The Sacred and the Profane: The Hold Steady Live at the Cat's Cradle 11/26/06

It has been several weeks since my last post. A result of the beginning of another semester. I am, however, working on a couple of "new" posts. In the meantime, I thought I would recycle this post from last December...

Below you will find a rambling review of The Hold Steady and a recent show that I was fortunate enough to attend. Thanks Brian.

A Sense of Place

In 1984, my family moved to North Carolina from northern New Jersey—and from that point on, Bruce Springsteen came to represent all my hometown longings.

There's something magical but misleading in that statement.

Bruce's New Jersey is the New Jersey of my memories. I've since been back to New Jersey, and my memory and longing don't match the place. When I was nine, I had no idea the Boss was singing protest in "Born in the U.S.A.," but by god, I could feel the passion in the rollicking guitar and, well, I felt the New Jersery-ness of it.

I used to think I would move back. I know better now.

Place is such an integral part of Springsteen's music and its appeal. Springsteen sings about my hometown-- be it Bridgewater, New Jersey or Greensboro, North Carolina. Hometown for Springsteen is not just a word. It is a state of being where hope and despair are inseparable.

Springsteen's music transcends the profane trappings of linear time and lodges itself in the sacred space (place) of the eternal. This is music magic. Good tunes gloss over the imperfections of life and bind memory to universal feelings and longings. They glue the disparate pieces of our lives together, creating--- to borrow an often borrowed phrase---a collective consciousness.

These, of course, are not new sentiments. Read any review of Springsteen's music and you will likely find words like "hometown" couched in critical rhetoric. Sift through Mark Richardson's Pitchfork review of the 30^th anniversary edition of Born to Run and you'll find such proclamations as "picture the depressed state of the Jersey Shore in the early 70s, the dull sense of an era gone."

But while others have said similar things--- said better, said worse--- I say them now because the Springsteen of my youth is not the Springsteen of my thirties. And yet, the line of connection--- past to present, fuzzy memory to educated analysis--- is still solid, still vital.

This is because the longings I associate with Springsteen's "hometown" are also the longings of my path to middle age: I long for authenticity in the world around me. While I do think this lack of (and need for) authenticity is a symptom of the post-modern condition, I also think it's a symptom of my approaching middle age. The passion that came so easily--- often sloppily, unwittingly, uncontrollably--- when I was younger, now seems harder to come by. I instead find complacency a constant, reliable friend. I am passionate about my work, true, but this passion is different from the passion exhibited in impromptu ring-around-the-rosy dancing to Led Zeppelin atop a parking garage.

And yet, when I listen to classic Springsteen, I am warmed by the heat of hope in deep despair because as long as I can belt out at high volume "We got one last chance to make it real / To trade in these wings on some wheels" then I'll be okay. In the minutes of "Thunder Road," I can borrow from the fount of eternal passion so expertly mixed, recorded, and preserved on Born to Run.

This is my communion.

Earlier I mentioned Pitchfork, so I might as well use it to segue into The Hold Steady. Load up the Pitchfork review of Boys and Girls in America and do a search for "Springsteen." There it is next to Kerouac. I'm pretty sure that most reviews of Boys and Girls in America mention Springsteen and/or Kerouac.

I, apparently, am no different.

Wait, though. That's not necessarily true. Let me explain.

The obvious correlations come with the "rockin'" itself. The opening chords of "Stuck Between Stations" are anthemic. The joining piano is classic. The rest is history-- rock history.

And the mention of Kerouac is a must, since the very first line of the very first track of Boys and Girls in America mentions Sal Paradise. I'll come back to that.

The comparison to classic Springsteen doesn't take much more digging. In fact, the Classic Rock radio set might quickly launch into a rather neanderthalian dialogue peppered with "Dudes" and "Dawgs," missing, of course the deeper implications: Springsteen's own roots, own beat-like ponderings and travelogues are an older brother's guidance to Craig Finn's verse.

Of course, I might have missed this underbelly had I not seen The Hold Steady live. It wasn't until I was hiding in the warmth of the crowd that I thought, "Wait a minute. This isn't classic rock. This is classic, edgy, sprawling Springsteen. This is-- gasp-- postmodern Springsteen." Forgive me; I'd had a few beers…

But let's take a moment-- if you'll bear with me-- to present my argument, or at least explain my thought process. To do this, though, I'm going to resort to some lyrical comparisons.

Take a look at these well known lines from "Thunder Road":

Show a little faith, there's magic in the night

You ain't a beauty, but hey you're alright

Oh and that's alright with me.

Now look at these lines from "Southtown Girls" :

Southtown girls won't blow you away

but you know that they'll stay.

This might not be a terribly astute observation; however, the songs speak of similar things. Springsteen's opus Born to Run is bittersweet. It's a "last chance power drive," a call to action. It's what Joseph Campbell might have called an acceptance of the call, an affirmation of the need to begin the hero's journey.

But it's not an entirely optimistic call. After all, the "highway's jammed with broken heroes." And "you ain't a beauty, but hey you're alright" isn't exactly the stuff of a Hollywood romantic-comedy. This isn't Pretty Woman-- where the pretty hooker finds love and happiness with a successful business man. It's more like a bunch of South Jersey kids trying to make do-- finding love, an imperfect but crucial love. Such is the sentiment of "Southtown Girls."

But this is, again, a pretty easy-to-make comparison. Born to Run is a testament to working class heroes (losers), but it's a statement from a milder (older, wiser) Springsteen. Traveling back to Greetings From Asbury Park, you'll find a much edgier, much more poetic Springsteen.

Look at these lines from "It's Hard to be a saint in the City" :

"And them South Side sisters sure look pretty

The cripple on the corner cries out "Nickels for your pity"

And them downtown boys sure talk gritty

It's so hard to be a saint in the city"

The rhyming immediately stands out, but notice the alliteration. These lines are packed with life and rhythm. This is where the real comparison to Craig Finn comes in.

Take a look at these lines from "Party Pit" :

"I guess I met her at the party pit
she said those kids she's with were selling it
so we sailed off on some separate trips
she got pinned down at the party pit"

Same attention to rhyme scheme-- though Finn is a bit better at sticking to iambic pentameter-- and same love of alliteration.

One more lyrical comparison. Look at these lines from Springsteen's "Lost in the Flood":

"Eighth Avenue sailors in satin shirts whisper in the air

Some storefront incarnation of Maria, she's puttin' on me the stare

and Bronx's best apostle stands with his hand on his own hardware

Everything stops, you hear five, quick shots, the cops come up for air

And now the whiz-bang gang from uptown, they're shootin' up the street

And that cat from the Bronx starts lettin' loose

but he gets blown right off his feet

And some kid comes blastin' round the corner but a cop puts him right away

He lays on the street holding his leg screaming something in Spanish

Still breathing when I walked away

And somebody said "Hey man did you see that? His body hit the street with such a beautiful thud"

Then, digging back to the first full length Hold Steady album, look at these lyrics from "Your Little Hoodrat Friend" :

"i've been dusted in the dark up in penetration park. i've been plastered. i've been shaking hard and searching in a dirty storefront church. i've been plowed. but i ain't ever been with your little hoodrat friend. what makes you think i'm getting with your little hoodrat friend?"

The end result of these comparisons? The affinity goes beyond the music to the love of words, the recognition of their power when combined with equally passionate music. My initial misgivings for The Hold Steady quickly gave way after a closer listen: One might misread the speak-sing delivery of Finn, but the truth is in the words-- and the passion of their delivery. Finn is an excellent singer because he's an excellent writer. His power springs from the commingling of passion, intensity and lyricism. All of which were evident in his live performance.

I will take this talk of poetics even further-- beyond where rock critics might end: Both of these songwriter/poets have taken a page from the sprung rhythm genius of Gerard Manly Hopkins. What Hopkins did with the Italian sonnet is akin to what a young Springsteen did with music, with what Craig Finn is doing right now. I find more insight in this affiliation than I do of Kerouac or Ginsberg.

Those references bear some attention, too. But I think I will come back to that.

More On Longing and Authenticity

Over a burrito before the Hold Steady show, my good friend Brian Candler and I discussed the current state of our pop culture dystopia. Brian went to see Guns 'n Roses a few weeks ago. Interestingly enough, Brian and I stood on our seats-- in the same coliseum-- more than ten years earlier to rock out to G 'n R. This was pre-Use Your Illusion. This was before the decline of the Rose Empire.

I wanted to go with him this time, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I thought it might provide some symmetry of experience, but I also didn't want to spend the evening comparing and shaking my head in shame. I turned down the offer.

So there we were. Two married men with jobs and responsibilities, eating burritos and drinking beers, wondering a) if we were ever going to have an authentic rock experience again, and b) if we should even expect to find such a thing again.

Lord knows we wanted it and were looking for it. Two guys with wives, jobs and responsibilities don't stand on a hard cement floor for several hours-- to watch a band-- simply because there's nothing better to do.

What were we looking for? Authenticity.

You see, this last year was full of good music. But even though I will admit to being entertained by good tunes this year, I must also admit that the year's offerings didn't present any of the authenticity that I mentioned above in conjunction with Born to Run. To steal a line from Singles, "Where is the 'Misty Mountain Hop' of our generation?"[1]

The bottom line is that the ironic stance of indie rock-- one necessary to its existence-- doesn't leave much room for sincerity. Early in its germination, the irony was refreshing. When postmodernism was new (to the indie rock kids, that is), an ironic position showcased the rejection of authenticity. Much as punk rock shed the trappings of commercial rock, indie rock shed the sentiment that music could save us. After all, salvation was just another corporation gimmick.

But such jaded stances can only last so long. They can only comfort the young who can warm themselves on their own passions. When those indie rock kids became thirtysomethings, they began to long for that lost passion of high school angst.

I'm too old to find comfort in irony.

To borrow, again, a few movie lines from Beautiful Girls:

Willie C. : I just want something beautiful.

Moe: We all want something beautiful.

All of this was, more or less, the direction of our burrito ponderings.

And it was with these thoughts that Brian and I entered the Cat's Cradle in Carrboro to see The Hold Steady.

We found exactly what we were looking for.

The Show

Of course, we didn't find what we were looking for immediately. In fact, we had to suffer through some pretty awful opening acts. Not a problem, mind you, since it allowed us to drink a few more beers. And, interestingly enough, one of those opening acts proved a nice parody (dumb show) of the thoughts in my head. The front man of a pitiful cross between The Ramones and The Hives (the fury and posturing without the ties or skill) looked to be some teenager's father living out a mid-life crisis. The kid on drums might have been the neighbor's awkward and large son.

Here was my passion-- misplaced and misappropriated for all to see.

This is where I'm headed if I'm not careful.

I will admit to lurking on ebay and Musician's Friend, salivating over guitars that I so desperately wanted as a teenager but couldn't afford. I can afford them now. But what good is a Music Man Stingray bass guitar to a thirtysomething who wasn't that good to begin with-- and certainly doesn't have the time to join a band and play gigs!

Luckily a strange group from Brooklyn took the stage and played angry prog and Brian and I drank another beer.

When The Hold Steady finally took the stage, I was ready for something. Something beautiful. I got it.

Again, I must admit that I was not as familiar with Boys and Girls in America as I have now become, so I simply stood and watched, taking everything in without mouthing the words or singing along. I told Brian after the first couple of songs that I was already thinking about what I would write in my review. I've been writing this review since then… Much of my initial impressions are gone, but what follows is what I've been able to piece back together.

As I watched Craig Finn run through his lyrics, I kept thinking, "He is a cross between a young Bruce Springsteen, Elvis Costello, and Woody Allen." There's the rock and roll, the deep, unique voice, and the neurotic posture.

As I watched and listened, all the elements and references started to come together. The posturing and voice, the rockin’ backdrop, and the nervous, glasses wearing, neurotic—sometimes funny, sometimes deeply affecting—front man. Finn's voice reminded me of Elvis Costello. The mannerisms and lyrical ponderings reminded me of Woody Allen—Annie Hall Woody Allen, that is. Finn would often step up to the microphone and sing his lyrics, then pull back and gesture with his hands-- still singing to himself.

It was clear that Finn is not just a great writer, but a great performer. His street-poet persona, his drug and alcohol-laced narrative, his sick lost and lonely characters came alive on stage. And again, I am reminded of how early Springsteen songs contain some of the most depressing scenarios I've ever encountered, but that the songs themselves seem to elevate the despair into a space of truth and hope.

All of these bad things in life (drugs, alcohol, bad relationships, bad choices, etc.) add up to one eternal truth: Despite all the bullshit-- No. Because of all the bullshit, life is worth living.

Though much of what I've said can be attributed to Craig Finn, please don't think this was a one man show. The band was tight. The performance was spot on.

The most affecting thing about the show was that the band members were clearly enjoying themselves. They were honestly jazzed by their own music, and they were clearly energized by the crowd.

Here was the very thing that I needed. Authenticity.

The Moral of the Story

Yeah, so if you've made it this far you might be wondering why it took me so long. However, if you know me, then you're not surprised at all that it took me seven pages to get all this down. The truth is, I wanted to talk about Springsteen and The Hold Steady in this way because I think they are cut from the same cloth.

What The Hold Steady has done for me in the past couple months is allow me to rock out in a way that I haven't been able to do in a good long while. And that's the brunt of it. I grew up with Springsteen. I grew up with The Police. And Ozzy Osbourne. Pink Floyd and Kiss. Yeah, I got caught up in the hair bands, but it was easy and good to get caught up! I am not ashamed. I was concert goer at age seven. And loud music is a big part of who I am. I haven't had much time for it in the last few years, so when it comes along, I cling to it like the last vestiges of my sanity.

Boys and Girls in America speaks to me. It brings me back to my youth with its rock stylings, but it speaks to my thirtysomething mentality.

Here's my last observation about the show and the moral of the story:

At some point in the show, a smelly little poser wormed his way in front and right of me. He was too close for my taste. And when I say smelly, I mean cologne smelly. This little punk spent much time engineering his look for the evening. He was sporting a shiny green track coat with white stripes on the sleeves. It could have been Adidas, but I'm not sure. His hairdo was expertly sealed in product. It was one of those 'dos that is meant to look like bed-head but isn't. Oh, and it was a beautiful, streaked blonde… He even had the right kind of indie rock kid glasses!

Well, homeboy was rockin' out-- cheap beer in hand-- to "Party Pit," which happens to be one of my favorite tracks from Boys and Girls in America. After the song, homey turns to his buddy and says something like, "Isn't that a great title for a song, man? 'Gonna walk around and drink some more'! Dude!"[2]

I shook my head and thought of giving the little punk a nice wrist-propelled smack on the back of the head. Or, maybe I should have grabbed him around the neck and given him a nice noogie!

So, here are a few lines from "Party Pit":

"I went away to school that fall
she stuck around with all those stickpin dolls
sped through the scene until the engine stalled
at some suburban shopping mall

sailed away on such separate trips
she got pinned down at the party pit.

I came back to start a band, of course.
saw her walking thru the crystal court.
she made a scene by the revolving doors
she's gonna walk around and drink some more.

so we walked across that grain belt bridge.
into bright new minneapolis
she said i think that all those things I did
were just momentum from the party pit."

This isn't, of course, a "drinking song."

The refrain of "Gonna walk around and drink some more," isn't a call to party. In fact, there's a learned distance that comes through in this song. The speaker in this song is not a college punk drinking at a party (in his green Adidas); rather, he is a post-college working musician who comes back home to see that some of those people he used to hang out with never left. They got stuck in the scene. That refrain, "Gonna walk around and drink some more" is a call for reflection on lost hopes and dreams. The "Party Pit" doesn't hearken to some "best years of my life" high school mentality.

It's a pit, after all.

Look at a collection of the words from above: "stuck," "pinned down," "stalled," "revolving," "pit." The dominant impression created by these words is one of sadness, even despair. The characters of this song are only left to "walk around and drink some more."

This is the desperation of middle age. And this is the overall bent of Boys and Girls in America. This album isn't a collection of anthems for teenagers; rather, it's the backward glance at youth spent searching for something real, true, and beautiful. It's an album of reflections on the missteps of growing up. The album is replete with drug and alcohol references, but what I saw at the Cat's Cradle was a grand metaphor expertly structured and performed.

Boys and Girls in America is nothing less than a postmodern epic.

---

[1] This isn't entirely true. For the purposes of this blog, it will suffice.

[2] The "dude" is purely conjectural. I am, of course, trying my hardest to "type" here.

Rejecting the Totally Responsible Person: Life is not a Joke

[This blog is a personal response to a workshop its author attended. The author holds that these are his ideas and accepts that he may be wrong. He did not intend to infringe on any copyrights, trademarks, etc. Hell, he even apologizes to the good folks who involved him in this charade!]

First of all, maybe I'm wrong.

Maybe I'm too deeply in the "victim mode" to recognize the tragedy that is my, um, victimization…

But I don't think so.

See, I have a real aversion to motivational speakers and pop-shrink-lawyers who profess to have the answer to the modern condition. Not only do I not need these "experts" to find my path in life, I do not appreciate their condescension. This program rests on a tremendous amount of a) assumptions about its audience, and b) stereotypes. Actually, points a and b are related: Interestingly enough, the program rests on our collective experience, which denies the variety and texture of individual life-- while at the same time it champions individual, self-actualization.

Huh.

This begs the question: If we are to accept that we are totally responsible people who are not supposed to allow other's to affect our sense of self, then how can we all-- collectively-- be actualized together? This reminds me of "testifying" and the idea that the spirit of God can zap into a congregation member-- all in response to a preacher's prodding! Now, I could tangentially discuss sacred and profane space. The church is a sacred space; God's presence is a given.

But we were not in a sacred space. We were in the college's cafeteria.

Now, I'll add one more thing: Being that I am not a totally responsible person, I am wary of the notion of mass salvation. Here again, we bump against the church experience. The idea that self-actualization can happen in a four hour workshop is suspect to me.

Don't get me wrong, on some level I recognize the power of testifying, of finding one's path. But given my exposure to Joseph Campbell's concept of the "monomyth," I am distrustful of the notion that we can collectively begin our hero's journeys.

Why?

Because things like rites of passage, salvation and enlightenment are, by their very nature (traveling, if you will, from the realm of the profane to the realm of the sacred) hard. If it were easy, then more people would be enlightened.

The assumption that I make here is one that I think many religious leaders would make:

We are lost and must find our ways.

There are more lost people than there are found people.

So then, we must ponder enlightenment…

TP For The TRP: Why I Know TRP Is Not The Path To Enlightenment

Trademarked acronyms are not the answer.

Yeah, Buddhists have the four noble truths. Christians have the Ten Commandments. But these are expressions of core values, not the trademarked ideas of good entrepreneurs.

Bad jokes are bad jokes, regardless of their intent.

This is at the core of motivational speaking-- and public speaking for that matter. Carefully planned moments of comic relief. Here again, don't get me wrong. I am a fan-- and proponent-- of the brilliantly executed dog and pony show. But when an onslaught of "life strategies" are buoyed by bad jokes, the artificiality impedes true transcendence. I think of evangelists. I think of the Promise Keepers.

Stories (of victimization and "heroism") are just stories.

If you have to substantiate your positive claims through negative (I was struck by how negative many of these stories were!) stories-- modern day parables that illustrate how people are beaten down and broken, but ultimately win the day-- then chances are, they're just stories. I am reminded of Promise Keepers (and, interestingly enough, David Cross's bit from Shut Up You F**king Baby) and the over simplification of complex ideas and emotions. These stories only have power if the people hearing them (and, backwards, the people telling them) believe them. I am too much of a victim, I guess, to see them for anything other than info-tainment… Here again, don't get me wrong. I am a teacher of stories. As such, I have a vested interest in the truth that can be found in stories. But as a teacher of stories, I am fully cognizant (and teach this to my students) of the power of personal truth finding. Stories that are engineered to be readily understood by a crowd of more than 150 people, do not lend themselves to deeper truths. They are just stories.

Identifying stereotypes doesn't lead to deeper understanding.

I cannot emphasize more: These two experts shopped out more clichés and stereotypes in four hours than… I don't know what! One of them actually yelled out at one point, "Can we get a skinny person up here?" Now, I will admit that these two gentlemen surely have good intentions, and that calling someone skinny is not a punishable offense, but in their race to save us from victimhood, they barreled over the rest of the world.

I am reminded of street-hawkers.

A couple weeks ago, I was accosted by some church goers looking to save random people on the street. Such encounters do not illicit real experiences. Why? Because understanding (and by extension, salvation) comes from real relationships and empathy.

How can you be empathetic if you do not understand the person?

How can you understand the person if you've only just met?

And so, this workshop was founded on (well-intentioned?) lies:

That the speakers (workshop leaders) understand the world better than the people in the audience is a lie.

That these individuals fully understand our worldviews is a lie.

That these individuals can empathize with us is a lie.

They're good ones, but they're still lies.

These are lies because the espousers of TRP have not taken the opportunity to understand us. They walked into our cafeteria with preconceived notions of us (some of which, by the laws of probability, may have some truth). We are not ourselves. We are their audience. And so, the workshop becomes simply a parade of stereotypes aimed like a bazooka at general enlightenment.

TRP Is Not The Way To Enlightenment

In fact, TRP is further displacement from the real truth.

I'm not a Buddhist, but isn't the first noble truth of Buddhism "Life is suffering"?

Doesn't this mean we're all victims?

The answer is no. But, if I were to be swept up falsely by the TRP model of life, then I would look at the first noble truth and reject it. Why? Because the phrase denies the self.

See, that's the beauty of the noble truths: They lead one to the path of selflessness. Life is suffering because of attachment. We must shed attachments in order to receive enlightenment.

TRP reveres the self. The main point of TRP is self-actualization. It's about owning life. It is about taking complete control of one's life. It's about changing the way one thinks about one's life. It's about shattering the language of victimization on the way to taking control of all aspects of life. We think like victims and talk like victims, and so our actions (our lives) represent the actions of victims. If we learn to not be victims, then we can be happy. And thus we're enlightened!

But the road to kicking the victim act lies in denial of others' influence on your life.

This notion, over the course of four hours, was illustrated through lesser and greater examples (from not being pissed off at inanimate objects, to teaching our children to be TRPs). The world presses us into the victim mold and keeps us there. Ceasing to be a victim means being able to strong-arm the world. Ceasing to be a victim means denying the power that others have over us.

It's not you. It’s me.

Ceasing to be a victim means our choosing to not be.

We have to be the deciders.

It just occurred to me that maybe President Bush is a TRP!

Things Fall Apart… The Center Cannot Hold

If one puts oneself at the center, then one denies the path to selflessness and becomes selfish.

We should not be surprised by this because, after all, this is the core of American Individuality. This is what we good, honest consumers are conditioned to strive for. Totally Responsible Person's are quintessentially American. In fact, TRP is the supreme realization of the American Dream. What TRP would have you believe is that if you buy into their worldview, you can achieve the American Dream. Hot damn! I'm on my way.

But this is a lie.

Let's inject an infomercial question:

Yes, but Steve, the four noble truths are for Buddhists. What about Christians?!

I can credit my wife with this: Let's turn to the YMCA! I swim twice a week at the Bryan YMCA in Greensboro. Every time I walk to the locker room, I pass a mantra painted onto the wall:

I am third.

God is first.

Others are second.

I am third.

Every time I walk by this, I wonder how my fellow Y-ers, and by extension all of America, feel about this. Frankly, I am always humbled by it. I am humbled by it because it reinforces what I feel, having come to my path by way of solid religious teachings, from the office of my Presbyterian minister, to my love of C.S. Lewis's writings, to my college course work in Asian religions and the Old Testament, and finally, to Joseph Campbell. This is the root of Christianity. And by extension, through the monomyth, the root of all religions.

God. Love. Service.

I will agree that we should not be victims. However, I refuse to believe that the answer to enlightenment lies in deep reverence of the self.

Going back to the Y mantra, I am determined to show that this talk of victimhood subverts the notion of putting others before ourselves. The central conceit is to say yes to the self, and no to others' influences over us. If we deny others any power over us, then how can we serve other people?

How can I put others before me, if I deny that they have any power over me?

Do my acts of kindness and service then become self-motivated, self-serving?!

Huh.

Okay. Let's go into the deep water.

Was Jesus a TRP?

Well… Jesus was a martyr. He died for the world, for our sins. He put us before himself.

Are we to believe that he was a victim? (Victim, martyr, same thing, heh heh heh…)

Well…

Jesus, regardless of your religious inclinations, represents the supreme hero. He sacrificed himself for the good of humanity. Self-sacrifice is a key part of the hero's journey. Jesus, like the Buddha (and vice versa), recognized the necessity of denying the entrapments that attach us to life. Jesus, like the Buddha (and vice versa), sought to teach us the path to salvation through service and denial of the self.

I wonder if I'm not defeating my own arguments, but maybe the TRP seeks to free us from victimhood, puts us at the centers of our universes, in the hope that we will then sacrifice our newfound, victimless selves, for the greater good.

Yes! This means that we are to supposed to be TRP so that we can be more productive and better employees! Er… wait a minute. Wait a minute! I've been hoodwinked!

All right, all right. Calm down. These guys, I'm sure, love Jesus. I'm sure they don't think that their workshops will lead us all to enlightenment and salvation. They just want us to be Totally Responsible Workers-- er, I mean People.

Listen… I have to go before the TRP police come after me and expect me to espouse TRP statements!

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...