It tells a story

Is she really going out with him?
   - Leader of the Pack, The Shangri-Las, 1964

Without getting all smoking-jacket literati about it, I’ve been thinking about the spoken word on records.

The excuse of a new, bigger iPod leads me to ripping some older CDs, and so I’ve been listening to Stevie Wonder, amongst others. In the middle of Living For The City, off of the Innervisions record, comes this spoken play-let – the young innocent from the sticks arrives in New York city, only to fall prey to naivety and racism. As he gets tossed into a jail cell, the cop calls him “nigger”; it’s pretty strong stuff in 2007, and very edgy in 1973, when it was edited out in radio airplay.

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
   - Ernest Hemmingway

A full narrative - could you get much shorter? Hemmingway possibly wrote this short, short story for a wager, but also purports it to be his best work. Willy Vlautin, singer/songwriter of much-loved alt.country band Richmond Fontaine, peppers their brilliant Post to Wire record with a series of small, tight spoken-word vignettes called Postcards – messages from Walter to Pete, which in three pedal-steel backed tracks of less than a minute tell a detailed fall from grace story. Vlautin’s writing (he is also a novelist) has been compared to Raymond Carver, another author who is known for his sparse prose.

Which brings me to Charles Bukowski, not just because he is another exponent, but because he is the subject of a recent record by Tom Russell. Russell is a great songwriter (Johnny Cash, Nanci Griffith, Suzy Bogguss), albeit a mediocre singer himself. He is also exceptionally well connected, and can include Bukowski amongst his correspondents. Hotwalker: Charles Bukowski & A Ballad for Gone America is more of a radio show than a music record; with songs and spoken word it combines reportage and collage to describe the USA of Kerouac & Guthrie, poets & piss artists, circuses and shenanigans in a deservedly reverential way.


My son Tom has made friends with young Sheffield band, Weekend at Bukowski’s, of whom much are expected. Whilst preferring the name they first thought of (Breakfast at Bukowski’s – so much more irony), I hope they tell great stories.