Storytelling (spoken word) songs

[Henrik]

I have realized that I'm a big fan of songs that are told rather than sung (but with a normal voice, not in a rap style). Some absolute favorites are Benjamin Biolay's Brandt Rhapsodie , The Specials & Rhoda Dakar's The Boiler and Slint's whole Spiderland album.

Recommendations of songs in a similar vein would be much appreciated!

PS. I wrote no rap, but it's probably not a coincidence that my favorite rap song is Eminem's Stan.

[Romain]

Serge Gainsbourg come immediatly to my mind when you talking about "Talk-Over".
Two of his greatest albums are composed by a lot of "talk-over" songs.

"L'histoire de Melody Nelson" with songs like : Melody, Cargo Culte or l'Hôtel Particulier

And "L'homme à la tête de chou" with variations sur Marilou, Flash Forward or Aéroplanes

And I'm very happy you love Brandt Rhapsody, the first time I listen this song....I was totally breathless. A life explained in 3 minutes. One of the best French song of the decade.

[Henrik]

Thanks Romain. I could have mentioned l'Hôtel Particulier , it (and the whole "Histoire de Melody Nelson" album) is one of my favorites too. I am listening to "L'homme à la tête de chou" now.

[Romain]

Thanks Romain. I could have mentioned l'Hôtel Particulier , it (and the whole "Histoire de Melody Nelson" album) is one of my favorites too. I am listening to "L'homme à la tête de chou" now.

In addition to the two previous albums, here some talk-over songs by Gainsbourg I think you can love :
En relisant ta lettre (very misogynist but funny)
Docteur Jekyll et Monsieur Hyde
Bonnie and Clyde

69 année érotique

Pamela Popo

Vieille canaille
Love on the beat (pornographic song)

Sorry Angel

No comment

Lemon Incest
Aux enfants de la chance

[Schwah]

I'm a huge fan of "(I'll Love You) Till the End of the World" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.

[Jirin]

I'm not a fan of talk-singing. I can only stomach it when Tom Waits or Nick Cave does it, otherwise I find it grating and disruptive to the melody, especially if they cut down the volume every time the singer talks.

For me melody is one of the most integral parts of vocal music. And a lot of the French music that uses talk-singing has this sort of, I don't know what to call it, 'conspicuously indifferent' air about it that I find extremely off-putting.

[Zorg]

Sometimes it just feels inappropriate to attempt to put a melody on a song that simply doesn't want it - it leaves it rawer, more spiritual.

Henrik I'd really recommend the 1994 album (perfect for next month!)L'etat et moi by a German band called Blumfeld. There's a lot of talk-singing in that, as well as witty lyrics and at times very crashing guitars. It's a really interesting listen. One song actually has no music in it at all, and is just the lead singer talking to the listener, which is pretty nice, and serves as a great signpost of the beginning of the end. I'd also recommend following the lyrics with a lyrics website of some sort, because they're really great.

You make me:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z2Hvj17mnog

Draussen auf Kaution:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87hlSk_3 ... re=related

I'm finding it really difficult to find videos for the really spoken word songs, but they're all in that (wonderful) album. I really suggest you (and everyone else!) pick it up!

[Henrik]

I'm not a fan of talk-singing. I can only stomach it when Tom Waits or Nick Cave does it, otherwise I find it grating and disruptive to the melody, especially if they cut down the volume every time the singer talks.

For me melody is one of the most integral parts of vocal music. And a lot of the French music that uses talk-singing has this sort of, I don't know what to call it, 'conspicuously indifferent' air about it that I find extremely off-putting.

At least Spiderland was your #11 of 1991.

[Romain]

I remember a classic of Nougaro ! A good story on The "Blue Rondo à la Turk" by Brubeck.

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2u6yj ... e_creation

[Honorio]

Great thread, Henrik, I love storytelling in music too. And I agree with Jirin, Nick Cave and Tom Waits are the masters here.

Listen for instance the great "Frank's Wild Years" from "Swordfishtrombones" (1983). Spoken word can't get better

Well, that wasn't true, it's possible to get better. Just listen to "The Carny" (1986) by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds.

And, what about gloomy early Tindersticks and "My Sister" (1995) with lines as "she wanted a cheap coffin so the worms could get to her quickly"

And I'm really sorry for putting my band on the same thread that Cave, Waits or Staples (especially when the clip is quite amateurish and the sound comes from a live show and it's quite awful) but Gent del Desert has some story-telling songs also. This is the English translation of the lyrics of the song "El record" :

THE MEMORY (Lluís Roda / Jesús Barranco)


You were there, that’s true. But, who cares?
The memory is only yours
Look at it and throw it, nobody needs it...
Not even you remembered it


The railroad track divided the asphalted city. On the other side there was nothing.
An open ground, a piece of land, rubbish. Rubbles, a ditch, a sewer.
Mud, dust and stones. Grass and scattered fields.
Between warehouses, carpenters workshops and repair shops.
And bars, some of them whorehouses.
And a big stick or electric pylon in the middle of that.
A man was found dead hanged on the high voltage wires.

The owner of the whorehouse, and the only waitress I remember,
was an elder woman, or so it seemed to me,
wearing a miniskirt and boots, platinum blonde hair,
with pointed breast. Literally, pointed at the end.

At three o’clock on the afternoon, the bar was open yet.
We opened it every time we passed, punctually, on our way to school.
We shouted whore! and ran away.
And then we stopped to see if she came out. She always came out. And we saw her.

(whore!!)

Sometimes there was someone inside.
We always thought that he was doing it.
Sometimes the door was left, or remained, half open.
And we passed slowly, again and again. Until someone closed it.
It was made of opaque glass with different colors: red, blue...

One day they closed the bar, and they opened another one, with painted transparent glass.
I remember the day they painted it: Sandwiches – Assorted Snacks
with a draw of a mussel and a shrimp. It lacked any interest.
Some months later they asphalted the street.

(I'm the one playing acoustic bass)

[Jirin]

I'm not a fan of talk-singing. I can only stomach it when Tom Waits or Nick Cave does it, otherwise I find it grating and disruptive to the melody, especially if they cut down the volume every time the singer talks.

For me melody is one of the most integral parts of vocal music. And a lot of the French music that uses talk-singing has this sort of, I don't know what to call it, 'conspicuously indifferent' air about it that I find extremely off-putting.

At least Spiderland was your #11 of 1991.

Sometimes it just feels inappropriate to attempt to put a melody on a song that simply doesn't want it - it leaves it rawer, more spiritual.

I think a lot of what makes a difference to me is whether it's pure 'storytelling' meter or if it's semi-melodic. When Tom Waits does it, he's not talking melodically, he's talking just like he's telling a story. When Bill Callahan does it, he sort of has a melody but he's way off key and way off beat. It's about meter: Tom Waits does it with storytelling meter, Bill Callahan talks, but with singing meter. Talking in the same meter that you would sing just doesn't work at all for me.

Then again I'm also a fan of Miossec who does all the things I'm saying I don't like. I guess it varies by case.

[Moonbeam]

Laurie Anderson's Big Science album comes to mind.

[John]

The best part about Donovan's Atlantis is the chorus at the end, but the majority of the song is spoken word.

It's not a song but Harry Nilsson's soundtrack for The Point is fantastic with about 6-7 songs and narration between.

[Stephan]

The Gift, of course!

[Dan]

[Henrik]

Great recommendations, everyone.

...and this!

[irreduciblekoan]

I love spoken word songs too, but they need to be done well. The "lyrics" (so to speak) need to be extra good. I'm a writer myself so when an artist makes a conscious effort to talk rather than sing, they better make sure the words are interesting. Cave, Waits and Heron did/do a great job of this. A newer band I really dig is The Hold Steady.

Woody Guthrie was known for his "talking blues" style which Bob Dylan borrowed for tracks like "Talking World War 3 Blues." If done well, it could be a witty, colorful method. I wish Dylan did more of those, as he has a wonderful half-singing voice already.

[irreduciblekoan]

In celebration of Dylan's birthday, and in contribution to the topic, here's one of my top 20 Dylan tunes.

[Henrik]

Gotta post "The Boiler" for those who haven't heard it. So scary and sad.

[Honorio]

Wow, Henrik, that was really scary. You can read here the lyrics but also the reaction that the song produced to a young girl that was also raped.
But talking about screams and storytelling, how about Suicide's "Frankie Teardrop"? Not exactly spoken word but scary for sure.

All the other recommendations were great also.

[Otisredding]

Storytellings from 2012 (These are two great songs, I think)

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=pl ... H0V0hAW9VU[/youtube]

Over The Border by Saint Etienne

When I was 10 I wanted to explore the World
There were these older kids at school who'd gone all the way to Somerset
Just to see Peter Gabriel's house, Peter Gabriel from Genesis
They way they'd dressed, the way their hair fell over their coat collars
It all happened because of music, I wanted to know why
I couldn't go to Somerset on my own, so I used Top of the pops as my World
Atlas

In 1974, I bought my first single, from Woollies in Redhill
I started to memorise the charts, to memorise the leagues
Tuesday lunchtime at 12:45, Saturday afternoon at five o'clock
I didn't go to church, I didn't need to
Green and yellow harvests, pink pies, silver bells and the strange and
Important sound of the synthesiser.

Over the border, I'm growing older, heaven only knows what's on it's way
Every single day, love is here to stay
Over the border, I'm growing older, heaven only knows what's on it's way
Every single day, love is here to stay

Kevin drove us to parties in his Morris Minor
And there were boys, and there was booze, and mock Tudor semis
And first kisses, and terrible chat up lines
But in the end, the conversation always turned to music

I was in love, and I knew he loved me because he made me a tape
I played it in my bedroom, I lived in my bedroom, all of us did
Reading Smash Hits and Record Mirror, Paul Morley and the NME,
Dave McCulloch and Sounds, Modern Eon and Modern English
Mute, Why, Zoo, Factory
Cutting them up, sucking them in, managing the story on our own

Over the border, I'm growing older, heaven only knows what's on it's way
Every single day, love is here to stay
Over the border, I'm growing older, heaven only knows what's on it's way
Every single day, love is here to stay

I had my mocks a month later
But I just wanted to listen to Dexys, New Order, anything on postcard
A few weeks and I'd be free
A few weeks and music wouldn't have to be so private, it would be there for
Me
It would be there for me, and when I was married, and when I had kids
Would Marc Bolan still be so important

Over the border, I'm growing older, heaven only knows what's on it's way
Every single day, love is here to stay
Over the border, I'm growing older, heaven only knows what's on it's way
Every single day, love is here to stay

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=pl ... 8dgj8UJMs4[/youtube]

Chocolate by Tindersticks

It had been the perfect Friday afternoon,
the job was almost done.
The house we were decorating was owned by a little old man,
forever in the same three piece suit he'd probabbly had since he was demobbed.
He seemed to be forever on his way to the post office,
carrying brown paper ansd string wrapped parcels under his arm.
He'd bring us out china cups of camp coffee and plates of custard cream biscuits.
The house had belonged to his parents who had both passed away within weeks of each other, a few years back.
They were the only people he had ever lived with, this was the only house he had ever lived in.
I wondered what would happen to the house when he's gone.

It was a short walk to my bedsit, once a similar house to the old man's, now broken into lots of single room accomodation.
It also once had a great garden like his, now occupied by one-storey modern block building, containing the dentist and chiropodist.

In my room was an electric cooker, which I only used in winter to keep warm,
next to that was a sink with a glass shelf above it, on which was a toothbrush and carton of marlboro's.
There was a table with a chair in one corner, a single bed in the other, and about four sq ft in the middle.
There was a wooden drawer under the bed with most of my clothes in, the rest was over the back of the chair.
I had a record player on a table and boxes of records underneath.
The bathroom for the first and the second floor was opposite my room,
it had a meter for the water which took two 50pence pieces, you'd have to wait half an hour for the water to heat up, and keep an eye on the door in case some sod pinched your bath.
There was one toilet upstairs and one outside, but no one used the outside one anymore, so it was where the local prostitutes would take their clients for a quickie.
I'd spend as little time as I could in my room, my skin was still warm and soft from the bath as I walked into town.

So I was sat on my usual bar stool in my usual pub by 6.30, the usual twelve or so regulars in at this time of the evening, nice and relaxed before the post 8.00 crush, we'd crowd around the tiny bar then pool tables, the house rule for fool was winner stays on, you'd chalk your name on the balckboard, and wait your turn. The challenger would pay for the game, so if you were good, you 'd play all night.Tonight I was great.
She walked into the pool room just as I potted the black, the next name on the list, bent down to the slot on the table and put coins in.
I was used to seeing her surrounded by burgundy flocked wallpaper and red velvet upholstery in the sunday night pub around the corner; she looked different stood here in the pool room, she looked good, she was looking at me.
I ended the game as quickly as I could, without losing badly and stood near her.
"Would you like a drink?", she asked. "I get them. What do you want?" I replied. "The same as you're having", she said.
The great thing about being a regular when the bars turned deep is it only takes a raised eyebrow and a couple of nods, and two bottles of Holster Pils had been passed over people's heads to you. We did the pool room dance for a while, moving to" excuse me"'s bending around elbows and pool cues until we decided to move on
It was too early to go to the club, so we went around the corner to the Sunday night pub. It was still quite busy on a Friday night, full of couples and students. It had a reputation as a gay bar, probably why the students came in, to feel safe.
She was my dream, we drank pernod and blacks, talked about John Barry, Ford Cortinas (she preferred the Mark 3), what was best: gel or Brylcream? I preferred the Brylcream.
She even agreed On Her Majesty's Secret Service was the best Bond film, if you accept it as a whole and not just get hung up about George Lazenby.
She smoked Silkcuts, she didn't mind Marlboros, but we both had a fondness for Old Port cigars
We moved down to the club. Upstairs for a couple of onion bhajis went down to the quiet bar, near the dance floors.
We decided to leave early, you wouldn't want to be there in the end, when the lights came on. You'd never sit down in here again. In a depressing shuffle we pushed to the door, now it was good to get up and out, while it was still a black hole, warm, and smokey, full of possibilities...

She lived by the river, the other side of town, queue for taxis was hell as usual, next to the late night chippy, the worst chips you could buy, but at this time of night, full. Outside fights and throwing up. We jumped in the taxi, nothing mattered but us.
Back at hers, a bedsit in a house similar to mine, she'd done something, painted three walls, put up some old fifties star wall paper, a big Bowie poster and some nice curtains, it would be easy for me to change my woodchip magnolia bedsit standard. Afterall, it was my job. She had a few lamps here and there were some candles. She made us proper hot chocolate, not the instant shit you get from the machine. She had Fox'sbiscuits and a small bottle of Cointreau, too. The end of a perfect day. The taste of chocolate, cigarette, and orange liqueur made it even seem better. I undid her tartan miniskirt, pulled off her black wool tights, my lips moved up her legs... What the fuck? I had a large hard dick poking me in the eye. "Shit! you're a chap!" I felt like jumping through the window, screaming, I couldn't move...
She... he...still looked the same... I had a pain in my head, I wanted to do something, say something...
He was holding me, sobbing... "you must have known, how could you not tell?" And "I love you, I can be your woman..." His eyes were still beautiful, deep brown, his lips still chocolatey and orangey.
"Shit!" I said, "I was never a breast man, anyway..."