Uncle Tom (or should I call him Frank?) sitting at a table in a noisy pub, wearing his usual hat and downing yet another mug of beer, talking about the good old days with some of his ragged friends, maybe even the devil.
That's how I imagine him while listening to these 17 bizarre tracks that never, for a moment, stop making my right foot tap to the beat.
Many were written by Waits and his wife Kathleen, and arranged with the participation of numerous musicians playing numerous instruments (they haven't missed out on almost anything).
As soon as "Hang On St. Christopher" starts, I'm captivated by the brazen and drunk notes that encourage the soon-to-come delirium.
Yes, because there's nothing sober about this album, and its beauty is also its peculiarity.
Do you know the band that plays for the town festival?
It seems to be there, following the high Tom who, in a typically alcohol-induced frenzy, is convinced he can reach the top of the world "Straight To The Top (Rhumba)" and drink the entire city "I'll Take New York".
It's in the moments of clarity that our protagonist's lyrics become melancholic and suffering, as in "I'll Be Gone" and "More Than Rain".
At times, in "Yesterday Is Here" I expect him to start singing "House Of The Rising Sun". Here and in "Way Down In The Hole" I love his voice that becomes more serious, and especially in the latter, the bass pulls you down while you try to keep your demons at bay.
He disrupts his typical howl instead in "Temptation" and in "Train Song" where he seems to even try to cry the lyrics out.
In the (Vegas) version of "Straight To The Top", he almost mimics Sinatra.
The album is the musical version of the show staged a year earlier at the Briar St. Theatre in Chicago and performed by the Steppenwolf Theatre Company, with Waits playing the character of Wolf.
These roughly 55 minutes of music don't bore and flow without tiring as the tracks (or most of them) are short in duration.
The irony of suffering turned into music.
Tom Waits doesn’t do anything to please: you have to sweat it out, suffer with him, and this tough 'Franks Wild Years' is certainly no exception.
Towards the middle of the album, you enter a kind of tunnel of horrors where shreds of waltzes, marches, warped blues, and others appear in all their misery.