Tom Waits Week continues. I remember when this album came out. It was 1984, and I was working at my second real job, in the Books and Records Dept. at Caldor. I remember being drawn to the album cover. I didn’t listen to that album for eight years, and then I was hooked. Vagabond burlesque.
I love this song. This version is live, but it’s from that era, and… it is great. I understand if you don’t like Tom Waits. I’m not asking you to. I’m just presenting a pie slice of my persona, and a little of the wheres and whys. Also, it’s a great way to lazily post every day. 
June 3, 2008
Tom Waits Week: The One That Started It All… Rain Dogs
Tom Waits Week: Cross My Wooden Leg And I Swear On My Glass Eye
It Will Always Come To Find You, It Will Always Hear You Cry
This song, with Keith Richards for added legitimacy, is one of my favorite ever. Again, Tom sings in myths, he hums like a detuned radio. Dear God, there’s so much of me that’s lain dormant.
You say that it’s gospel, but I know it’s only church.
Many miles away, something crawls from the slime, at the bottom of a dark Scottish loch. It’s a great song. It gets to me the way the Pogues can, sometimes. Ah, well. So, I’m a bit maudlin. Swaha.
June 1, 2008
Tom Waits Week: I Just Know That She’s Made Of Smoke, But I Lost My Way
Tom Waits Week continues with Temptation, a ditty from Frank’s Wild Years, which was the follow up to Rain Dogs, and the last in the trilogy which includes Swordfishtrombones, and Rain Dogs. I understand, Dear Reader, that Tom Waits is kind of a binary fella. You either like him , or not. If you don’t, that’s ok. I’m not proselytizing, merely blogging. Enjoy.
May 31, 2008
Tom Waits Week: Some Say He Once Killed A Man With A Guitar String
I don’t love Tom Waits, per se. I love an era of Tom Waits’ career. I love from Rain Dogs through Bone Machine. This particular swath of Tom’s career really speaks to the addict in me. The Irish. This song is from Bone Machine.
One look in his eye, and everyone denies ever having met him.
This song is pure Storyteller mythology. Tom is a pure genius. I will say that. I don’t like his barfly music of the 70’s, nor his clip/clip megaphone noise of latter day material, but that’s my problem, not his. Tom Waits is the hood ornament of the pink Caddy that Elvis drove out of Hell on Halloween night. You don’t have to like his voice. Listen to the flow of words, the rhythm, the cadence. Listen to the goddamn words themselves. He tells a story without once revealing who the subject is. Those wings of which he speaks… are they feathery or leathery?
