Almost every project I start begins with a bad name. Usually it’s the date, a tempo, a synth preset, or whatever word was in my head when I hit save. That’s fine. A working title has one job, which is helping me find the file again.
The trouble starts when the placeholder hangs around. Weeks later the track has changed shape three times, and it’s still named after the first ten minutes of the session instead of the music that exists now.
I’ve come to think the real name usually shows up late, and that it’s worth waiting for.
A title is the first thing a listener hears
Before anyone presses play, they read. On a streaming service, the title sits beside the artwork and sets an expectation in less than a second. It hints at night or daylight. It suggests a room full of people or one person in headphones, and whether the track is going to be tender or hit hard.
With instrumental electronic music, that small piece of text matters even more. Without lyrics, the title may be the only words attached to the record, so it works like a frame. The same four chords can feel hopeful or haunted depending on what you were told before they began. A recent example is Beyond the Stars, which is fully instrumental, so the title is the only set of words on the record. I wrote separately about why Beyond the Stars has no vocals.
That’s a lot of responsibility for something many producers decide in the last minute before upload.
Early names can steer the music
A name chosen too soon does more than sit in the file browser. It quietly pushes decisions. Call a sketch something aggressive and you may keep reaching for harder drums, even after the melody has started asking for space. Call it something dreamy and you might soften a section that needed teeth.
So I try to keep working titles deliberately boring. The less a placeholder means, the less it argues with the music, and the track stays free to become whatever it’s turning into.
Listen for the word the music keeps suggesting
At some point in a project, usually after the arrangement settles, I stop producing and just listen. I’m not trying to fix anything. I only want to notice what the track feels like as a whole.
A few questions help:
- Where would someone be when this song finds them?
- What time of day does it sound like?
- Which moment would I describe first if I had to explain it to a friend?
- Is it moving toward something, or away from something?
Sometimes the answer is a place or a feeling. Other times it’s one detail, like a vocal chop or a strange rise before the drop, that seems to hold the identity of the whole piece. A good title often names that detail, or the feeling it creates.
Say it out loud
Titles live in more places than we expect. People type them into search and say them to friends. They read them off a small screen in the car or at the gym. A name that looks clever written down can be awkward to say or hard to spell, and it can be impossible to find among a hundred similar results.
I like a simple test. Say the title out loud, then imagine someone trying to find the track after hearing it once. If they’d struggle, it may be worth trying something clearer. A little mystery is welcome, but I don’t want the name to get in the way of someone finding the track.
The name is part of the finish
We spend hours on the last few percent of a mix, adjusting levels that only a trained ear will notice. The title is heard, or read, by every single listener, so it deserves at least a fraction of that attention.
So I let the placeholder stay dull and keep working until the track shows me what it is. Then I choose a name that points toward that feeling instead of away from it. When it lands right, it’s hard to imagine the track ever being called anything else.
If you want more on the small choices that make a track stay with a listener, read The Drive Home Test, about checking a mix in the car.