This time out I'd like to concentrate on one particular aspect of Waits' writing, that of the slower, softer songs. He has them, to be sure. Much of his material is written with a hard, gritty edge, but occasionally he can be gentle, introspective, thoughtful in a way that may not always characterise his songs. The people he writes about are almost always struggling through their lives, or career, or some situation they have to get through. They might be dealing with an addiction, a loss, a broken love affair, but they usually have some sort of problem they have to get through, and it doesn't always work out. Waits' characters are not heroes, or superhumans. They're not captains of industry or sportsmen, and they're not politicians or leaders. They're invariably ordinary Joes and Janes, pushing against the obstacles in their lives, trying to climb over often insurmountable barriers, keeping their heads down and facing into the cold wind, hoping it won't blow them over. They are, in many ways, reflections of you and me.
Though at heart cynical in his writing, Waits can be tender too, though even then the sharp bitterness that permeates most of his songs tends to leak through. It's almost as if he doesn't
want to be happy, or at least, doesn't want his characters to be happy. It's like he feels happiness is an illusion, and must be recognised and denied for what it is, stamped out before it has a chance to raise expectations that can only topple and fall in the end. Better to be miserable, and know you're miserable, than think you're happy. Even the brightest silver lining can be obscured by a cloud, and life ain't a bowl of cherries: it's hard, it's unfair, it's tough, and then you die.
Soldier's things, from “Swordfishtrombones”, 1983 (Island)
Probably one of the most heartbreaking things the widow of a serviceman has to go through is finally getting rid of his personal possessions, and here Waits outlines a garage sale, where all the components that went to make up this soldier's career are put up for sale. On one level, it's dirty, grubby, distasteful as everything is examined and critiqued ---
”This jacknife is rusted” --- and the widow tries to put a brave face on it:
”All this radio really needs/ Is a fuse” or
”You can pound that dent out/ On the hood.”
On another level though, it's a heartwrenching farewell as the wife sells the only things left that she has of her husband, or the things that perhaps remind her why he died. It's a sad comparmentalision of a life, breaking it down into its individual components ---
”His rifle, his boots/ Full of rocks” --- quite literally, the measure of a man. It would seem though, that the wife can't let everything go, as she decides to keep one of his medals:
”This one is for bravery/ And this one is for me” but everything else must go.
”Everything's a dollar/ In this box.”
Perhaps even more poignant these days, with wars in foreign lands and soldiers dying for questionable causes, this was written before all those troubles, but it really doesn't matter, as unfortunately as long as there are men there will be wars, and as long as there are leaders there will be those who will die for them, or at their command. “Soldier's things”, then, is just another example of the clinical, often cynical but ultimately realistic way Tom Waits looks at things. Even death.
”Davenports and kettle drums and swallow tail coats,
Tablecloths and patent leather shoes.
Bathing suits and bowling balls and clarinets and rings;
All this radio really needs is a fuse.
A tinker, a tailor, a soldier's things:
His rifle, his boots full of rocks.
Oh, and this one is for bravery,
And this one is for me.
And everything's a dollar in this box.
Cuff links and hub caps, trophies and paperbacks.
It's good transportation but the brakes aren't so hot.
Necktie and boxing gloves;
This jackknife is rusted.
You can pound that dent out on the hood.
A tinker, a tailor, a soldier's things:
His rifle, his boots full of rocks.
Oh and this one is for bravery.
And this one is for me.
And everything's a dollar in this box.”
Kentucky Avenue, from “Blue Valentine”, 1978 (Asylum)
One of the most tragic and tearjerking songs Waits has ever written, it begins as a very disarmingly charming conversation between two childhood friends, though there's only one side of the exchange heard in the lyric. It's apparently based on a real-life friend Waits had as a child, who suffered from polio, but you don't realise that until the end. As the song opens the boys are discussing (or at least, Waits is telling his friend) all the things they're going to do that day: simple things boys of that age do, like climb trees, hang out in disreputable and forbidden places, annoy older people. It's all very innocent, and as with many of Waits' songs, namechecks characters, some of whom are real and existed in his world, some of whom may be constructs or even composites of other people. Dicky Faulkner, Mrs. Storm and Ronnie Arnold are all mentioned; of these we only know Mrs. Storm existed. According to Waits, she was the typical “mad old woman” who always had a shotgun protruding out her window, on the lookout for kids who wanted to annoy her perhaps, or burgulars. Or communists. Or gays. Or whatever angered and/or frightened her.
The song is played in a slow piano melody, Waits' vocal at first quite matter-of-fact for him, then in the last verse he hits the reveal, with beautiful, melancholic strings joining the sparse melody as he moans like a wounded animal:
”I'll take the spokes from your wheelchair/ And a magpie's wings/ And I'll tie them to your shoulders/ And your feet” and we realise with shock that his friend is crippled, that all the things he speaks of doing with him are impossible, as the boy can't walk. With the typical blind optimism of childhood though, he believes he can
”Steal a hacksaw from my dad/ Cut the braces off your legs/ And we'll bury them tonight/ Out in the cornfield.”
It's a powerful revelation, the first time you hear it, and Waits' angry, sullen, frustrated voice carries the song into new realms, where the innocence of childhood is shattered like so much cheap glass and lies strewn on the floor, tiny reflections of the crippled child winking back up at him from each fragment as if in mockery of his efforts. I cry every time I hear this song, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.
”Eddie Grace's Buick got four bullet holes in the side;
Charlie Delisle sittin' at the top of an avocado tree.
Mrs Storm will stab you with a steak knife if you step on her lawn.
I got a half a pack of “Lucky Strike”s, so come along with me.
Lets fill our pockets with macadamia nuts,
Then go over to Bobby Goodmansons
And jump off the roof.
Hilda plays strip poker while her mama's across the street:
Joey Navinski says she put her tongue in his mouth.
Dicky Faulkner's got a switchblade and some gooseneck risers.
That eucalyptus is a hunchback;
There's a wind out from the south.
So let me tie you up with kite string:
I'll show you the scabs on my knee.
Watch out for broken glass, put your shoes and socks on
And come along with me.
Lets follow that fire truck ---
I think your house is burnin' down.
Then go down to the hobo jungle and kill some rattlesnakes with a trowel.
We'll break all the windows in the old Anderson place
And steal a bunch of boysenberrys and smear 'em on your face.
I'll get a dollar from my mama's purse
And buy that skull and crossbones ring
And you can wear it around your neck on an old piece of string.
Then we'll spit on Ronnie Arnold, flip him the bird;
Slash the tires on the school bus --- now don't say a word!
I'll take a rusty nail and scratch your initials in my arm
And I'll show you how to sneak up on the roof of the drugstore.
Take the spokes from your wheelchair and a magpie's wings
And I'll tie them to your shoulders and your feet.
I'll steal a hacksaw from my dad
And cut the braces off your legs
And we'll bury them tonight out in the cornfield.
Just put a church key in your pocket,
We'll hop that freight train in the hall.
We'll slide all the way down the drain
To New Orleans in the fall.”
The ocean doesn't want me, from “Bone machine”, 1992 (Island)
One of the most minimalist songs on this album, it shows Waits at his most esoteric, with a semi-return to the slow percussive beats of some of the songs on “Swordfishtrombones” and “Rain dogs”, with strange little sounds in the background, and Waits' vocal somewhat mechanised and more in a spoken word style of singing than anything. It's a short song, less than two minutes long, and seems to concern someone who's preparing to commit suicide but hasn't quite made up his mind, or built up the courage to perform the act. He keeps blaming the ocean (in which, no doubt, he plans to drown), saying it isn't ready for him, but remarks he'll be back tomorrow.
”The ocean doesn't want me today,
But I'll be back tomorrow to play.
And the strangles will take me
Down deep in their brine.
The mischievous braingels;
Down into the endless blue wine.
I'll open my head and let out:
All of my time.
I'd love to go drowning
And to stay and to stay,
But the ocean doesn't want me today.
I'll go in up to here:
It can't possibly hurt.
All they will find is my beer and my shirt.
A rip tide is raging,
And the life guard is away.
But the ocean doesn't want me today.
The ocean doesn't want me today.”