Acoustic guitar. Check.
Harmonica, bottle neck and scotch on the rocks. Check.
Tall stool centre stage, dimmed lights and a thin layer of smoke
drifting before the stage – lean into the microphone “check one two”, clear the
throat. And so we begin.
K.W. Peery’s Tales of a Receding Hairline has a very unique feel to it. This collection isn’t the classic idea of
poetry, there is an atmosphere to the book similar to that you would find in a
blues bar somewhere in America’s Deep South.
It is a collection written in the hand of experience, and definitely
betrays his long relationship with music.
In short, if I didn’t already know through my research that Peery is a
prolific lyricist and music producer, I would have guessed after the first
couple of poems. So let us set something
straight.
If you are looking for classic
literary devices, if you are the sort of poetry fan who is interested in form,
enjambment, and recognised poetic techniques, then you will be looking in the
wrong place. But let us not mistake this for bad poetry. For a minute let us all suspend our
expectations of what a poem looks like.
For a little while, forget how high-brow poetry enthusiasts tell you a
poem should read. Just get to your
drinks cabinet and pour yourself a Jack on the rocks and enjoy.
Peery has smashed the tropes of
the genre. Deliberately forgoing
contemporary use of punctuation to control the pace, and reverted back to the
classical idea of capitalising the beginnings of lines. You won’t be more than two pieces into the
collection before you recognise the concept.
This is a set of lyrics, taken from the mouth of a musician. This is the lessons learned on the road, the
drugs, the booze, the women. Peery gives
us a drifter with a guitar telling us his life, and although at first glance
you may question his form, it won’t take you long to realise that this concept
is very clever.
His use of repetition and stanza
length are reminiscent of a 12 bar blues loop, from his first poem ‘Alone’ to ‘Hunted’
and many more, you realise the benefit of not having the pace controlled by
over use of grammar. You can listen to
these poems at your own chugging pace. The
soft idiolect used through the piece, you will only think of a husky American
singer breathing his tales into a silver microphone. There isn’t a collection like this, and it
may be a long time before you read one again.
It isn’t clear exactly who this
poetry collection would be for. I can
imagine it raising a few eyebrows in some literary circles, and perhaps as
poetry, some people would doubt its literary value. I think for the first time in a while, this
is a collection that is accessible to everyone, and us perhaps more aimed at
lovers of music, as opposed to lovers of literature. The more I read it, the more I wonder if my
parents would like it. Neither of them
poetry fans, but both of them appreciate American music. So I have come to that conclusion. Peery has released an album, just in literary
form.
And so…
Sit back, watch the drifter pick
his beaten old six string and sling it across his knee. There is poetry about to happen. There is music between these covers.
Or you could just by Tales of a Receding Hairline on Amazon.
Yours tapping his feet
Adam Ward
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