🎼 The Beatles – When a Song Tells a Story

Some songs don’t just play in the background — they open a door. A Day in the Life is one of those. You press play and suddenly you’re not just listening, you’re looking: headlines, traffic lights, someone rushing for a bus, the day stretching out like a strange dream. It starts small and ends with that huge, ringing chord that feels like the world holding its breath. For me, that’s storytelling in its purest form — a tune that carries pictures.

The lines are iconic for a reason. Lennon murmurs, “I read the news today, oh boy…” and you can see the paper in his hands. Later McCartney snaps us awake — “Woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head.” Two different energies, stitched together by those wild orchestral climbs. It shouldn’t work, but it does, and that collision is the whole point: life is both things at once — ordinary and unreal.

That’s the thread I hear in Ren’s work too. Not a direct influence — just the same instinct to let melody carry meaning. In Genesis there’s that tiny hook that says a lot in hardly any words: “Genesis, pain in the art.” It’s catchy enough to hum, but the more you sit with it, the heavier it gets. Creation costs. Healing costs. The hook holds the weight so the song can move.

What I love about A Day in the Life is how the music tells the story even when the words stop. The verses are cool and observational; the middle is warm and everyday. Then the strings surge like time slipping its leash and we’re pushed through a doorway into something… bigger. By the time that final chord lands, it’s like the day has swallowed us and is quietly digesting the thought of everything. You don’t need a lyric sheet to get the message — the shape of the music explains it.

Ren does a similar trick with different tools. He’ll start with a childlike rhythm or a simple chant and then tilt it — change the harmony, flip the drum feel, stack voices. That shift is where the story turns. It lets light and shadow talk to each other. The Beatles do it with studio gear and a full orchestra; Ren does it with arrangement, persona, and those sudden lines that hit like a camera cut. Either way, the message is the same: the structure is the narrative.

There’s also the way both artists handle everyday details. The Beatles give us little snapshots — a photograph, a traffic light, a comb, a cup of tea — and somehow it becomes a whole world. Ren’s writing does it too: small images that open into bigger truths. It’s the difference between telling and showing. You don’t need the singer to explain everything; you can feel it because the little details are honest.

And then there’s that ending. “Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire…” It’s oddly funny and a bit sad at the same time — a proper northern shrug at the absurd. The song knows life is ridiculous and precious, often in the same breath. Ren’s music lives in that space as well: serious without being heavy-handed, playful without losing heart. Both remind me that melody isn’t just decoration — it’s a way of thinking, a way of remembering. Long after the specifics fade, you still carry the shape of the tune.

So when I say the Beatles taught me that a song can tell a story, I don’t mean “plot.” I mean the feeling of being guided through a day you half recognise, until the last chord says: look again. And when I hear Ren sing that simple line — “Genesis, pain in the art” — I get the same kind of nudge. Small phrase, big door. Different eras, same instinct: use melody like a lantern, so people can find their way through the dark.