My Naked Soul by Alan Burke: A Poetic Time Capsule from 1967
Alright, so here’s the deal. My Naked Soul isn’t your typical music album—it’s more like someone handed you a kaleidoscope of words and said, “Here, look through this for an hour.” Released in 1967 (yeah, the Summer of Love era), it’s not exactly groovy tunes but rather spoken poetry that feels raw and unfiltered. Alan Burke reads his own work here—no frills, no backing band—and somehow, it hits different.
Burke lays out fifteen tracks on this Audio Fidelity release, each one packed with imagery and emotion. The whole thing is kind of like overhearing someone spill their soul at a café table next to yours. You can’t help but lean in closer. Two tracks stuck with me like gum on a shoe: "Confessional" and "Tides."
“Confessional” feels like peeking into someone’s diary—or maybe their therapist's notes. It’s heavy stuff, man. Burke talks about guilt, secrets, and redemption in a way that makes you wanna sit down and think real hard about all those dumb things you did last week. His voice has this gravelly honesty to it, like he’s been carrying these thoughts around forever and finally decided to let them go. I kept rewinding bits just to catch how he pauses between lines—it’s almost musical.
Then there’s “Tides,” which honestly made me feel like I was floating on water while also drowning in metaphors. This track is pure atmosphere. He describes life as waves pulling you under, pushing you forward, smacking you sideways—you get the idea. It’s haunting yet kinda beautiful, like staring at the ocean late at night when no one else is around. By the end, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to cry or grab a surfboard. Maybe both?
What’s wild is how personal everything feels. Burke doesn’t sugarcoat anything; he gives it to you straight, warts and all. And yeah, some parts might feel dated since this came out over half a century ago, but other moments? They hit home like they were written yesterday.
So what do I take away from My Naked Soul? Honestly, it’s less about the poetry itself and more about how brave it feels to put something so bare out into the world. Back then, people were probably too busy listening to Hendrix or The Doors to notice this little gem. But now? In our playlist-hopping culture, it’s refreshing to slow down and listen to someone who’s got nothing to hide.
Oh, and random thought—I bet if AI could write poems back in ’67, Alan Burke would’ve hated it. Just saying.
