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...
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