Friday, October 15, 2004
I'm listening to Tom Waits' new one, Real Gone, which is just that. With every disc he seems to keep trying to push further into pure emotion, pure bluesy emotion, often going places where words don't cut it, where only squawks, grunts and howls will do. I'm writing a little piece on it for the Free Times and I've spent the past two days just letting it play. Best cut so far: the ten-minute "Sins of My Father," which reminds me just a little of Bob Dylan's similarly lengthy and loping "Highlands." Both are extended meditations on facing the end of life, although the Waits' persona is actually staring death in the face. The law's on his ass and he's just trying to figure out what he's going to do next. Opening line: "God says `Don't give me your tinhorn prayers.'" Cold.