Let's discuss some terminology.

I've always made a distinction between a good song, a great song, a legendary song, and a perfect song. At first glance, those might seem like progressively higher degrees of excellence, but that's not quite how I see them.

To me, a good song is simply one that's well written and recorded. The structure makes sense, the phrasing flows naturally, the meter of the lyrics complements the melody, and the musical ideas fit together coherently. It doesn't necessarily have to be particularly interesting or even enjoyable. It just has to be competently composed.

There are LOTS of good songs in the world.

A great song possesses those same qualities but adds something distinctive. Perhaps the lyrics reinforce the music in an unusually poignant way. Maybe there's something unconventional about the structure, harmony, or melodic phrasing.

Peter Gabriel's “Solsbury Hill” is a wonderful example. It's written in 7/4 time, an unusual meter for popular music, yet the melody flows so naturally that most listeners never notice anything peculiar about the rhythm. That's great songwriting.

A legendary song, on the other hand, is simply one that practically everyone knows. “Hey Jude,” “Sweet Caroline,” and “Dancing Queen” are legendary songs. Of course, universal recognition doesn't necessarily make a song great, or even good. Everyone knows “Baby Shark,” too. So there's that.

Which brings us to a perfect song. This is where my definition gets a little unconventional.

To me, a perfect song is one in which everything fits together so precisely that changing almost anything causes the entire thing to lose something essential. The melody, harmony, arrangement, lyrics, performance, and even the imperfections become inseparable from the finished work.

It's not necessarily the most sophisticated composition or the most technically accomplished performance. It's simply a recording that seems to have found the one form in which everything works exactly as it should.

Fleetwood Mac's live performance of “Silver Springs” from The Dance is an example. There's not a single note I'd change. The arrangement, the performances, and the emotional weight of the lyrics reinforce one another so completely that altering any part of it would diminish the whole.

Howard Jones's “Out of Thin Air” is another example, although relatively few people know it. And then there's Bob Dylan's “Like a Rolling Stone.”

By conventional standards, it's a pretty sloppy recording. There are structural peculiarities, and Dylan's vocal performance is hardly a model of technical precision. But try cleaning it up. Try smoothing out the phrasing, correcting the rough edges, or replacing Dylan's nasal, almost monotone delivery with a technically polished singer. You might end up with a more conventionally accomplished recording.

You'd also ruin the song. It's precisely those imperfections that make it perfect.

Conversely, John Denver recorded “Sunshine on My Shoulders” in several different arrangements, and they all worked beautifully. It's a legendary song, certainly, but one that can survive considerable reinterpretation.

And then there are songs like “We Built This City,” which I can imagine being performed five different ways…all of which are wrong.

So some songs are strong enough to accommodate endless interpretation. Others, at least to my ears, demand strict obedience.

So why am I explaining all of this?

Because “Sleeplessness and Sunrise” is the closest I've ever come to writing what I would consider a perfect song. Not necessarily my best song. Not necessarily a great song. Those judgments belong to the listener. But a perfect song, according to my rather peculiar definition.

And believe me, I've tried to prove myself wrong.

The original recording dates to 2009, when the software and equipment available to me were considerably more primitive than what I use today. When I began rebuilding it for Track Zero, I naturally assumed I could improve the arrangement.

Better instruments. Better production. More sophisticated effects. Seventeen years of additional experience. Surely there was something I could do to make it better.

Apparently not.

Every time I changed something, the entire arrangement seemed to lose its balance. A different drum fill, a slightly altered phrase, a new instrumental texture. Individually, the changes seemed perfectly reasonable. Collectively, they made the recording worse.

Eventually, I surrendered. I reconstructed the original arrangement virtually note for note, right down to individual hi-hat strikes and whether the cymbal was open, closed, or somewhere in between. Fortunately, it's a relatively simple composition, so the reconstruction wasn't especially difficult.

Singing it was another matter entirely.

My voice has dropped considerably since 2009, and my falsetto isn't what it used to be. Worse, the song demands a very particular kind of vocal delivery: airy, breathy, restrained, almost as though you're singing at 2:45 in the morning and desperately trying not to wake anyone else in the house.

That might sound easy.

It isn't.

But that vocal quality is essential to the song. A stronger, more conventional performance would lose the fragile, exhausted intimacy that gives the recording its character. And there's a reason for that.

The inspiration for “Sleeplessness and Sunrise” came much earlier than 2009, probably around 1988, when I was working with a woman at the Civic Theater in Lewiston. She had recently given birth, and her newborn baby was keeping her awake at night. She was exhausted, frustrated, and desperate for a decent night's sleep. During one conversation, she complained about the constant crying and said she'd give anything for it to stop.

My immediate thought was: Be careful what you wish for.

And suddenly, the song was there. I don't remember struggling to compose it. I don't remember laboring over the melody or wrestling with the lyrics. It was almost as though the entire thing had been floating around in the primordial ether of music, waiting for an opportunity to descend into somebody's brain.

It chose mine.

The story it tells is crushing. It's about a mother whose exhaustion and desperation give way to something infinitely worse. The crying she once wished would stop becomes the very sound she longs to hear again. The sleepless nights haven't ended. They've simply acquired an entirely different meaning.

And that's what makes this song difficult for me to listen to. When I allow myself to absorb the lyrics rather than concentrate on the arrangement or production, the emotional weight can be overwhelming.

Perhaps that's also why I couldn't improve the recording. The restrained vocal, the delicate instrumentation, the simplicity of the arrangement, even the spaces between the notes all seem to belong exactly where they are. Anything more would be too much. Anything less would leave something missing.

Is “Sleeplessness and Sunrise” my best song? I genuinely don't know.

But if someone asked me to identify the one moment in my songwriting life when everything seemed to come together without explanation, without struggle, and without the need for improvement, this would be it.

Lightning in a bottle.

And sometimes, the smartest thing a songwriter can do is leave the bottle closed.