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More than two decades into the Twenty-First Century we should have long since reached the point in human evolution where the sight, sound or suggestion of anything potentially offensive or vulgar should not raise so much as an eyebrow… let alone raise something else situated a few feet below the eyebrows in the male of the species.

Yet clearly it still does.

After all, you’ve all come here to read this review of a moderately naughty record from 1952 as if free internet porn in high-def isn’t enough for you perpetually horny bastards!

But seven decades ago there was no internet, no free pornography, no sex before marriage and apparently no fun allowed in any way, shape or form outside of listening to a handful of dirty rock ‘n’ roll records like this one.

If you ever wondered how you got here, this record might provide a clue as to how your great-grandparents learned about the birds and the bees.


That’s What This Song Is All About
I’m going to assume you’ve all heard some sterile lectures on the subject of sex before entering this classroom today. Maybe you’re even doing some extra-credit homework for your health class in junior high and stumbled across this site.

If so, you made the right choice, because here there will be no silly amorphic diagrams to look over, no awkward technical terms to memorize and since you’re presumably hidden away in a dark room with the doors bolted shut while reading this, no embarrassed giggles to stifle or blushing with embarrassment to conceal from your classmates.

Today we’re going to give you all a crash course in sex with our guest lecturer Fluffy Hunter who by the looks of her could certainly get a rise out of any red-blooded male.

The title of her paper is The Walkin’ Blues, which may come as a bit of surprise to you novices in the bedroom who can’t figure out how walking factors in to what you’ve been told this song is about, but is actually a well-chosen term to disguise the true meaning of the topic at hand from the prying eyes of sexually repressed Republican virgins that somehow seem to reproduce through immaculate conception in order to infest school boards with more prudish stormtroopers to put a stop to teaching our sort of life-lessons.

But I digress…

Hunter’s qualifications in this regard, aside from being a shapely female with few inhibitions, came from her nightclub act which included spending much of the last year singing at a glorified strip joint in Arizona. She’s now taken her talents to the studio where, along with saxophonist Jesse Powell, she is about to put her hard-earned experience to good use for the benefit of all of those who have yet to figure out what is beneath those poodle skirts on your curvy classmates that smell pretty.


When I Get Romantic
Though this is by no means a remake of three similarly titled songs done by Cha Cha Hogan (My Walking Baby) and Professor Longhair (She Walks Right In) and Gatemouth Brown’s different composition called She Walk Right In, the basic concept behind it is the same in that they all use the image of someone walking to convey something best done laying down.

In those songs the meaning was more inferred than spelled out, but here, clearly taking from the premise of those records, Fluffy Hunter makes sure to leave little doubt as to what she really means.

The Walkin’ Blues is a song that spells out the scenario in unambiguous terms and then, just before each graphic payoff, pulls the rug out from you and replaces it with the phrase Walk Right In, Walk Right Out which smartly forms the subtitle of the record, since that’s what most people will remember.

This was an effective way to sidestep blue laws at the time which basically prevented the use of any word the Catholic League Of Decency deemed objectionable. Eartha Kitt did it best on the classic I’d Rather Be Burned As A Witch even though the words she was removing were hardly that offensive.

However the language in question on THIS record is another story altogether and just in case you were wondering those words facing substitution are “fuck”, “cum” and – just for good measure – “fuck it”.

Yeah, they don’t pull any punches either in how they build up to the bait and switch routine which is what makes it all so enjoyable. Hunter rubs your nose – or some other protruding body part – in it too, leaving you no choice but to either turn away in faux horror and outrage or grin like a wide-eyed nine year old amazement, shocked that she was getting away with this affront to basic decency.

The song itself, beyond the sexual zingers, still has to construct a reasonable setting to pull this charade off however… in other words, set up the story so that the unexpurgated punchline actually makes sense and draws a genuine smile beyond its shock value.

They kinda do that, though clearly they were working backwards, starting with the X-rated word, finding another word to rhyme with it and then coming up with a line where they can use it in the context of a guy and girl getting together for a conjugal visit.

It may be a little too obvious, but then again since you’re listening to this record solely to get your rocks off maybe that was all they really had to do, especially since Fluffy is selling it with coy flirtation that barely masks her forthcoming deviant stunt before pulling aside the covers and revealing her nappy… nah, we’ll let you piece that together for yourselves, but you surely get the idea.


A Man Who Is Deaf And Dumb
If all you really care about is the substitution of a few repetitive ambulatory words – which have a very obvious related meaning if you’re at all familiar with sex act itself – for the more indecent language that gets censored here, then all of this will be more than enough to result in your (musical) gratification.

But off-color humor only goes so far without the proper framework to make it stand out better and that’s where Jesse Powell, who lest not forget receives lead artist credit here, goes a little limp.

The sound of The Walkin’ Blues is unnecessarily tame, almost as if they thought that with such a blatant sexual theme they shouldn’t – or couldn’t – double down on that by aiming the music below the belt as well.

But without that dirty vibe in the arrangement the song takes on a novelty hue, as if they’re trying to be let off the hook for their audacity, letting you know they aren’t serious about it and as a result they aren’t really perverted despite what you might think.

Therefore it’s all a joke in other words, something to smirk at, not something to… ya know… actually get off to.

What a shame!

Had Powell’s sax let loose with one extended grinding riff capped off with a few random honks and squeals, then the entire record would’ve been what it wants you to think it is. Instead, possibly fearing for their careers, they pull up short and it turns out the sex they speak of is merely simulated and therefore nothing to really get excited about after all.

Don’t Forget Your Bucket
While this single is not all it could be, it’s still far more than most records, even most dirty rock records of the day, ATTEMPTED to be and in that context it has to be viewed as a success.

Besides it is still a very good record thanks to Hunter’s handling of the entire situation she sings about. To their everlasting credit they did not tread lightly with the subject, choosing what were probably the most offensive words in the English language to form the entire basis of the joke, pulling up just as they were about to crash headlong into them and violate every law against public indecency on the books at the time. So even though they cloaked it in a more musically demure package there was still absolutely no doubt as to their ribald intent.

Because of that it’d be kind of hard for a record like The Walkin’ Blues not to have at least some positive impact on rock’s outlaw image and the fact that this actually reached the New York regional charts for a week in March is almost shocking. Not shocking in knowing that sold enough by word of mouth alone to earn that designation, but rather it’s surprising that Cash Box would admit to it in print and risk alienating any conservative advertisers or squeamish record execs.

Today of course you don’t need to look very far to find records – far better overall records than this – which drop the F-bomb in every other line, but context is everything as we always say and while it’s kind of hard to fathom why in 2022 people still search out this record with impish delight, back in 1952 this kind of thing must’ve seemed as if it was something that might land you in jail just for listening to it in public.

Besides, just in case there’s any out there who haven’t tried walking in and walking out with someone… I gotta tell you, it’s a lot of fun. You should really give it a whirl sometime.


(Visit the Artist pages of Jesse Powell as well as Fluffy Hunter for the complete archive of their respective records reviewed to date)