Waits Wednesday

OK, gonna introduce a new feature: Tom Waits Wednesdays. I'm going to make it my personal mission to get at least one of you corn dogs to gain an appreciation of that artist, recently inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Who is Tom Waits? Well, he's...um...he's...well, let's just say he's unlike anyone you've ever heard. Part Leonard Cohen, part Captain Beefheart, all original. His voice is a gravel pit with broken glass, a result of one cigarette too many and one shot of applejack more than he ought've. But he will absolutely captivate you, will challenge every notion of what you think is beauty, and will provide thousands of hours of enjoyment, if you let him.

His songs tell the tales of the downtrodden, the two-time losers, the bowery bums, the down-and-outers, the drunks, and the homeless, all the while imbuing his subjects with heart-wrenching humanity. He can tell a story like nobody else I've ever heard.

One song of his, which will be the subject of a future Waits Wednesday, tells a typical story of a typical Waits anti-hero that includes this line: "And it's a battered old suitcase/To a hotel someplace/And a wound that will never heal." In an amazing economy of words he paints a picture that puts you right exactly where he needs you to be. Let me tell you something: As a frustrated (and not very good) songwriter, you really do stand in slackjawed amazement at his skill.

Waits maintains he writes two different types of songs: Grim Reapers and Grand Weepers. The first few songs we'll be discussing will be the latter type.

Today's song is Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis. It's unique in that it's told from the point of view of a woman, and it is a heartbreaking ode to the power of small dreams. Musically it's pretty spare: a piano and an electric piano, one providing a melody and the other providing bluesy flavor.

The lyrics:

Charlie, I'm pregnant, livin on 9th Street
Right above a dirty bookstore off Euclid Avenue
I stopped taking dope and I quit drinking whisky
My old man plays the trombone and works out at the track

He says that he loves me even though it's not his baby
Says that he'll raise him up just like it was his own son
He gave me a ring that was worn by his mother
And he takes me out dancing every Saturday night

Charlie I think about you, every time I pass a filling station
On account of all the grease you used to wear in your hair
I still have that record - Little Anthony and the Imperials
But someone stole my record player - how do you like that?

Charlie I almost went crazy after Mario got busted
I went back to Omaha to live with my folks
But everyone I used to know was either dead or in prison
So I came back to Minneapolis - this time I think I'm gonna stay

Charlie I think I'm happy for the first time since my accident
I wish I had all the money we used to spend on dope
I'd buy me a used car lot, wouldn't sell any of 'em
Just drive a different car every day, depending on how I feel

Charlie, for Chrissake, if you want to know the truth of it
I don't have a husband - he don't play the trombone
I need to borrow money to pay this lawyer - Charlie, hey
I'll be eligible for parole come Valentine's Day...


See what I mean by the power of small dreams? Here's someone painting a picture of domestic bliss which involves living in a shitty apartment above an adult bookstore, with a guy who takes her out cutting a rug every now and again. This is her fantasy. She says her idea of the life of Reilly is driving "...a different car every day, depending on how I feel."

Small dreams.

To me the imagery is incredibly powerful, and poignant, and I promise you will feel the same.

Please listen along if you like - just click here. Then come back and tell me what you think.

Next week we'll find out what it means to put a picture in a frame.