased A LOT but I wouldn’t trade the dialect or the cadence for anything. 

    • http://thewritepractice.com/ John Fisher

      I love this!!!  The gig, the music, the attitudes.  And the dialogue is genuine county-folk!  Good work, Marla!

      • http://www.AtUrbanMagazine.com/ Marla

         John,

        You’re so nice.  I love the music we have in the South, the twangy, ball-your-eyes-out stuff that connects us all and makes us feel less alone.  And I know men like these, I’ve heard them play, so writing this was easy.

        Marla

    • Mariaanne

      Great writing Marla. I agree with the others you really have that dialect (which I’m also familiar with) down pat.  

      • Marla

        Thank you, Mariaanne. Where are you from?

        • Mariaanne

          I live in Lynchburg Va now but was originally from Norfolk.  The accent you are writing sounds like an Appalachian accent to me. Where are you from?

          • Charmaine T. Davis

            Mariaanne, I live in Lynchburg, too! We have two crit groups here and would love for you to join us. Email me at charmainetdavis at yahoo dot com.

          • http://www.AtUrbanMagazine.com/ Marla

             Arkansas.

          • Mariaanne

            Charmaine – I can’t believe it.  Will you please email me?  mhvest@yahoo.com.  I’d love to join you.  When and where do you meet?  

  • http://marilynnbyerly.com/ Marilynn Byerly

    I had a playlist for my wedding that included  “One Day My Prince Will Come” and “If You Wish Upon a Star.”  Since I’m still single, it’s “The Impossible Dream.”

  • http://tobyrogers.net/ Toby Rogers

    It depends if you’re writing for American or British publications. In the US, song titles are always “Jumping Jack Flash” but in the UK they’re often ‘Midnight Rambler’. It’s caused me no end of headaches writing for both.

    • Mariaanne

      They punctuate dialogue differently in the UK too don’t they?  I think the way they do it makes more sense actually but I don’t like to think about it too much or I get confused. I imagine it’s hard to write both ways.  

  • http://twitter.com/DisposableTea Bronson O’Quinn

    Does also apply to other works that have a part/whole relationship? I’m thinking specifically of “short stories” and The Collection They Come in or “poems” and Chap Books.

  • http://thewritepractice.com/ John Fisher

    I can’t make any italics work in this application, so I’ll indicate italics with [i] at the beginning and at the end of each title I intend to be italicized.

    My practice:

    The state-of-the-art bus pitched only slightly with the dips and rolls of Interstate 35 — not like those death-traps they used to ride in the ’40s and ’50s — on the way up to Fort Worth and Billy Bob’s.  He walked down the aisle toward his stateroom with the practiced sea-legs of an old salt, noticing that his harp-player, Mickey, had gone to sleep and was droolin’ in his lap. 

    “HEY MICK YOUR FLY’S OPEN!”  he barked in that sargeant’s voice he could assume on a moment’s notice.  Mickey jumped awake and then amiably shot him the bird.  He laughed in his baritone voice and walked on into his quarters. 

    Billy Bob’s.  Let’s see — that crowd likes the ’70s stuff off the concept albums, sprinkled ’round the edges with the early Nashville songs.  Let’s do, let’s do — he got his legal pad and licked the point of his stubby pencil — Let’s do “Bloody Mary Mornin'” and “Walkin'” from [i]Phases and Stages[i].  Follow that with “Hello Walls” from [i]And then I Wrote[i].  He sat before the big window and watched the country roll by, remembering.  Remembering. 

    The world was a different place when I got started.  I’m an extrememly lucky man, he thought.  All the close shaves — I could easily have gone the way of Hank.  All  the little one-horse planes I’ve flown in, I also could have had the same end as Jim Reeves, or Patsy, God love ‘er. 

    Gotta do “Crazy” tonight in honor of Patsy.  That’s another’un offa [i]And Then I Wrote[i].  Sold that’un for fifty dollars when my kids needed shoes, and I’d do it again too. 

    He picked up the old spanish guitar with the hole in it where his right hand had worn through the wood over the decades, and began to strum it.  Key of E.  Began to sing just a little bit, soft and low:  “In___ the twighlight glow I see__ her . . .”  And then stopped.  All those years.  All those songs.  All those changes.  Phases and stages.

    Yes, I’m lucky, it’s still hard to believe just how lucky.

    Gotta find a spot for “Blue Eyes” tonight too.  [i]Red-Headed Stranger[i].  

    Sometimes, he realized, I look in the mirror and that’s who I see.

    • http://www.AtUrbanMagazine.com/ Marla

      Wow!  I love this.  The part about the hole in the guitar is gold.  And I love your main character.  I’d go hear him, in a heartbeat. 

      • http://thewritepractice.com/ John Fisher

        Thank you all for your kind comments.   The piece is about Willie Nelson, I just didn’t name him.  All of the album and song titles are real, as is the hole in his guitar;  just look closely the next time you see him playing on tv and you’ll see it.  I had a lot of fun writing this!

        • http://joebunting.com Joe Bunting

          I’ve always been amused by Willie’s “holy” guitar. He’s such a kook.

    • http://joebunting.com Joe Bunting

      I forgot DISQUS doesn’t allow italics. Sorry about that John. Way to make it work :)

    • Mariaanne

      That was really well done John.  It’s kind of sad to hear him thinking about old times but he seems to be a pretty happy guy overall.  I like the hole in the guitar too as well as the guy drooling in his sleep.  Gross but probably about right.  

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