Author: Seb Palmer

The 1970s, decade of the prog rock gatefold double-album, finds Tom getting in on the extended format action, but, as you’d expect, in his own inimitable way.

With only two – albeit utterly brilliant – studio albums under his belt, Waits was already heavily into paying his dues on the live circuit, and his shows were justly becoming something of a cult phenomenon, on account of three main factors: first of all his fabulous music; but, just as importantly, in terms of why his third release came out as a double live album, are the related facets of, secondly, his distinct charismatic persona and stage presence; and third, related to the latter, his marvellous way with words, or gift of the gab.

The effect of some pretty oddball and occasionally harsh live experiences, being inappropriately paired with everything from Vaudeville acts, or (not far from vaudeville, but some way off to the left of everything) with label mate Frank Zappa, had been to make Waits dig deeper into his beatnik persona, almost as a defensive shell. But it’s undoubtedly his pure gift for language, storytelling, and, ultimately, strange as it may sound, for someone so resolutely independent, showmanship, that lie behind this strange format for a third release.

Ever sensitive to bringing out the best in Waits, producer ‘Bones’ Howe was instrumental in making the recording happen, hiring an appropriate venue, and ensuring the right kind of crowd was on hand. Backed by a fabulous jazz band, Waits and co. deliver an evening’s worth of musical and lyrical magic, Waits mining his rich seam of imaginative and frequently very humorous storytelling to excellent effect.

There are so many great tracks, I won’t list them all; amongst my personal favourites are the moody cyclic semi-recitative ‘Upon A Foggy Night’, with Waits favouring 13ths and 7#5 chord voicings, giving the number a distinctly jazzy vibe, despite being delivered on a folk-style steel string acoustic guitar, and, whilst covers are something of a rarity in the Waits canon, it’s typical that when he does pick one, it’s an interesting and unusual choice; here it’s a sublimely evocative reading of country singer Red Sorvine’s ‘Big Joe & Phantom 309’, a tale of a saintly supernatural trucker, no less!

Hardcore fans of Waits will no doubt know that there are huge amounts of live Waits bootlegs out there, spanning his entire career, and of widely varied recording quality, so, retrospectively it was all the more prescient of Howe to ensure that a document of Waits in live and garrulous mode was captured in hi-fidelity, and we all owe him a debt of gratitude on that account. With more character than a convention of charisma competition winners, and a line in patter that’s got to be heard to be appreciated, this is a brilliant document of Waits doing his thing live: essential listening!

Having found the perfect foil for this point in his career, in jazz drummer-turned-producer ‘Bones’ Howe, Waits builds solidly on the promise of his debut, Closing Time , still drawing on the pool of songs he had in his bag before he secured a deal, but also adding to his repertoire.

Amongst the best tracks is the title number, in which Waits voice and guitar are ably complemented by the sinuous serpentine bass of Jim Hughart, traffic and other incidental noises adding to the evocative effect. I believe the fabulous bass part may have evolved when Waits was working with bassist Bill Plummer, and Tom’s guitar part, in drop-D tuning, is the essence of Waits as self-accompanist: it seems, indeed it is in some ways, very simple, but it’s also absolutely perfect. And that’s not so easy! Over the span of his career Waits turns in some truly sublime turns on piano, guitar and vocals, not to mention songwriting, and it’s all done with understated panache. He’s not a virtuoso, technically speaking, in any of these departments, and yet he gets more emotion and meaning across than many a technician could possibly achieve. That’s the ‘art’ part of the deal, it’s about feel, and is almost magical.

Amongst the stellar sidemen Howe brought Waits together with, not only are the notable rhythm team of bassist Jim Hughart and drummers Bill Goodwin or Shelly Manne, worthy of special mention, so to is arranger Bob Alcivar, whose lush cinematic arrangements work perfectly with Waits’ sophisticatedly sleazy material. Trumpeter Jack Sheldon and sax players Pete Christlieb and Frank Vicari, also help bring the jazz dimension of Waits at this time into sparkling 3-D. Waits would continue to work with these guys to great effect over a number of years, releasing some music that is, in my view, amongst the greatest committed to wax in the latter part of the 20th century.

The material is of a very high standard throughout, although it’s not all even. Some pieces flesh out spoken word raps that he was delivering in his early gigging days, often accompanied only by his own toe-tapping and finger-popping. On wax, such numbers as ‘Diamonds On My Windshield’ and ‘Ghosts of Saturday night’ make the transition with admirable aplomb. Waits develops the bluesier side begun with ‘Virginia Avenue’ and ‘Ice Cream Man’, with the fabulous ‘New Coat Of paint’, a rarity in the Waits cannon for the use of the rich tremolo Rhodes (did Waits play this? no other keys player is credited), ‘Semi-Suite’, ‘Fumblin’ With The Blues’ and ‘Depot, Depot’.

His maudlin melancholy, replete with honeyed strings courtesy of Alcivar, finds expression in ‘San Diego Serenade’, the more minimal title track, ‘Please Call me Baby’, and ‘Drunk On The Moon’, this last of which goes into an out and out jazzy swing section for sax and trumpet solo sections, before resuming the more downbeat song. Kerouac experimented with mixing his words with music, and his writing was itself influenced by the jazz music and life, but Waits brings the two together more successfully. This is the Waits that some critics, and Waits himself, seem keen to distance themselves from: the boozy romantic barfly. Sure, it can seem ripe for parody, and indeed, some, including Waits himself, worried that this was where he was headed, hence a later-career shift in direction. But for me this is, for all it’s knowingly self-aware louche cleverness, disarmingly innocent and beguiling. In short, I love it: highly recommended.

Here’s the first in a series of archival reviews of mine. This particular little series will cover ‘early’ Tom Waits, my favourite era from his now very long career.

As will readily be apparent, if you read on, I really dig this album. Tom is young and sweet sounding here, not yet the rasping fag and booze addled Beat, nor the boho-carni-freak of later or more recent years.

I personally think his entire output from this recording to Swordfishtrombones is nigh on perfect, and, for someone like me, it’s all essential soul-food listening. And each album is different, albeit there are threads that run through them all.

Waits’ wife Kathleen Brennan apparently came up with the term ‘grim reapers and grand weepers’ to describe two of the many faces Waits has commonly chosen to show in later years, and, of the two, most of the material from the early albums leans towards the ‘grand weepers’ side of that pairing. And that’s how I like it!

Produced by the maverick producer and musician Jerry Yester, who’s more associated with the roots-folk and psychedelic tinged sounds of 60s hippie-dom, this is something of an oddball or unusual album within the Waits canon. Given that, in many respects, he kept mining similar veins for some years to come, it’s a little tricky to pin down exactly why that is. It’s definitely something to do with the gentleness and soft innocence of his voice, especially in contrast to how that voice evolved, but it’s also in the unique sonic chemistry that the album has, even though later recording will revisit similar genre-based sounds, ranging from jazz, blues and folk, to country, and Tin Pan Alley style songs.

For a debut album it is, frankly, simply stunning – loaded with gems like ‘Ol 55’, ‘I Hope That I Don’t Fall In Love With You’, and ‘Rosie’, even the lesser tracks are still superb – and, albeit that they’re very different characters, it reminds me of Joni Mitchell’s debut, which, although ostensibly more of a fit with the times it was released in, is actually also very unique and personal. People pegged Joni as a folkster, and she saw herself as a composer. In a similar way, Tom is an artist, and that’s why, even though he long ago turned off the road of straight ahead boho-romance – the aspect of his work I’ve always loved the most – he remains a compelling figure.

Some of my personal favourites on this recording include the maudlin piano driven ‘Midnight Lullaby’, with the beautiful muted trumpet of either Tony Terran or Delbert Bennett (not sure who it is!), and the unholy trinity that ends the album, ‘Little Trip To Heaven (On The Wings Of Your Love)’ – the first of a long series of excellent tracks with long names using parentheses, that reaches it’s apotheosis on the Small Change album, with tracks like ‘Jitterbug Boy (Sharing a Curbstone with Chuck E. Weiss, Robert Marchese, Paul Body and The Mug and Artie)’, and ‘I Can’t Wait to Get Off Work (And See My Baby on Montgomery Avenue)’ – ‘Grapefruit Moon’, and ‘Closing Time’.

The musicians, mostly associates of Yester, perform the material with a magical sympathy and affinity that belies the fact that the band was, in essence, a pick-up outfit. This said, drummer John Seiter and upright bassist Bill Plummer had been playing together for six months prior to the recording, possibly with Yester’s band Rosebud, which had recently come to an end, but I’m not sure about this. But given how different the music they were playing elsewhere was, they rise to Waits muse with real verve and grace. And, interestingly, so does artist Cal Schenkel, better known for his work on Zappa’s record covers. Here he turns in a picture perfect evocation of Waits as the last to leave, as it comes to closing time.

According to Jerry Yester, quoted by Barney Hoskyns in his excellent biography of Waits, Lowside of the Road , there was an awed silence at the end of a take of the instrumental track ‘Closing Time’, that gives the album its name: ‘That was absolutely the most magical session I’ve ever been involved with,’ Yester recalls, ‘at the end of it no one spoke for what felt like five minutes, either in the booth or out in the room. No one budged. Nobody wanted that moment to end.’ Yep, I know that feeling, I’ve had it often enough listening to many Waits records, not least of which is this.

If you’re as big a Waits nut as I am, you might have some of his live bootlegs, and you might notice that, whilst numerous tracks from this album make the occasional appearance in his live repertoire, the achingly beautiful ‘Closing Time’ itself is a rarity. The only instance I know of being for the BBC in 1979. In a way the rarity of it makes it even more special. And I think that is perhaps a fitting epitaph to the recording itself.