A Dream Realized: Tom Waits Live in Asheville

I wrote this (and posted it in parts) after seeing Tom Waits perform in Asheville, NC last fall. I'm reposting it here in its entirety...

Part I

Okay, so what's there to say that hasn't already been posted on countless blogs, or in "official" reviews? Only this: Since 1992, Tom Waits has been a huge part of my life. Seeing him live in Asheville last week was almost like a renewal of wedding vows. So, in honor of this part of my life (a big, noisy piece), I am going to tell you about the show in a rambling, disjointed way that will involve many asides and ruminations…

Since being introduced to the Asylum years Waits by an old friend fourteen years ago, not many days have gone by that haven't included a Waits moment or song. If I were to open any of the boxes of bad poetry and stories that I've written, you would see references to Waits's lyrics and songs, as well as a general predilection for the flotsam and jetsam of everyday life-- characters pulled from the cracks of human experience, tumbled lines of turbulent transitions and the like. There was a time when I would think to myself, "My greatest influences are George Carlin, Bruce Springsteen, Paul Westerberg, and Tom Waits." I still think this. Now, fourteen years after hearing my first Waits song, I can say that the spell cast by "Burma Shave" and "The Earth Died Screaming" was no fluke-- no charlatan's trap-door chicanery.

Tom Waits is the real deal.

Since this is my space for reflection (those of you out there who stumble onto this dribbling dose of nostalgia mixed with the malaise of a working man's life are free to click on some teenager's more interactive page) I will take my time…

Yeah, so my wife and I managed to secure two tickets to the Asheville show. A little bit of nimble mouse clicking led two balcony seats. They were not, by any stretch of the imagination, the best seats in the house, but they were good: far enough away to get the benefit of a full sound mix; close enough to see the action on stage; high up enough to not have to duck and dive around big heads and giants.

Unfortunately, being working stiffs, my wife and I had to pull a half day at the office before hitting the road. And since we are both employed at an educational institution rapidly approaching the start of a new semester that half day was almost a full day. Suffice to say, we got a late start. It was hot. We needed gas. Headaches were involved. Hunger was a reminder of a skipped lunch hour.

The two and a half hour drive was, despite the set-up in the previous paragraph, not bad. When we got to Asheville, we checked into the hotel and then made our way downtown to eat before seeing the greatest living entertainer…

Aside #1: Going to see a show always involves a few inconveniences. When more than a couple people are going to the same place to do the same thing that you are going to do, you can count on parking issues-- either paying more than is really necessary or walking further than you would care to (half day of work, headache, rumbling of empty stomach). There's also the issue of food. If you're driving in from out of town-- and you're not particularly familiar with the local offerings-- then you have to plan food into the mix. And since you're an out-of-towner, you have to take a chance. Either go for the standard fair (fork over money to the corporate machinery of the fast food industry which promises a shorter life and adult onset diabetes), or risk picking something close to the venue.

My wife and I chose the latter. As such, we ran into the same problem as we did with the parking. Two thousand people made the same exact choices that we did: get to the general vicinity of the arena, park, eat, then go to the show. Now, in a "big city" that can accommodate a wave of two thousand diners-- one thousand, nine hundred fifty more than a usual Wednesday dining crowd-- this isn't much of a problem. The more the merrier.

Asheville is not a "big city." I would say it's a moderately sized, eccentric city. It was not, by my estimation, prepared for the strain of freaky Tom Waits fans.

The local establishment that we chose was unfit for its sudden dinner rush. Tables were dragged out of a storage room and set up in the back end of the foyer. My wife and I were seated next to industrial fans (positioned to cool off the other diners, not us) and forgotten about. We ate bar food (chicken wings and tenders, nachos) in a rush of hunger and anticipation, even though we had at least an hour and a half to kill before T. Waits took the stage.

Aside #2: There are two different types of show-goers: The paranoid fans who don't want to miss a single moment; everyone else. I belong to the first group. I don't care that we spent over 170 bucks on tickets (add to that the hotel room, gas, etc.). That's what we spend our money on. Some save up for planet killing Hummers. I spend it on music and entertainment. I do, however, want to see everything. Yes, I am "that guy" who would prefer to go to the movies by himself than sit with a gaggle of friends who constantly interrupt and talk over the dialogue. We can talk later. The movie is on now.

As such, when it's a show that I really want to see (most shows I go to fall into this category), I will show up hours before hand just to wait around. That's just the way it goes. Doing this also gives me, the true fan, the right to scowl at those inconsiderate slobs who show up halfway through the first number.

So. To sum up the mood and spirit I was in before Tom appeared on the stage to perform "Singapore," I would simple say: worry, hurry up and wait; worry, hurry up and wait.

I've taken great pains to establish this mood so as to pull my punch:

Every bit of my anxiety, restlessness, and fatigue disappeared in those opening bars. The curtains, ghost-lit for spooky shadow effect, parted, and out came the band. Then, for a moment, there was the shadow (silhouette) of a scarecrow Waits.

Was this my hero?

Or was it the devil?

Maybe it was both…

II.

I was sitting on the edge of my seat—literally. Tom launched into "Shore Leave."

Back story: My Tom Waits journey started with the greatest hits, Asylum Years, on cassette. From there it was Nighthawks at the Diner and Rain Dogs—again, on cassette, borrowed from Michael McDonald. The first Tom Waits cd I purchased was Small Change (Twenty-Five Albums for Twenty-Five Years: #23). I was a freshman in college and I listened to that cd with aplomb. My next purchase was Bone Machine. And I think this dual approach—old and new at the same time—says something about how T. Waits appealed to me. There was something in the whiskey stained piano man persona that appealed to me; there was something in the apocalyptic boom and clang of the Island recording that spoke to the evil in me.

See, with someone like Waits, it's hard to get it all in a short period of time. I had twenty years to catch up with—and, as prolific as he was, that meant a lot of goddamn albums. From Closing Time to The Black Rider, I was committed. I was also essentially "flying blind." I remember wondering what Swordfishtrombones was exactly. I also bought Big Time before I purchased the three albums that served as the backbone for that live recording.

All of this is to say that, in my long journey, I had amassed favorites—songs that I still hear in my head on any given day. Granted, there were songs that I skipped. This was the era of the cd, which made personal selection easier than pulling up the arm of the record player and trying to place it back down in the right spot—or fast-forwarding in starts and stops trying to find the next track before you went flying past it. I say all of this, but didn't do much self-editing of Waits. I never cared for "Singapore," or "Underground," but loved all that came after those opening tracks. I still love the live Big Time versions of "Telephone Call From Istanbul" and "Down In A Hole" more than the original Frank's Wild Years cuts.

All of this is preamble to this: "Shore Leave" is one of my favorite tracks from Swordfishtrombones. Were I to make an Island years cd compilation, "Shore Leave" would be buried in the middle, a place of honor, a track to be savored and surrounded by others. Why? It was with "Shore Leave" that I began to truly understand the direction that Waits was going in: To the amateur Waits listener, the repeated screech at the end of the song might seem too alien to be considered "in good taste," or to be considered "great music." But I got it. I loved it. There was emotion in that wail. The story of the song built to that moment: this was a soldier wailing for his woman. It was real; it was gritty; it was from the goddamn heart.

Imagine my surprise when, sitting in the Thomas Wolfe Auditorium, Waits and company launched into this rare, 1983 track. I recognized it immediately. The audience was a few beats behind. I whispered along, turning to my wife to let her know this was what I'd been waiting for more than a decade to experience.

There I was—thoroughly enjoying the moment—waiting for that last little bit of the song. It was like waiting for the news that you either passed a class or failed it miserably. The songs that Waits played before "Shore Leave" were fabulous, but there was no real indication as to whether he would be able to hit the high register gravel-wail of the album version of "Shore Leave."

Here it comes, I thought. Here it comes. Will he do it? Will he?

And, to knick a cliché phrase, he stuck the landing.

I felt the hair on my neck raise as he wailed. I shivered with the immediacy of it. Emotion filled his voice—and my ears. Everything, in that moment was heart and blood. The great bleeding heart of eternity opened before me and invited me in.

My life, my existence, made complete sense in that moment.

All of this for a song.

III.

October 5, 2004.

Real Gone was released on this date. This was the day that I bought the album. I remember it pretty clearly because I left work at my lunch hour to drive back to Greensboro, buy the album, grab a couple meatball subs from the local Italian market, and bring them back to campus-- one for me; one for my future wife.

At that point, we'd been dating for a little over two months. Things were going really well-- and when I say really well, I mean I'd already had thoughts that she might just be the one. I was right, but at the time, it was just a feeling.

You see, all of this is important because the Tom Waits show in Asheville was a significant life event:

• I got to see the man who had so influenced my post-high school years.
• I got to share the moment with my wife, who was equally affected by the moment.

That's love.

But we're not there yet.

On October 5, 2004, I bought the newest Tom Waits album and as I listened to it (like a greedy kid with an Easter basket) on my way to the Italian market, and then back to campus, I had mixed feelings: I began to love it the way I'd loved The Black Rider and Bone Machine; I listened to it with a touch of fear.

There I was, drooling over new Waits, wondering if it was time to "share" the clang and boom with my new girlfriend.

See, any Waits fan faces the possibility that (s)he might scare people away with the gruff, sometimes impenetrable later Waits catalog. A quick listen to Closing Time can prove whether or not someone has taste, an ear for melody and good music. There was no question with my darling future wife. She fell in love with the album immediately.

From Closing Time, The Heart of Saturday Night is a short, easy journey. Even the jump to Small Change can be a relatively easy one. I've lost people on that jump, but only because they couldn't quite get through the significant voice change; they were unwilling to try to get in to it, much like acquiring a taste for good wine, beer, or a new food.

A quick, crinkled nose and nod of head, "No thanks."

But again (and not much to my surprise because she was, after all, the one), my darling future wife made the jump. Deeply encouraged by her taking to Waits, I even showed her my copy of his Vh1 Storytellers performance.

But Real Gone?

I'll admit that even I, Waits fan through and through, had some initial misgivings about a few tracks on the album. Yes, there are standout songs that I immediately repeated ("Hoist That Rag," "Don't Go Into That Barn," and "Make It Rain" among them), but to this day, I don't love "Shake It" or "Metropolitan Glide."

So there I was, in a Waits quandary: Do I let her listen to this album? Is this going to scare here away? Will she be "The One That Got Away" because Waits sounds like a lunatic without language skills banging on broken furniture?

She later admitted that the album "scared" her.

And, frankly, I must admit that it scared me too...

Cut to present day: My darling future wife is now my darling wife. And she understands my Tom Waits obsession as I understand her Trixie Belden obsession. We love each other for our loves. And we share them.

And, of course, I told her that one of my deepest desires was to see Tom Waits live. I expressed to her my regret for not having seen him in 1999 when Mule Variations came out. I told her I would pay any price to see him.

And so when I heard the announcement about this recent tour, I almost shat myself. What I didn't know until later was that she had been secretly keeping tabs on Waits, hoping to score tickets-- at any price-- for me. I said it earlier, but I'll say it again. That's love.

But that's not all it was (though that would certainly be more than enough): Turns out, she was excited to see him as well. And that's why I say it wasn't just love. We've all done things for those we love that we didn't really want to do. Some women learn to play golf so they can spend time with their husbands, or they go to baseball games to humor friends. My dear friend Dana even went to a Jimmy Buffett concert because he loves his wife!

But my wife wasn't going to see Tom Waits just because of me, because she loved me. No. She really wanted to see him. She commented that it was going to be a real honor to hear and see a real musical genius perform.

I wonder if she'll ever know how much that difference means to me. Because there's sincerity in there that really has nothing to do with what we mean to each other. She doesn't love Tom Waits because of me. All I did was say, "Hey, let's listen to this," and she found him on her own.

Why does that mean so much to me? Because it testifies to like-minded souls. Because she found the same thing in the music that I did and we can share that equally. She doesn't like the music because of me; she loves it with me.

Hell, that even resonates with our marriage vows.

But let's get back to the show...

We were both excited. I wrote about that already.

Waits played "Shore Leave" and it almost made me pee my pants. I wrote about that already.

"Make It Rain" was a religious experience. I'm going to write about this now.

I said earlier that one of my favorite tracks from Real Gone is "Make It Rain." Before we left for Asheville, I made a couple compilation discs: one included selections up to Rain Dogs; the other covered albums up to the present. The second disc includes "Get Behind The Mule" and "Make it Rain," both of which Waits played. I thought about including several other tracks that Waits played, but...

Anyway, I'd cheated. I checked the set list from the previous night's show in Atlanta and knew there was a possibility that he might play several of my favorite songs. I pestered my wife about the set list; she gave me a hard time for ruining the spontaneity of it all. She was right, of course.

I was surprised when Waits took the stage and played "Singapore." Partly because it wasn't how he'd started the show the night before; partly because it was an "old" song. See, I've read a lot of articles about Waits and know that he has a love/hate relationship with his own music. I really wasn't expecting him to dig too deep into his catalog because it might be a bit too much like all the other "great musicians" shopping out the dog and pony show for a few more dying career bucks. Waits has integrity; he wouldn't do that.

But here he was playing a song from 1985's Rain Dogs first. This must mean something, I thought. He's not going to just make this a Real Gone part two tour. He's going to play old stuff, too!

So "Singapore" was refreshing (even though, as I've mentioned previously, it isn't one of my favorite songs).

Then-- and excuse the overuse of pat phraseology-- Waits made it rain.

Waits called for rain. The gods listened.

It was during this song that I turned to my wife and saw deep understanding in her eyes.

It was during this song that we connected in a moment through someone else's passion and artistry.

It was during this song that I fell in love with her all over again.

When we left the show and started talking about it, my wife mentioned that the show was, in all honesty, one of the most spiritual events she'd ever experienced. I've commented on this comment many times since she said it-- and I've done so in a way much like a father rides the glory of his child's accomplishments. I apologize for this, dear.

But it's a comment that I truly understand because I felt the same thing. In part two, I mentioned the moment at the end of "Shore Leave" where it's all "heart and blood." I mention it here again because it's in that core human experience, where feeling, intuition, instinct, hunger, and life meet and agree to keep going, that Waits finds his music. Sure, there's a showman in him, too. There's a barker at a shooting gallery. There's a practiced act in his hand movements and the intentionality of his stage set and presence.

But all the show peels away when that voice calls out...

"She took all my money

and my best friend..."

...and we were all connected in those blood lines... I'm an English teacher, a poet, and a teacher of poetry, and I must admit that I'd not spent all that much time deciphering the lyrics to "Make It Rain." In that Asheville moment, I understood every goddamn word-- and it made perfect sense.

Hell, I even saw politics I'd not picked up on before. Waits's fascination with murderers, losers, demons and animals, living earth and dead red mud, came into focus: Here's a man who is in tune (literally) with the universe (man god earth). This way doesn't lead to ice cream and puppy dogs. While there may be some more overt political inclinations to "Day After Tomorrow," the rest of his catalog ("Shore Leave," "Hoist That Rag," "Make It Rain," "God's Away On Business," "Down In A Hole") collectively points to the real source of all our problems: us.

"The night's too quiet stretched out alone

I need the whip of thunder and the winds dark moan

I'm not Able, I'm just Cain

Open up the heavens make it rain"

This song is about the rain.

This song is about a man done wrong by a woman.

This song is about man done wrong with the world.

"The night's too quiet stretched out alone" speaks to me-- that innate human need to not be alone drives fools to pray for rain, preferring impotent action to solitude.

"I'm close to heaven, crushed at the gate

They sharpen their knives on my mistakes

What she done you can't give it a name

You gotta make it rain, make it rain, yeah"

Again, the surface begs "what she done." But it ain't just her. "They sharpen their knives" on our "mistakes." And while "without her love... hell can't burn... more than this," the song ends with a revelation of drowning-- an invocation of Noah, a call to god to "put out the fire, make it rain."

So I'm just gonna hold onto my baby 'cause she knows,

and we gonna watch the water rise together...

My Name Is Not Earl: Waitress and Post-Feminist Pie Slinging

Spoiler Alert: While Waitress is not a movie riddled with suspense, it does tread on some plot points for surprise. These plot points are discussed below. So, consider this warning…

Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk.

In the lovely little treat that is Waitress, Earl, the waitress in question's controlling husband played so well by Jeremy Sisto, marks his every entrance with an annoying, repetitive bleat of his car horn. By the midpoint of the film, the sound becomes not only irritating but indicative of this man's character: He is an insistent, deeply selfish bastard who has no sense of how his actions affect those around him.

Such is the nature of Waitress. At times, heavy handed in its visuals and symbolism but nonetheless enjoyable for it.

This feminist confection, in short, is about Jenna (played with aplomb by Keri Russell), a diner waitress stuck in a loveless marriage to a jealous, controlling husband. Her only salvation is making pies. And so, Jenna secretly stashes money away in hopes of escape. If she can only enter and win a pie baking contest, she can win her freedom. True to movie form, though, an obstacle too big to overcome hinders her escape: She finds out she's pregnant. The film winds its way to conclusion by way of a clumsy affair with her doctor, bursts of sagely advice from the diner's owner, Joe, and earnest help from her fellow waitresses. All ends happily.

I called this movie a "feminist confection" and it is. This film is about a woman who finds salvation in herself and in her newborn baby. It teaches us that through the guise of "love," men can beat (psychologically and/or physically) all the life out of women. Men who treat their wives as objects can strip them of their self-worth and damn them to emotionless lives. In regards to the plight of unhappily married women all over the world, Jenna is everywoman and this is her story.

Her story, then, is equal parts horrifying and uplifting. Jenna finds her way, over the course of her pregnancy, to the light and lives to love again. She frees herself from the chains of unbridled misogyny masquerading as husbandly love. Her reward? A fluorescent colored pie shop!

Seriously, though, this film is sweetly funny and affecting. And while its subject matter is very real (and dealt with, for the most part, very realistically; Jenna, as far as I'm concerned is one of the strongest, realistically flawed women in recent film history), the tone and feel of the film is, well, sweet. The grainy-ness of the film, matched with washed out, but no less bright colors (think of vivid beach scenes viewed through a fogged car window), makes the film feel very much like old Good Housekeeping advertisements come to life. It's as if Adrienne Shelly attached a "nostalgia filter" to the camera. I'm reminded of cheeky "how to" Technicolor shorts from the 1950's and 60's.

But there's more to this film than just quaint shots of pies being assembled and "ra-ra" feminism. This is not just a sweet coming of age drama about a small town waitress. Ultimately, what this film is about is the power of self-actualization. Jenna is a unique woman (who lacks faith in that uniqueness)-- but her uniqueness does not stretch far beyond her ability to make great pies. That is, she may be unique, but she's still a woman-- she is still human. Her uniqueness, really, only serves as the catalyst for the film. Otherwise, this would just be the story of every woman trapped in a loveless marriage.

And that's just the thing that makes this film so damn good. The denouement is pure girl power joy, but once the dust settles from the almost orgasmic release of pent-up frustration that is Jenna's life, the viewer is left to ponder the motivation, the pieces that led to that moment. As my good friend Gerald said after watching the film, he knew exactly where the film was going from the moment Joe, played with brilliant acidic charm by Andy Griffith, enters the diner. But, despite the film's predictability, the pieces have to play out-- just as they do in life.

Jenna wants out. She tries repeatedly to get out. Each time she fails. No great wisdom there, eh? Well, the problem lies in her path: She wants to escape, but sneaking away (and never coming back) isn't the path to true release (at least not in the make believe world!). That is, she wants to leave Earl and never look back. This scenario lacks actual confrontation with Earl. This is the real source of her problems: It's not that she can't get away; it's that she's been stripped of faith in herself.

And that's where the film ceases to be strictly about a woman's liberation and becomes a film about saying yes to the serpent. Serpent? Sorry, got a little Joseph Campbell there. But that's the point, I guess. Arguably, the hardest part of the hero's journey for any of us is heeding the call. It's one thing to be called. It's quite another thing to answer. And that's what Jenna finally does at the end of Waitress. She says yes to life (the serpent). Sure, to bring up Gerald's comments again, the end devolves into a "Hollywood" version of primary color pie town, but that's beside the point. The point is that Jenna has heeded the call. She confronted the beast barring her way to self-fulfillment and won.

It's no coincidence, then, given my Joseph Campbell reference, that this moment happens as a result of child birth-- the ultimate call to the hero's journey.

Gerald and I talked a little about two other bits from the climax of the film. First, the references to the hero's journey only work if Jenna steps on the path without incentive. That is, her victory over Earl, her path to fulfillment, would be false if she opened the letter from Joe before confronting Earl. She had to make her choice without the check from Joe. (I might argue that had the film left out the "inheritance" from Joe it would have been truer but less Hollywood, thus saving it from Gerald's ire!)

The other point is this: For Gerald, and possibly for women who have experienced childbirth (sorry about that pairing), the moment doesn't necessarily ring true. That is, Jenna spends the entire film not wanting the baby. Her letters to her baby are honest but comedic. She sees the baby as one more tie to Earl that she cannot willfully sever. As such, there is a certain resentment to both the child and the prospect of motherhood.

And so, the audience is left with the (Madonna and Child, as Gerald pointed out) climactic change of heart that seeing her child for the first time evokes. This is the kind of transformation that Hollywood loves to give audiences. And I might agree with Gerald-- if not for the tears in my eyes!

Seriously, though… While this moment is rhapsodic in its delivery, it isn't just the moment (as the film might have us believe). Why not? Because everything else in the film leads up to this moment. That is, this is not a miracle moment, but a logical culmination of events. In fact, I would argue that the real "climax" comes in Jenna's friendship with Dr. Pomatter.

While the motions are obvious, they are no less heartwarming: Pomatter shows up at Jenna's house and consoles her ("Dear Baby, I hope someday somebody wants to hold you for 20 minutes straight."). Then he asks her to teach him how to make a pie. This is movie-speak for "caring." Pomatter doesn't just want sex; he wants interaction. True, the pie-making sequence is inundated with innuendo, but it's here that Jenna starts to put the pieces (of her life) (back) together.

It is here that she begins to realize that Pomatter's purpose in her life is to bring her back from the empty oblivion of her marriage. How he does that is by simply showing interest in her and offering his unconditional friendship.

This opens the floodgates. Cut to a sequence wherein Jenna essentially spills her life story to Pomatter-- and he does the right thing: He listens. And this the point at which Jenna truly begins to accept that change is necessary and unavoidable. Her self worth multiplies as a result of coming to terms with where her life has led her. The true realization that something is wrong comes from Jenna's admittance that her mother would be disappointed in her for letting herself get sucked into such a meaningless existence.

The real source of beauty, the real power in her final confrontation with Earl comes not from this newborn love for her baby but from the catharsis of the moment. While we might argue the notion that giving birth is transcendent, we will not argue that giving birth is painful and dangerous-- thus verifiable as a "near-death" experience. It is also a verifiably emotional experience. As such, it can be cathartic. In Jenna's case, that catharsis brings with it the power of change and self-actualization.

This notion is reinforced by Dr. Pomatter's Moon Pie. Huh? I have to give my wife credit for pointing this out! Dr. Pomatter is still at a crossroads. While Jenna has realized her self as a result of their relationship, Pomatter has not. And so, just as he claims not to want to save her, she cannot save him. He has to do that himself. And he's not there yet. And so, Jenna gives him her Moon Pie. How's that for symbolism?!

Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk.

Why don't I wrap this up with Earl. Earl is such a fascinating character because he's just so unlikable. This film, this story, after all, is Jenna's-- not his. But, like that damn car horn, he obnoxiously marks his presence. It is through Sisto's complete realization of Earl's character that audience applause is almost automatic at Jenna's thrashing of him at the end.

I mentioned the whole objectification thing earlier. Earl, after his outburst at Dawn's wedding, drags Jenna into the house and shouts accusing questions at her. Why is she hiding money from him? This, he questions, after he finds her at the bus station (earlier in the film) with a suitcase. While we might wonder at his intelligence, I'll take the line of reasoning that where Jenna is concerned, he is so blinded by his own selfishness that he can't think straight.

Jenna's feelings also don't really play into his world view. Even in his most emotionally destitute state he can't fathom Jenna's existence beyond object to be loved. As such, he accepts whatever she tells him that reinforces his world view.

The sequence I'm referring to reminds me of Thomas Haden Church's meltdown in Sideways: At the prospect of losing his fiancé, after having an affair on a road trip, and being chased out of a house naked, Church's character falls apart in front of Paul Giamatti. Aside from the sheer horror of graphic images gleefully splattered on the screen by Robert Rodriguez in Sin City, I have never felt more uncomfortable in a theater as I did watching that moment in Sideways.

Earl's breakdown in Waitress is almost as affecting. It falls short, however, because of that damn honking horn, and his complete lack of understanding. On his knees, holding on to his wife's legs, his face pressed against her belly, he professes his love to her. She is "the only thing" he's ever really loved. And in that moment, shocked by this man's frailty, one word pulls us back from pity and understanding: Jenna is not his wife, she is his thing.

After seeing this film the first time, my wife and I got into an argument about this scene. She felt no sympathy for Earl in this moment. I did. Just a little. In that argument, I brought up the Sideways reference, but she wasn't having it. No comparison, she said. Earl was in no way sympathetic. In the heat of that moment-- initially, that is-- I didn't get where she was coming from. But but but…

I was a little slow on the draw.

Mainly, because my wife's vehemence was unexpected. It shouldn't have been. But damn, when I get to analyzing a movie, I usually get carried away (never would have guessed that, huh?) with my own reasoning...

But when it sunk in, I did get it. The bottom line is that Earl is only sympathetic in that he is, well, pathetic. To feel sympathy for him is to give him power, to put him in control (even in his anguish, he controls the moment-- this is the root of psychological abuse).

Again, some might argue that Earl is too stereotypically drawn, but that's where the meltdown sequences come in. Otherwise, he would be just a buffoon incapable of exerting that kind of power over Jenna. And there again, even in his mania, he emotionally manipulates to get what he wants-- to maintain his world view.

And that's the heart of it. Just as Jenna is "everywoman," Earl is "every misogynist man." He's not everyman. But, given my wife's reaction-- and the reaction of probably every woman in that theater-- there are a whole lot of Earl's out there.

That should come as no surprise, of course. But it is always surprising (to me at least) to witness a relationship like the one depicted in Waitress. I am always flabbergasted when I hear stories (watch stories) about women being controlled by men like Earl. Maybe that's why I love this movie so much: It takes all those stories and rights them. And, I think that's what got me in dutch with the wife: I am so unfamiliar with this kind of misogyny that I don't altogether find it real.

But it is.

The bottom line is that Earl is a son of a bitch. And, for most of the film, the audience is led to believe that he's a dangerous son of a bitch. However, what we come to realize in the end is that he's only a bogeyman. His only power is intimidation-- and intimidation only works when someone lacks faith. Jenna discovers the power of self. And in that final moment (here again, I find more reason than birth-enigma-love for the climax), Earl ceases to have power over Jenna.

There's a lot more I could say about this film, especially about Andy Griffith and Nathan Fillion, the most under-rated, under-used man in Hollywood. But I won't. I'll just leave you with this:

Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk.

Twenty-Five Albums For Twenty-Five Years: #21

21. Angel Dust - Faith No More

The latest installment in my ongoing list of Twenty-Five Albums for Twenty-Five Years. To view previous posts, click here: Twenty-Five Albums for Twenty-Five Years.

the last of the tapes

In a previous entry, I mentioned my father's spaceship of a truck-- a white Chevy Silverado with chrome running boards and a big ass cap. I fondly recall packing up for a 'gig' one night. This was in the heyday of Fifth Wheel, a band whose mythology far outweighed its musical ability or fan base. Anyway, the boys all went up to the Circle K convenience store to get sodas. When they got back, I had all of our equipment neatly packed into the space shuttle-- from drum kit to mic stands. Every last piece of equipment (and there was a substantial amount of it) fit into the back of that truck.

But that's not the point, here. The point is that I remember driving the old man's truck out to the mall to buy Angel Dust the day it came out. And because this was 1992, the truck didn't have a CD player-- none of the family fleet had CD players. So I bought the tape.

Good old cassette tape.

If I properly recall, this was the last new tape I bought. Everything after that was CD.

This is not yer father's rock and roll

I was going to start with something like this: Angel Dust's cover art betrays its duality. The front cover is simple and regal, a heron with wings in motion, backed by dark blue water. The title, Angel Dust, is written in a flowing script below the subtle stamp of Faith No More. The only hint at something darker comes from the "Parental Advisory" sticker in the lower right corner.

Flip the album over and you get a cold, frank shot of a butcher shop.

Front and center: a cow's head. Hmm…

Yeah, well, in trying to figure out what kind of bird is on the cover (it's beak seemed to sharply pointed for it to be a swan…), I stumbled onto this line from Mark Reed's Drowned in Sound review of the album: "It’s a thing of both extraordinary beauty and gruesome confrontation, nowhere is this more obvious than the bipolar cover art : on one side - a swan arising from a lake; on the other - a decapitated cows head hanging from a hook in an abattoir."

So much for my insightful diatribary!

Anyway, the thoughts are spot on. The album's artistry lies in its ability to juggle beautiful melody with hard-driving rhythm, guitar and lyrics.

This is by far the hardest album on my list. While I'm no stranger to metal, I've always skewed more toward the melodic-- say, preferring Ozzy Osbourne's Diary of a Madman to Metallica's Ride the Lighting.

But Angel Dust is hard-- and certainly not for the faint of heart.

Wikipedia (gag) notes, "Fans still consider this album to be Faith No More at their finest," but adds that it is "complex and at times hard to approach." What's interesting about these comments is that, despite coming from Wikipedia, they are pretty accurate. Turn to a "best of" Faith No More (Who Cares A Lot? or the newer This Is It) and you won't find more than the small handful of singles represented.

This, despite being a fan favorite?

There in lies the nature of the beast: Some of the absolute best songs in the Faith No More catalog are represented on this album. "Midlife Crisis," "A Small Victory," and "Everything's Ruined" are songs that even an old fuddy-duddy might enjoy. And a music lover can't help but find these songs' hooks catchy. Mike Patton's lyrics tend to run along the lines of what is now being dubbed (in cinema) as "torture-porn," but "Everything's Ruined" is a beautifully crafted ballad that extends a simple metaphor (human being as money) into a biting capitalist parable.

But "Malpractice," "Crack Hitler," and "Jizzlobber"?! Again: Not for the faint of heart.

And yet, sonically, this is another one of those complete albums. Once you adjust to the darkness and intensity, the album opens up-- from the immediate crunch of album pace-setter, "Land of Sunshine," to the sad but sweet instrumental melody of "Midnight Cowboy." It would be easy for the initiate to simply pick and choose the lighter fair, download those songs and ignore the rest, but that would be like, well, watching the television edit of Animal House.

I'll be upfront: I have no idea what the title of the album means. I grew up in the 80's, so I know what angel dust is, but as a marker for this set of songs? Not so much.

However, if we work backwards from the last song ("Midnight Cowboy" is the last track on the original release), we can find some clues as to the general theme of the album: It aptly explores the shocking (but often accurate) realities of the American Dream.

"Land of Sunshine" matches fortune cookie wisdom with the refrain of "Does life seem worthwhile to you?" Over the song's driving guitar (underscored by a Billy Gould's melodic bass slap), these lyrics certainly don't lead one to feel uplifted. The answer to the question, then, is not a resounding "Yes!"

Things only get worse (thematically). While the lyrics to "Caffeine" spiral into what might be better analyzed as abuse, the title is simple enough to explain: one only needs to marry America's favorite legal drug with the overall tone of the album. From there, we roll into the first "single" of the album, "Midlife Crisis." Here, we are faced with an early 1990's portrait of masculinity-- or, at least, the portrait of the American Male that culminates with the brilliant, impotent rage of Fight Club.

"RV" is a ballad of white trash entitlement (I can't help but liken the feel of this song to Tobacco Road). "Smaller and Smaller" opens with the telling line, "Drought makes the workers dream," and descends into the slow beating down of working class life. Up from the working class, we get "Everything's Ruined," about the meteoric rise of wealth and ambition-- that bursts like the dot com boom. After that, we get "Malpractice," and "Kindergarten," "Be Aggressive" and "A Small Victory." The album climaxes (and reaches its harshest, bone-breaking melodies) with "Crack Hitler" and "Jizzlobber," two songs that explore sex, drugs, and neuroses. We are ultimately left to ponder the makings of the American psychopath. I might argue that Faith No More succeeded where Bret Easton Ellis only mocked.

And, finally, we are back where I started: "Midnight Cowboy." The theme song to a movie that effectively broke my heart and reduced me to a shambles the way Of Mice and Men did.

Huh.

Not sure I realized until this moment just how depressing this album is.

Wait a minute. No. Here again, Angel Dust is a great, dense album that handles its material effectively. Despite its downward spiral, I love this album. The dismantling of the American Dream was the furthest thing from my mind when I first unwrapped that cassette back in the summer of 1992.

What was on my mind:

This album rocks.

The Be Aggressive Controversy

I'd heard the buzz before. "Be Aggressive" was written by Roddy Bottum, Faith No More's keyboardist. Bottum is gay. The song is about oral sex. Gross!

Wikipedia, ever the fount of truth and wisdom, lists this bit of trivia: "'Be Aggressive,' written by Roddy Bottum, is about gay oral sex. Roddy later stated 'It was a pretty fun thing to write, knowing that Mike was going to have to put himself on the line and go up onstage and sing these vocals."

So yeah, this great song that aptly integrates the cheerleader refrain, "Be Aggressive! B-E Aggressive. B-E A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E! Go Fight! Win!", is about giving head.

I am prepared, however, to defend the song. By defend, I mean to breakdown that hetero (and by further extension, male homophobia) association of "gross" with "gay." Interestingly enough, this morning I read Lisa Schwarzbaum's Entertainment Weekly review of I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, where she chastises the film: For all its promotion of diversity, the film can't get passed the fact that two guys kissing is gross. And so, let's first turn away from the "oral sex" reading of the song and focus on a different interpretation.

First, we need to divorce the song from its author and its author's comments. What we are left with is a song that begins: "I started this / It's all for me / What's yours is mine and mine is mine / That's plain to see / So give it up / I've got to have / I swallow, I swallow, I swallow." Given the general theme of the album, these lyrics conjure associative images of that wonderful human trait: greed. We might also employ the context of the album title and suggest that "swallow" is a drug reference.

In the next verse (I'll leave out a line for now), we get this: "What someone else /Would leave behind… I claim is mine." If we follow the idea from the first verse (greed), then we might come to the conclusion that the "aggression" touted in the title of the song involves taking control-- of everything, good and bad. It's a stretch, but in the rise (and flood) of the "ME" generation, ownership and control are inalienable rights. I may be the king of nothing, but at least I can say I'm king.

Now, I carefully excised the line "And spit it out, let go to waste" because it's followed up with the refrain "I swallow, I swallow, I swallow," which doesn't really help my case of decontextualization. But here again, I'd argue that given the broader thematic scope of the album, we can draw conclusions about the physical act of aggression (if not the physical act of sex) in regards to economics: In the world of upward mobility, procurement of wealth through aggressive tactics is divorced of its physicality (much like I've led us down this sex-less path). The aggressive pursuit of capital is often spoken of in terms we associate with physical acts of aggression-- but only in a way that is divorced of any real, physical threat. Much like comedy is shrouded in morbid terminology ("I killed last night!"), the semantics of mergers and acquisitions is replete with violent lingo. I'd also rope in the Donald on this one. If we contrast the comedy of capitalist manners paraded in The Apprentice with the reality of corporate head-hunting, we see how Americans allow themselves to be, well, consumed (swallowed, if you will).

This thin veil, then, is lifted in "Be Aggressive."

Another direction I would take this: The dominant impression that I get from this verse is one of scrounging. I think of a penny-- fallen out of a prosperous man's pocket onto the street-- swept up by a needy soul. I think of animals fighting over table scraps. I think of the lottery. And while I’m not painting a particularly pleasant portrait of have-less Americans, I do think there's a truth to poverty that is over-looked (or consciously excised) by the well-to-do, or even the I-think-I'm-well-to-do (the middle-middle class not cognizant of how really over-extended they are). Poverty, in reality, is harsh. What we the middle-middle class throw away…

This, then, marries the "greed" of the first verse with "gluttony" in the second verse.

Where we really begin to run into trouble is the third verse. "Tall and reckless" might refer to a stereotype of the classic American male. "Ugly seed" might refer to (go ahead laugh) "ugly duckling," which can be co-opted by my earlier assessment as the "have-less." The faces we put forward in our consumer culture are not representative of our population; rather, they are the myth. A majority of the world's population, as the "media" would have it, is ugly.

From there, we go to two contrary actions: "reach down my throat" and "I've got to feed." The speaker (singer) refers to "you," so we have this idea of the "tall and reckless" individual reaching down the speaker's throat. The question that is begged here is whether the speaker is being force fed, or if something is being pulled from the speaker's throat. However, given the progression of verses, we can assume the former and toss away the latter. The use of "filthy bird" (tie this back to "ugly duckling") conjures images of a mother bird feeding her offspring.

Now, where does this leave us in our analysis? Well, I’m inclined to insinuate that what we have here, mixed in with our greed and gluttony, is something else (down boy): a parasitic relationship. I won't go into further explanation of that relationship. I'll only say that it is in keeping with the grand tradition of capital gain. Money parasites…

Anyway. I'm going to overlap here. Let's take this whole bit:

This empty pit
I've got to feed
To prove I'm fit
A healthy man I've got to be

What is the "empty pit"? What's this about proving fit? And let me write that last line again: "A healthy man I've got to be." That resonates, doesn't it? Given what I've already said about the album as a whole-- it's obsessive, neurotic attention to what it means to be an American Man. I may not have actually said that above, but when we combine the pieces (reality of American Dream, 90's self-obsession, "midlife crisis," and, finally, the connotations of "midnight cowboy") what we get is this: American masculinity is most manifest in aggressive capitalism. In order to be "a healthy man," one must "be aggressive" in his pursuit of capital. The "empty pit" must be filled in order "to prove" one is "fit." This is the extreme expression of self. This is what we've "got to be."

Greed. Gluttony. Parasitic relationships. Masculinity expressed through aggressive capitalism.

Okay, fine. But what about these lines:

Malnutrition, my submission
You're the master
And I take it on my knees
Ejaculation
Tribulation

We've gotten to the end of the song without any truly overt references to sex. I've dodged around the context and double entendre. But here we are, at the end of the song, faced with a word that-- despite its simple definition-- cannot really be divorced from its double.

However…

We have two "-tion" words here: Malnutrition and tribulation. The linking of these terms-- with the noted exclusion of ejaculation-- combined with the prostrate position reveal a potentially violent act of submission. I'm particularly cognizant of those two words (malnutrition and tribulation) because they help to divorce this "act" of its double-meaning. That is, if this is a reference to a sexual act, it isn't exactly a pleasant one. This leads me to believe that the sexual connotation is less important than the overall summation of the song's parts: We are enslaved by our economic thirsts/pursuits.

Now, here's the kicker. Say we reintroduce that sexual context. Bottum wrote the song, thought it would be funny if the heterosexual Patton had to sing about this act that is counter to his sexual preference. All of my inferences and deflections (defend) amount to what? A song that is a joke? Can we strip this song, this album of all its meaning and say, "Hey, man. Just listen to it. Stop trying to make something out of nothing"?!

Well, I can't do that. While I may have deliberately divorced a necessary context from the song, the analysis holds water. Connotations, meanings doubled, fitting melodies-- from the All-American "ra ra" of the cheerleader backing chorus to the carnival-like organ. All of this is to say that the song does have a meaning. And the ideas I've expressed are, on some level, valid.

But that's the problem: If this is, indeed, or was intended to be only, a song about oral sex, then the final evaluation of the song is not one ringing with positivity. Excuse the bluntness, but this song does not profess "Hey this is great! Let's all do it!" Instead, what it does is illustrate the submission that is necessary for the act. And it calls into question the very nature of that submission. And, furthermore, I would argue (haven't I already been arguing?!) that the metaphor is aggressively put forward to illustrate the primary conceit of capitalism: supply and demand require a certain level of submission that is, by nature, parasitic. Capitalism feeds off of our very need for it. Regardless of what that "it" is (be it oral sex or a Cadillac Escalade), we want it, have to have it, need it, and will take it in any way we can get it.

And so we're left with that. So much for defending the grossness of the song!

Quite the contrary. And maybe that's where I'll leave this installment: This song works because it marries the shocking lyrics (however you choose to interpret them) with a rollicking sing-a-long orchestration. There is no need to defend this song (as I said I would) because it doesn't need defending. It is an excellent expression of the contrariness of human nature: we desire to submit and to dominate.

By extension, the whole album works because of this duality. It is an unholy marriage of sound and concept, beauty and horror, eloquence and shit.

Prompting me to suggest: Maybe Angel Dust is the Great (Postmodern) American Novel.

Plus, it really rocks.

---

Works Cited

"Angel Dust (album)." Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. 19 Jul 2007, 10:16 UTC. Wikimedia Foundation, Inc. 23 Jul 2007 <http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Angel_Dust_%28album%29&oldid=145640767>.

Reed, Mark. "Faith No More: Angel Dust." Drowned In Sound. <http://www.drownedinsound.com/articles/4632>.