Sean Murphy’s story collection This Kind of Man is a vulnerable and insightful exploration of toxic masculinity an male identity.
Kirkus wrote of the book:
“This Kind of Man probes the questionable ways that men move through the world, charting their actions’ impacts on others and on themselves…The best stories connect their characters’ behaviors to historical forces of American life…Murphy excels at evoking the expression of toxic masculinity in its many forms.”
In his own words, here is Sean Murphy’s Book Notes music playlist for his story collection This Kind of Man:
This collection isn’t necessarily a reaction or response to 2016—and everything that has happened since, but many of these stories were written during this extended sociopolitical crisis. What fascinates me—aside from some of the more obvious and insidious issues that can directly traced to He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named—is that everyone (especially men) are angry, and while we discuss it all the time, we don’t discuss it enough, or discuss in ways that extend beyond the “blue collar dude at the diner has thoughts” that our lazy, unimaginative, and often supine media feels is sufficient. This Kind of Man attempts to get inside this simmering antipathy by interrogating the alternately complicated, tender, wild truth of what it is to be a man across generations and relationships. These stories explore the pressures and tensions of contemporary life, and the ways men grapple with them, often without success. We see that our received notions of manhood and masculinity are inculcated-from the beginning and by design-to ensure willing participation in a system where the overwhelming majority are excluded from the start. We witness the way these dysfunctions are handed down like inheritance, and how every cliché, from fighting to drinking to intolerance of dissent and distrust of others, is a carefully constructed trap, preventing solidarity, empathy, and love (for others, for one’s self).
A great song, like a great story or poem, can articulate the pain and profundity of existence (obvi), but songs also have the added layer and advantages of music. As such, while many of these selections were chosen for their topical import, many of them express the aggression or frustration or the futility that often accompanies male toxicity.
“Adam Raised a Cain” by Bruce Springsteen (for “The Letter My Father Never Wrote Me”)
Bruce Springsteen, our Poet Laureate for fraught relationships between fathers and sons. So many possibilities to pick from his catalog, but this more obscure track, appropriately filled with rage and resignation, works as a leitmotif for my collection, and the larger issue of the ways toxic males pass that fear, loathing, and love down like an inheritance. Or, as The Boss puts it: “You inherit the sins, you inherit the flames.” Sons have been disappointing fathers ever since Adam got a one-way ticket out of Eden, and the shadow of failed relationships hangs heavily over these stories. Generation gaps are equal parts cliché and inevitability, and “Adam Raised a Cain” captures this combination of respect and regret, epitomizing the ways patriarchs regard their offspring, at times, with a mixture of confusion and resignation.
“Not Tomorrow” by Living Colour (for “This Kind of Man”)
(Story & Song: An Interpolation)
No more lies from the other side. What kind of man doesn’t speak to his son? Women cry, people die / Our family is scattered. What kind of man worries his wife will be at peace when he’s gone? Maybe I’m not like you. What kind of man would trade places with his dying wife? Save yourself for your sake. What kind of man doesn’t have some regrets? Today I look for truth. Not tomorrow.
“No Man’s Land” by Bob Seger (for “Winning”)
This one applies on so many levels: the title alone signifying some opaque and often unknowable space where fathers and sons navigate how to succeed, how to please, how to prepare: so much of what we might say about masculinity lives (and often implodes) within this no man’s land: so many battles, so few victories. With a hat tip to Springsteen’s “the hungry and the hunted” from “Jungleland (and meta note: my old man—upon whom I hasten to note this story is not based on—has always recalcitrantly preferred Bob to Bruce), Seger indelibly captures these dynamics: “the haunting and the haunted/play a game no one can win.”
“Blow Up the Outside World” by Soundgarden (for “Now’s the Time”)
For all that’s said (the good, bad, and ugly) about grunge, there was a certain despair—born out of the profound alienation that results from being beaten down or ignored altogether—that the best music from this cultural moment in the ‘90s nailed like no other. I could have chosen any number of suitable options from tormented golden god Chris Cornell, but the tone and sentiment (“Nothing will do me in before I do myself”) is an epitaph of sorts for the lost soul described in this story.
“Blue Ridge Mountains” by Fleet Foxes (for “Philippi”)
Not only is this one thematically on the nose, it’s a tribute to place rendered by a definite outsider (Robin Pecknold: Appalachia by way of Seattle, Washington). For “Philippi” (very loosely based on a true story), it seems doubly appropriate to invoke a stranger trying to describe a place that’s at once well-known and unknowable. Taking this in another, very applicable direction, I could have chosen the effulgent Cassandra Wilson’s “Sign of the Judgment,” but it doesn’t capture the bucolic landscapes where hidden secrets are kept quite like the Fleet Foxes miniature soundscape does.
“Death or Glory” by The Clash (for “That’s Why God Made Men”)
“That’s Why God Made Men” (as story, title, and leitmotif) is an attempt to capture all-things toxic; the misguided ways we inculcate toughness and myopia, as well as how we ensure subsequent generations are ill-equipped to handle (inevitable) setbacks, often resulting in damage (to oneself, to others). As it relates to competition in general, and a very American attitude toward sports in particular, equal parts distraction and pathology, Joe Strummer articulates where so much of this misplaced aggression is headed in one sardonic line “Death or glory becomes just another story.”
“I Against I” by Bad Brains (for “Red State Sewer Side”)
“Red State Sewer Side” started as a title (for a poem that never got written), and sprang to life from a single image, a video clip of sorts via a vivid and disturbing dream. I woke up and it was right there: a young boy, at least ten and no more than fourteen, in a schoolyard scrap. He is winning the fight, but he’s afraid. He’s afraid because he’s surrounded by other kids he doesn’t know, and the hostility on their faces suggests they’re all more than willing to jump in and assist their classmate. He understands that even (perhaps especially) if he “wins” he is still going to be the target for a type of violence he’s never experienced and can’t understand. This story attempts to interrogate the why behind the how, the who behind the what, and the seemingly intractable divides amongst states that are anything but united. Typical mic-drop, courtesy of Bad Brains: “The same old story, no factual glory / I against I against I against I against…”
“The Sky Took Hold” by Grizzly Bear (for “Scars”)
In his immortal poem (compressing wisdom that could fill a novel) “To an Athlete Dying Young,” A.E. Housman writes “Runners whom renown outran / And the name died before the man.” In this song that closes out Grizzly Bear’s Painted Ruins, the multi-tracked vocals confess a devastating truth: “Who I am beneath the surface / Hiding out so long inside my mind / Every day I stay blind to it / Habit comes and tears me open wide.” The story “Scars” was written before this album dropped, but for me this track is a perfect accompaniment to the very unwelcome realities the two friends—former hometown hero jocks—must, at long last, confront and untangle.
“So Jah Seh” by Bob Marley (for “In My Cups”)
How can we talk about (much less do anything about) homelessness without being trite or maudlin? “In My Cups” refers to the sociocultural totem that, in cinema (and actual life) serves as shorthand for how many of us begin our day, deal with a hangover, offer as a humble offering to a shivering human being living in the streets: a cup of coffee. I’m not certain any artist has ever consistently combined compassion and censure, mingling the New Testament empathy of Jesus with the Old Testament admonition of Ecclesiastes, quite like the immortal Bob Marley. This one (from Marley’s masterpiece Natty Dread) is a J’accuse from the voice of God (literally and figuratively): “So Jah seh ‘Not one of my seeds / Shall sit on the sidewalk / And beg your bread.’” Imagine a politician—or a priest, for that matter—invoking this sentiment, and actually meaning it.
“No One To Depend On” by Santana (for “No tengo a nadie”)
Here is an instance where an entire story derived from a line from a song (the call-and-response chorus, “No Tengo a Nadie,” which translates as “I have no one,” and showcases how Carlos Santana and Neal Schon, in their prime, could shred like cheese graters). This is a story informed by many years in the service industry where, among many other things, I saw ample evidence of how impossibly hard many of the folks who are ostensibly unwelcome in this country (filled with able-bodied folks happily accepting assistance from the government they claim to despise) will work, just to survive, much less aspire to some humble version of the American Dream. I’m proud of this piece because it explores politics without being political (not that our art can’t and shouldn’t go there or, as the always-reliable George Orwell reminds us: “the opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude”). This one is dedicated to the myriad, tax-paying folks without whom the machinery of American commerce would cease to function.
“Disappear” by Mazzy Star (for “A Brief Catalog of Mostly Forgivable Thoughts”)
Mazzy Star established an inimitable sound: a deep, dark groove that could be somber and transcendent, ethereal and uplifting. Their unique aesthetic, a yin-yang of dreamy and despairing, comes to fruition on “Disappear,” which features the lines “I can’t believe what I had to say / All the things you never see / I’ll never be what you want me to be” and captures, in sound, a father, looking at his newborn and her mother, wondering why he feels so alone.
“Alive and Well and Living In” by Jethro Tull (for “Life without Onions”)
All the props to Ian Anderson (one of rock music’s best wordsmiths) for distilling the dynamics of a dysfunctional relationship inside one short song: the at times domineering and needy dude, and the mistreated woman who silently suffers, a situation “Life Without Onions” succinctly illustrates, ending on an ambivalent, if slightly hopeful note. On “Alive and Well and Living In,” there’s a lot going on: ups and downs of a day in the life are represented by the deceptively gentle, waltz-like time (Anderson’s flute and John Evan’s piano), which is undercut by Martin Barre’s menacing electric guitar—suggesting beneath the brave face the internal weather is stormy, possibly about to shift.
“Lovers of Today” by Pretenders (for “Later, That Same Morning”)
I can think of few examples that make misery sound so beautiful; it’s too bad “haunted” is a total cliché, because this song is haunted: by regret, by longing, by one of Chrissie Hynde’s best vocal performances, and especially by James Honeyman Scott’s solo—a time capsule of what we had and what might have been (RIP). This one-page story written when I was just out of college has a lot of audacity trying to associate itself with the Pretenders, but my playlist, my rules. Also: “No, I’ll never feel like a man in a man’s world.”
“Tongue” by R.E.M. (for “How Many Men?”)
I don’t use writing prompts, but this one seems like it could have been an exercise to portray a “can’t live with him, can’t live without him” situation (speaking of clichés!). From the severely underrated Monster, this song simmers with desire and self-hatred, managing to make the agony of indecision sublime.
“Pledging My Love” by Johnny Ace (for “Instinct”)
Different people would have different definitions for what constitutes a “dealbreaker” in a relationship. “Instinct” is an attempt to interrogate whether one’s character can be revealed by a misjudgment, or perhaps it’s a person’s reaction to it that tells the story. Fittingly, Johnny Ace is responsible for the most melancholic love song ever.
“This is the Day” by The The (for “Unbroken Things”)
Has there ever been an anthem more deserving of a big moment in a great movie? Until that happens, I’ll claim it, and be grateful for these lines, which do as much or more than I manage in several thousand words. “But the side of you they’ll never see / Is when you’re left alone with your memories / That hold your life together, like glue.”
“Waiting on a Friend” by The Rolling Stones (for “Our Vietnam”)
So much of this book concerns men who can’t or won’t or simply don’t know how to communicate, to share their pain (or acknowledge they feel pain). This story deconstructs the idea that, if or even when family disappears, there’s always one last chance if we have a single friend willing to stand by us when the going gets way past tough. On a personal note, it seems the ultimate test of character to stand by that person everyone else has written off; how does our world benefit if any of us feel truly abandoned and alone?
“The Crystal Ship” by The Doors (for “Still Thirsty”)
Jim Morrison wrote his epitaph before he ever became the Lizard King (not to mention Mr. Mojo Risin’). “The Crystal Ship” is an ode to oblivion, by liquid or chemical means, and thanks to some ethereal keyboard and guitar flourishes, makes slow suicide seem irresistible. Of course, these substances courting users with their charms and false promises is the overture of too many tragedies to count. With “Still Thirsty,” I wanted to write about the limits of a parent’s love (hint: there are no limits), and explore how things get complicated when one person’s poison becomes another’s panacea.
“Light a Light” by Janis Ian (for “Waiting”)
I wrote the initial lines of the story that became “Waiting” sitting in the same hospital I was born in 32 years before, preparing for my mother to return from surgery. My family was already too-familiar with the dread that accompanies the final rounds of a heavyweight battle with cancer. In a waiting room one catches oneself making all kinds of bargains with the universe. In memory of my mother, I naturally wanted to select the right song, and it’s impossible to properly describe how perfect this one is.
And how we loved, ‘til the years were days
How we laughed all our tears away
And now the time begins to fade…
When you’re gone, the sun don’t shine
Light a light, light a light for me:
Bring me back home again.
“Time” by Pink Floyd (for “Gethsemane”)
Nature/Nurture. If a young man is brought into this world and has all traces of softness forcibly removed, is encouraged to fight and win, to believe in a God who makes everything right, can we be surprised when he’s paralyzed by the realization that nothing went according to a script he didn’t write? That things he took for granted, like youth, health, and opportunities, are greatly diminished if not entirely in the rearview and receding quickly? “The time is gone, the song is over / Thought I’d something more to say.” Do we scoff at or judge men from a particular generation who feel betrayed when it’s too late to change? Or do we give them grace, and try to learn hard lessons from the hard lives they’ve lived?
“Always See Your Face” by Love (for “Come and Get My Gun”)
Won’t somebody please
help me with my miseries?
Can’t somebody see
what this world has done to me?
Hurt people, it’s said, hurt people. If we’ve managed to fathom anything about masculinity and its associated toxicities, we know that more hardness won’t help. Offering a hand, lending an ear, spending some time, showing some love: these gestures, so often in short supply, especially amongst certain types of men, will not miraculously make things right. But they are necessary and overdue. They are the first step toward healing.
Sean Murphy’s playlist for his graphic novel Punk Rock Jesus
Sean Murphy is founder of the non-profit 1455 Lit Arts, and directs the Center for Story at Shenandoah University. He has appeared on NPR’s “All Things Considered” and been quoted in USA Today, The New York Times, The Huffington Post, and AdAge. A long-time columnist for PopMatters, his work has also appeared in Salon, The Village Voice, Washington City Paper, The Good Men Project, Sequestrum, Blue Mountain Review, and others. His chapbook, The Blackened Blues, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2021. His second collection of poems, Rhapsodies in Blue was published by Kelsay Books in 2023. His third collection, Kinds of Blue, and This Kind of Man, his first collection of short fiction, are forthcoming in 2024. He has been nominated four times for the Pushcart Prize, twice for Best of Net, and his book Please Talk about Me When I’m Gone was the winner of Memoir Magazine’s 2022 Memoir Prize. To learn more, and read his published short fiction, poetry, and criticism, please visit him online.