After lecture on Monday, I found myself wondering about storytelling, and if it is in fact a lost form. How rare it is to find ourselves sitting around campfires telling the tales of our forefather’s great victories and also of their debilitating defeats. No longer do we warn of, as per the Basso text, the coyote that may or may not be pissing up stream or the grasshoppers that could decimate our crops[1]; the stories that were once told offered advice and guidance to the young, as well as a form of entertainment. But is Benjamin right? Is storytelling really a lost art?

My family does not have many great stories. My mother has on occasion spoken of her grandparents and the great-depression – life in the dust-bowl. She has shared stories with me of her impoverished childhood, her parents moving her from town to town in hopes of finding work, and the small drawer that she was allowed to keep her belongings in the minuscule mobile-trailer in which they called home. Perhaps she told me in an attempt to instill a desire to better myself through education and hard work?

I have been told stories of time spent in Hawaii when I was a child. My father and mother would drive into coconut groves, my mother would leap out of the car with the speed and precision of a lynx, and grab a coconut or two, completely ignoring the posted signs warning of potential death due to the coconuts falling from above. Perhaps she told me this story to simply keep me from getting killed by a falling coconut?

And then I find myself thinking about the stories that I give value to. I have shared on many occasions the story of my younger sister getting ran over by a van when we were young children. My memory is blurry but the consequence of not paying attention, by myself, the driver of the van, and my sister, resulted in her being injured. Maybe I tell the story because it was traumatic. Maybe I tell it so that others, in their future, pay attention.

Pay attention.

It was while driving home from the dentist today that I realized – I was paying attention – that I spend a good portion of my day listening to stories, as do majority of the American people. It is piped in at the dentist’s office and grocery store. It is in our earbuds and on the car stereo. It is in every restaurant we dine and practically everywhere we go. It was right there with me, on that drive, as I flipped through the stations.  Music.

Benjamin stated in the beginning of his essay on the works of Nikolai Leskov that, “…the storyteller in his living immediacy is by no means a present force. He has already become something remote from us and something that is getting more distant…” and later, “the art of storytelling is coming to an end.”[2]

In 1969, in reaction to the Vietnam War, John Fogerty wrote a song for his band at the time – Creedence Clearwater Revival – entitled Fortunate Son[3]. The song, the musical story, tells of the class struggle taking place during a time of civil unrest, a time of wars being perpetuated by the rich but fought by the poor[4].

Some folks are born, made to wave the flag
Ooo, their red, white and blue
And when the band plays “Hail to the Chief”
Ooo, they point the cannon at you, Lord

It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no senator’s son, son
It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no fortunate one, no

Some folks are born, silver spoon in hand
Lord, don’t they help themselves, y’all
But when the taxman comes to the door
Lord, the house looks like a rummage sale, yeah

It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no millionaire’s son, no, no
It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no fortunate one, no

Yeah, yeah
Some folks inherit star spangled eyes
Ooh, they send you down to war, Lord
And when you ask ‘em, “How much should we give?”
Ooh, they only answer “More! More! More!”, y’all

It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no military son, son
It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no fortunate one, one
It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no fortunate one, no, no, no
It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no fortunate son, no, no, no[5]

Fogerty is telling a story, a story that I have heard many times over. I know the story behind the song not only through the words themselves, but from the conversations I have had about them. But Fogerty is only one example of many. The more I think about songs that have left a lasting memory, that tell a story that may be politically motivated, a testament to a social change (Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young also delved into the Vietnam War and the shooting of four student protesters in Ohio), a declaration for peace (John Lennon, Imagine), or perhaps one of many, many anthems for those mending a broken heart (Gloria Gaynor, I Will Survive). Seriously, think about some songs that stick out to you and what they mean.

It is hard to know what exactly defines a story, which we discussed in Stacey’s seminar on Monday as well. I imagine music does not fit the parameters as discussed by Benjamin but it seems that music now is an example of how stories can be told and retold. Musicians are the evolution of the storytellers of the past?

I also want to clarify that not all musicians are good storytellers; I am not interested in the wisdom of Miley Cyrus or Justin Bieber, but I do believe that there is something to be said for the story in a song.

[1] Basso, Keith H. Wisdom Sits in Places: Landscape and Language among the Western Apache. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1996.

[2] Benjamin, Walter, and Hannah Arendt. Illuminations. New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1968.

[3] Grow, Kory. “John Fogerty Addresses ‘Fortunate Son’ Concert for Valor Controversy.” Rolling Stone. November 13, 2014. Accessed April 29, 2015. http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/john-fogerty-addresses-fortunate-son-concert-for-valor-controversy-20141113.

[4] Ibid.

[5] Retrieved from: http://www.metrolyrics.com/fortunate-son-lyrics-creedence-clearwater-revival.html