Album Review: How The Story Ends by Bobby Bare (1982)
Bobby Bare’s How The Story Ends is one of those albums that sneaks up on you. Released in 1982 under the Phonorama label, this country gem doesn’t try to reinvent the wheel—it just tells stories so real they stick to your ribs. With its roots planted firmly in folk and country traditions, it’s an album that feels like sitting on a porch with a cup of coffee, listening to someone who’s lived a life worth hearing about.
The tracklist itself reads like a short story collection, each song a snapshot of human emotion. Two tracks stand out for me personally—“West Virginia Woman” and “Please Don’t Tell Me How The Story Ends.”
“West Virginia Woman” grabs you right away with its raw honesty. It’s not flashy or overproduced; it’s just a man singing about love, longing, and the kind of woman who stays with you long after she’s gone. There’s something about the way Bare delivers the lyrics—it’s unpolished but deeply felt, like he’s whispering secrets only you’re meant to hear. You can almost picture the mountains, the quiet strength of the woman he’s describing. That authenticity? It hits different.
Then there’s “Please Don’t Tell Me How The Story Ends,” which closes the album on a bittersweet note. This song lingers because it taps into universal fears—uncertainty, loss, wanting things to stay as they are even when you know they can’t. Bare’s voice cracks just enough to make it feel personal, like he’s lived through whatever heartbreak he’s singing about. And honestly? It makes you want to call someone you care about and tell them everything’s gonna be okay—even if you’re not sure it will be.
Other tracks like “Great Society Talkin’ Blues” bring some levity, while “A Lot Of Soul” reminds us why Bare has always been such a compelling storyteller. Even songs like “Puppy And The Parakeet,” which might sound quirky at first glance, have a charm that grows on you.
What makes How The Story Ends special isn’t perfection—it’s humanity. These aren’t glossy pop-country anthems designed for stadiums; these are intimate tales meant for late nights and quiet moments. Sure, the production might feel a little dated now, but that’s part of its charm. It’s a time capsule from another era, one where music wasn’t afraid to breathe and let silence speak.
If I had to leave you with one thought, it’d be this: albums like How The Story Ends remind us how fleeting good storytelling can be in today’s world. We scroll past headlines without pausing, swipe left or right without really seeing. But here’s an album that asks you to stop, listen, and maybe even cry a little. Funny thing is, by the end, you’ll feel better for it.
So yeah, give it a spin. Just don’t blame me if you find yourself humming “West Virginia Woman” days later.
