I don’t know if Franks Wild Years was supposed to be a concept album, but I always thought that it was. It’s so very narrative, it would make a great movie. Imagine, a Tom Waits movie musical. Think, A Star Is Born with hobos. It’ll be the greatest. Of course, Franks Wild Years kind of already has a movie, Big Time, which stands as one of the weirdest concert movies ever made, if that’s even what it is. Nor is there any shortage of Tom Waits in the movies. He’s been in dozens of films, usually playing someone very similar to himself, or how we imagine himself to be based on his songs. He’s played God, and he’s played the devil (in Wristcutters: A Love Story, and The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus, respectively.) Most recently I saw him in Seven Psychopaths, playing a Tom Waits-ish old man with a bunny. I understand that a little bit of that particular persona goes a long way, and it’s generally better to keep such undiluted weirdness around the edges in minor roles. Still, I’d like to see Tom Waits starring in a big movie musical. Floria Sigismondi could direct it, using only vintage equipment from the 1930′s. Yeah, Tilda Swinton will be in it as the rich widow who gets swindled.
Don’t try to tell me Tom Waits isn’t one of the greatest living poets. That’s obviously beyond argument. You may not think you even care about poetry, but if you’re a music lover, you do. Because music and poetry are one. Ever since the advent of the rock songwriter, poetry in and of itself has fallen from favor. Can you think of a relevant poet who isn’t also a musician? No, the last handful of relevant poets of our time have all died. Allen Ginsberg, Ted Hughes, Charles Bukowski, the last of a dying breed, men who dedicated their lives to putting verses on paper. Nobody reads poetry anymore, nobody imagines that writing it is glamorous or noble. Literature professors might find it tragic, but I think it’s as it should be. Before the printed word took over the world, poetry was always sung or spoken out loud to an audience. It was a performative art form, not a private one. Poetry was music was entertainment. It was also how history was passed down, traditions were taught and communities bonded together. Then printing came along, and pretty soon poetry was something you pored over in your boudoir. What we think of as poetry, verses on paper, is a ghost of what poetry was supposed to be. I find poetry very difficult to read because I can’t quite grasp the meter in my head. The rhythm of the lines is lost to me, probably because I’m as tone deaf and the proverbial boiled cabbage. Poetry stripped of music is practically naked. It’s hard to read, hard to understand. But set it to music and it suddenly blossoms with meaning. It was always meant to be sung. I’m happy that our perceptions of poetry have changed the way they have. The dry literary poetic tradition is dying out, replaced with a renewed living musical poetry. Wait and see, when our grandchildren go to school, they won’t be choking on verses in a textbook; they’ll be listening to songs by Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits.
Tonight I’ll shave the mountain
I’ll cut the hearts from pharoahs
I pull the road off of the rise
tear the memories from my eyes
and in the morning I’ll be gone
I drink 1000 shipwrecks
tonight I’ll steal your paychecks
I paint the sheets across my bed
the birds will all fly from my head
and in the morning I’ll be gone
take every dream that’s breathing
find every boot that’s leaving
shoot all the lights in the cafe
and in the morning I’ll be gone
I bet 1000 dollars
I have a french companion
I tie myself below the deck
I pull the rope around my neck
and in the morning I’ll be gone
it takes a life to win her
there is a drum of bourbon
800 pounds of nitro
his boots are thunder as he plays
there is a stone inside it
tonight his bones will ride it
I’ll need a tent to hide it
and in the morning I’ll be gone
and in the morning I’ll be gone
and in the morning I’ll be gone
You know those times when some rock star way over the hill is putting out a new album and it’s disappointing and mediocre, but you kind of have to congratulate them on not sucking as much as they could have? You give them a little gold star and an ‘A for effort’, and quietly go back to listening to their early stuff. Yeah, that happens a lot. Elder statesmen put out records that are alright, but you never listen to them more than once. It’s pretty rare when someone comes out with a record thirtysome years into their career and suddenly it’s your new favorite. There you have Tom Waits. He’s never been bad or boring, but it did seem he’d kind of settled into his niche and wasn’t going anywhere. So it was a little surprising when Bad As Me - his record from last year - hit the nail on the head so hard. Not only did it hit it for me, it hit with a lot of people. He’d never sold more records. Maybe it’s serendipity, or maybe it’s the times and folks are in the mood for some hard luck stories. Tom Waits hasn’t exactly been associated with political relevance in the past, but listen to this. He rants about the waste of war – this war, that war, our war, any war – with a rage peaceniks half his age can’t muster. You’ll remember it as one of the all time classic anti-war songs.
Happy May Day everybody! To be honest, this year’s been a lousy one so far, but I hold on to my optimism. Everything is going to come together and get better. On that note, what could be more optimistic and heartening than Tom Waits crooning in your ear? Or, um, barking huskily, as it were. If time could move in reverse, I would love to hear Louis Armstrong cover this song in 1936. Wouldn’t it be the best? Some people play fantasy football. I play fantasy cover album.
Here’s to anyone who’s left and been left behind. Anyone who feels miles and worlds away from their love. It breaks my heart that you’re so far away, but if you got on an airplane you could be here in a few hours, less than a day. It’s the magic of now, the technology of instant gratification. If we were older and it was only a few years ago, our separation would be days of empty highway, days of shaking and clattering railway, weeks on horseback, something that would make you really feel the miles. I want you to feel every mile. Only rail travel can do that. You might be too young to know, but I’m not. The railroad used to be the only way to connect the world, and it’s still the sound of the train whistle, the rhythm of metal on metal all night long, the vibration and movement, the tracks themselves shining dully towards a vanishing point that symbolize the hope and pain of long distance travel. Times when travel was high-stakes, when crossing borders was permanent exile, when you could get on a train and disappear forever. You don’t appreciate hearing the train go by at night because you don’t know about these things. Where does Tom Waits fit into all this? He’s the last man alive who sings about it like it still matters.
Tom Waits just might be one of the last practicing bluesmen. And the last beat poet. All that’s left of vaudeville, too. All that and more, one of the few masters of using the stage to tell human stories more real than reality. And an all-around fun guy, too. Ever think of going to his house sometime? He probably has a grand piano hanging from the ceiling. He probably has exotic chickens in his back yard. He probably makes his own foie gras. He probably lives in some tiny small town in the California woods where nobody’s heard of him and everybody knows his name and he fits right in and drinks at the local pub with all the lumberjacks. He’s probably really boring and goes to bed at 8pm. Who knows…
To summarize the year in the bluntest way possible: January and February were awful; March and April were alright; May, June and July were amazing; August and September were torture; October was ok, November was boring and December was good. That all the highlights of 2011 were sex, drugs and rock’n'roll is either great or humiliating, depending on what view you take on such things. I didn’t achieve jackshit, but I wasn’t trying to either, and I got some of what I wanted, though not nearly enough. Just like the year before. I saw an amazing line-up of concerts: Robyn, Diamond Rings, Gogol Bordello, Brownout, Love Inks, Bobby Birdman, YACHT, The Kills, The Decemberists, Liza Minnelli, Lucinda Williams, EMA, CSS, Morrissey. There were some sad moments; saying goodbye to Elizabeth Taylor, Amy Winehouse, Clarence Clemons and Cesaria Evora. Also upsetting, Jack White’s triple whammy of betrayal; breaking up the White Stripes, divorcing Karen Elson and associating himself with ICP. He’s got some major making-up to do. In the end, the uneventful nature of 2011 should be taken as a good thing. Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt, almost.
1) In music, Lady Gaga has been the guiding light of the year. I’ve had to swallow my elitist tendencies (that’s ok, they were unattractive anyway) and admit that I’ve fallen in love with Gaga and her messianic gospel of self-love. Her boundless enthusiasm for all things theatrical - be it haute couture, lengthy videos, half-crazed TV interviews, opulent arena shows, or those inescapably memorable hit singles – is a blinding blast of sincerity in an ocean of staged, wooden, pre-scripted and impersonal ‘stars’ who have nothing to present of themselves besides their glossy backsides. All of which would be null and void if it weren’t for the most vital thing: she can sing circles around nearly every one of her peers and many of her elders too. Her songs might be lyrically incoherent but that doesn’t stop them from delivering, with the cutting efficiency that only a pop song can have, her message of paws-up! empowerment. Which would be intolerably cheesy, except that she believes it so hard, and that makes us believe it back. Therefore, Born This Way, album of the year.
2) Proceeding in no established order, then. Recent years have shown a heartening trend of artists growing gracefully older, making great work from a mature perspective, and proving that if you’re never too old to rock’n'roll if you’re too young too die. One example was the comeback of Lucinda Williams, who finally made her album of happy woman blues. She’s still preoccupied by past loves who wronged her, haunted by old friends who died, and concerned with the regular hardships of life, but age (and presumably, married contentment) has taken the edge off. The very title, Blessed, hints at her contemplative attitude this time around. I think it’s her best since World Without Tears, only without tears.
3) The Kills have made their best album yet. Blood Pressures is their most professional sounding record, which is no detriment. They don’t rock any less hard for having learned to use the studio to better advantage. The album is dark and mesmerizing, like Alison Mosshart’s persona. She’s become a leading light for me, a new rock icon who deserves to be remembered as one of the great frontmen. She and Jamie Hince have great chemistry together but how far will the duo go, I don’t know. But I’m certain that someday Mosshart will be subject of many ‘I saw her when’ tributes.
4) SuperHeavy definitely takes the cake for best surprise of the year. Just when it seemed that Mick Jagger would only get off his pile of money to marshal another greatest-hits tour for the Rolling Stones to amass more money, here he comes with something entirely fresh and off-the-wall. Jagger’s choice of super group was seemingly random, but turned out to be impeccable. With the help of Dave Stewart, Damian Marley, A.R. Rahman and Joss Stone, Mick gets to indulge his taste for the exotic, combining flavors of Bollywood, Kingston, rap, funk, soul, and the blues-based rock’n'roll he helped invent. It could’ve been weird, it could’ve been self-indulgent, it could’ve not worked at all, but it work it does, and how. I can’t stop being delighted to get such a treat.
5) Again with older people rocking out like there’s no tomorrow. Tom Waits is another veteran who suddenly found his creative spark burning brighter than ever. Waits has never really had a slump in his career, he’s been consistently himself for decades, staying in character and undistracted by passing fads or the winds of fashion. Though he’s never let us down, it feels like he’s upped his game. Bad As Me stands out for sheer relish and for that has brought on a bout of critical and commercial success. The old devil has grown in stature from fringe-dwelling eccentric to a figure of such coolness he can not only write a song sending up The Rolling Stones, he can then compel a certain Mr. Richards to come play on it.
6) More of oldsers doin’ it like it’s new. Paul Simon was never given to childishness anyway. Come-ons, double entendres, party anthems, glorification of drugs and cars, none of those things were ever his thing. He’s written some great love songs, which all are somehow tinged with mournfulness, as if every love was already heavy with regret. On So Beautiful Or So What he’s right on track with the formula he mastered with Graceland, a combination of African and Latin beats, equal parts blues, piano pop and gospel, and a view of the world as a place of sadness and beauty, redeemed by love. And of course, a little humor at his own expense, as in The Afterlife, where he’s an ordinary schlub trying to get into heaven and finding that it’s a bureaucracy, and the girls still don’t like him.
7) I know I’m the only person on the planet to say this, but I really liked Lulu, Lou Reed‘s collaboration with Metallica. The record got blisteringly bad reviews across the board. It topped many a critic’s worst list. Clearly not one of those critics was a Lou Reed scholar. They all complained that it’s too weird and doesn’t sound like regular Metallica. No one saw it in context of Reed’s career or noticed the many references to and parallels with Berlin. Admittedly, I can’t recommend it for everyone, but for lifelong followers of Lou Reed, it’s a must. It’s hard to listen to, yes, but it’s not the first time Lou Reed has been hard to listen to. There have been many moments in his career that I find unlistenable. For example, Lulu is considerably less painful for me than The Blue Mask. Reed continues to be a challenging, uncompromising experimenter. I had misgivings about such a strange mash-up, but found myself getting thoroughly drawn in by Reed’s storytelling, his powerful lines, and his wrenching delivery.
8) This year I fell for Florence. The first Florence + The Machine was good, but Ceremonials was epic. Florence Welch has come into her own on this one. She knows the power of a big emotional climax, and provides climax after climax, every song a cresting wave. I can only describe the music as opulent. A minimalist she is not. There’s layers of tumbling sound, everything and the kitchen sink it sounds like, but expertly marshaled for maximum effect. And of course, the style, the look the personality. Red hair!
9) Speaking of epic and convoluted, the Decemberists were just those things on their 2009 album The Hazards of Love. That album was a musically and lyrically dense concept album. Now, on The King Is Dead, they’ve taken the opposite track, making it stripped down and folksy. Though I love the highly ambitious and complex concept album, the simplicity of songs for their own sake is its own charm too. It looks like this might be their last album in the foreseeable future, so enjoy it thoroughly. It’s sad that the most literate and intelligent band going has gone on hiatus. Perhaps Colin Meloy has an as yet untapped future as a novelist, and music was just a youthful pursuit, or perhaps they’ll make it back together after a restful year or two. Either way, not a bad note to bow out on.
10) Amid all these heavy hitters there’s room for something more out of the blue. The five-man duo YACHT combines high-energy electro-pop with an endearingly earnest New Age sensibility. Led by the androgynous Claire L Evans, they’re at one spiritual, cerebral and fun to dance to. Shangri-La takes as its topic dual visions of utopia and dystopia. But to call it a concept album would be reaching. YACHT has their worldview and iconography, but they’re still more interested in playing fun music than drawing out big ideas. If Evans isn’t a star now, she certainly deserves to become one soon. She’s got the stage presence of a guru, with the laying-on of hands for her following of devout fans.
Man, the new Tom Waits album is so good. It’s his best in years. Of course, Tom Waits isn’t capable of making anything bad. He is simply never anything less that fascinating. We’d pay to hear him read a scientific paper about ants, which he did on the Orphans triptych. That behemoth had things going for it, but it was also a case of overload and exhaustion. Exhaustion for the listener dealt three discs worth of Waits showing how weird he can be. At 13 tracks Bad As Me is no longer or shorter than average, but it zips by on high energy. Waits sounds like he’s having mad fun barking, growling and even crooning. It’s also a benefit that there’s no grand idea or theme besides the usual things that Tom Waits likes; booze, coffee and lonely nights. On the uptempo numbers he sounds like a Mad Hatter gone to seed. He lets out some stomping aggression, with assistance from kindred pirate Keith Richards. Don’t forget the ballads either, they’re some of his best love songs, all about memory and regret, maybe with a rusty sliver of hope.
And speaking of people whose formula never fails to satisfy. Hallelujah, another Tom Waits album that sounds just like a Tom Waits album. Which is precisely what our parched land needs more of. Waits took a while to settle into his best form. In the seventies, he wasn’t weird at all and subsequently not very successful. He found out that the niche for sandpaper-voiced songwriters who sit at the piano was already filled to capacity by Randy Newman and set out to beat a stranger path for himself. Words enough have been spilled describing what Tom Waits sounds like; whiskey-drenched, Vaudevillian, furnace-throated, oompah-band leader, train-hopping depression hobo, poet of the greasy spoon and dive bar, maestro of a musical carousel of his own devising. Et cetera. A Tom Waits album sounds like a Tom Waits album, and there’s a new one.
I always thought Franks Wild Years was very narrative an album, and now find out Tom Waits wrote the songs to accompany a play. Or as a play. A musical play, presumably. What became of that play is unknown. History has left it behind, but the music stands. Amazing how a song that clocks in at a buck fifty packs in a walloping lifetime’s worth of persona. It’s a little snatch of a song, a mere wisp, and there’s all you need to know of Tom Waits and his sentimental side. Which he has quite a bit of. He seems like someone who appreciates a good session of crying-in-your-whiskey. Such a simpatico character. Hands up if you’re excited about is upcoming new album!
Dream away the tears in your eyes
Dream away your sorrows
Dream away all your goodbyes
Dream away tomorrow
I promise when the sun comes up
I promise I’ll be true
and just like before the band starts to play
they always play your favorite tune
and dream awawy when everyone’s gone
dream away your grey skies tooo
dream away and nothing is wrong
dreams have wishes that are waiting for you
and up ahead the road is turning
turning for you and me
and just like before
the band starts to play
now there’s that twinkle in your eye
and dream away
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