Ketch Secor: The Crow's Stories Are Fun & Philosophical

The solo album Story That The Crow Told Me from Ketch Secor, frontman of Old Crow Medicine Show, operates as a lyrical memoir and a highly personal chronicle. The album charts the course of a traveling musician from his earliest busking days through the genesis of one of modern Americana’s most enduring bands. It is an album deeply concerned with place, motion, and the fringe characters that define the American landscape, frequently presented in the traditional—yet dynamic—spoken-word style that Secor has mastered.

The album’s foundational sound demonstrates Secor’s deep musicality. He is the instrumental backbone, contributing Lead Vocal, Fiddle, Banjo, Harmonica, Bass, Organ, and Spoons to almost every track, confirming this album as a deeply personal effort in which he wears multiple instrumental hats. This command over a vast array of instruments—from the traditional fiddle and banjo to the more unexpected organ and bass—underscores the breadth of the journey documented here. Secor is a comprehensive musician who can embody the entire musical landscape of his story.

For those tracking the arc of Secor’s career, his roots-revivalism is legendary. He and Old Crow Medicine Show brought old-time music to a new generation, resulting in massive success and a co-writing credit with Bob Dylan on the ubiquitous "Wagon Wheel." Secor's background is central to this history. He was pivotal in the Ken Burns Country Music documentary, continuing the modern folk tradition. This solo record, however, turns the lens inward, focusing on the rough-and-tumble years before the fame—a period the bio describes as being defined by a "spontaneity and quixotic passion."

For me, the emotional and philosophical core of the album lies in "Highland Rim," a stunning dialogue piece featuring guest vocals from the incomparable Marty Stuart. Marty Stuart, often referred to as the Forrest Gump of country music due to his presence at pivotal moments in the genre's history, appears here as the voice of the ancient, weathered land itself—the Highland Rim geological formation.

When Secor, in the persona of the weary "string picker," lays out his internal struggle—"I'm so full of dread all these worries in my head / And these wings feel as heavy as lead"—it is a geological consultation. Stuart’s measured, timeless delivery, representing the mountains, replies: "Time has a way of making straight all roads that once were bent / From high up here its pretty clear that all is vanity."

I really enjoyed talking to Ketch Secor on The Curious Goldfish Podcast, and we spoke a lot about the significance of this song and its connection to his curiosity about place and geography. Secor explained how he came to appreciate the local Tennessee hills, realizing they were far older, though more worn down, than the Blue Ridge Mountains he grew up near. This understanding, that the land itself holds the longest memory, is beautifully channeled through Stuart's presence.

During our conversation, I pointed out the obvious torch-passing narrative: Stuart, in his generation, became the great steward of country music history, just as Secor has done for his. Ketch acknowledged this kinship with Marty, stating, "We got a lot in common. Yeah. Um, we’re also worlds different, um, but we both learned to walk in the state of Mississippi." This small detail reveals the deep, shared Southern identity and respect that anchors their collaboration on "Highland Rim." Secor is not just seeking advice; he is seeking validation from the past, and he gets it from the voice of the mountains and the guidance of a respected elder.

The defining thematic gravity of this album is, unequivocally, the road. Track after track, the listener is propelled forward by rail and by truck, chasing the horizon. The opening track, "Busker's Spell," establishes the narrative, describing a 15-year-old with "A 5 string strung on up to my ears / And a belly full of songs worth more than my years." It is an ode to scraping by on nickels and dimes, trying to "cast me a busker's spell" on train platforms—a pure snapshot of the artist’s earliest ambitions. This narrative thread continues through "Ghost Train," which frames the career hustle with dark, mythological energy. The lyrics "Is this the page the great ones folded over / where souls are sold for fortune's untold" capture the high-stakes gamble of chasing the Nashville dream.

The soul of the album also resides in the act of preservation, captured perfectly in "Junkin'." This track is a manifesto for the music historian. Secor calls out to "Junkers, Junk man, Junk Woman" and names them as "archivist needle men, fiddle tune scavengers, luster of groove voyeaurs." The lyric about finding "a rare Uncle Dave on Vocallion" or referencing old shellac platters like the Mound City Blue Blowers and Lydia Mendoza positions the traveling musician as a dedicated archaeologist of sound, constantly digging for the lost roots of American song. "It's a song about repertoire," Secor’s notes explain, "and the lengths to which I had to go to build one." This dedication to the past gives his music its authenticity.

This spirit of cultural preservation connects seamlessly with the vibrant character portraits and geographic specificity of the album. "Dickerson Road" is a gritty, hyper-detailed tableau of Nashville’s less-polished side, capturing the spirit of a place where dreamers landed when they couldn't afford Broadway. It is a song populated by hustlers, dreamers, and the down-and-out: "Truck stop girls barefoot at the Krystal drive thru she's got the revelation hairdo." This track, along with others like "Thanks Again" and "Holes In The Wall," forms a collective nod to the forgotten venues and generous strangers who kept the "rambling boy" on his path. This collection of tracks serves as a magnificent act of gratitude, memorializing everyone from "the man who bought the ranch and tipped a 100 bill" to the White Buffalo waitress and the endless list of "favorite holes in the wall."

The album concludes with "What Nashville Was," a brilliant track that interpolates Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash's duet "Girl From The North Country" into a meditation on Nashville's evolution. It is a spoken-word amplified piece that echoes Secor’s comments in the Ken Burns documentary about the fluid, cross-racial history of country music—a perpetual cycle of "Black imitates white, imitates black, imitates white." It mourns the loss of the city's counter-cultural spaces while celebrating the resilience of the musical spirit that remains: "They can build that skyline up but they can’t take what we love... that’s what Nashville was."

The entire album is, as Secor described it in our chat, a kind of necessary reckoning: "I'm nervous about the record because it feels so revealing," he admitted, "But I hope people will feel the universality of it, too." He sees it as putting himself through those high-risk, youthful years again, but now with the wisdom of a father and an established artist. He was curious then about the world, and now he’s curious about the meaning of that world. The final anecdote he shared with me, about always searching for the "trickster" in the margins, neatly summarizes the album's philosophy: a search for a liminal, fluid truth found outside the mainstream.

Story That The Crow Told Me is a powerful, sprawling, and richly detailed document of an artist’s origin story. It acts as both a tribute to the past and a clear-eyed look at the present, making the case that the most authentic country music is still found in the margins and in the milk crates of the junker. It is a vital listen for anyone who has felt the pull of the open road, needed a word of wisdom from the mountains, or understood that the greatest fortunes are the simple generosity of a stranger.