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Rating: Tom Waits, All the lyrics, Arcana, 1986 edition. Translations by Massimo Cotto.
Musiqua series directed by Riccardo Bertoncelli (the one who was talking nonsense in Guccini's "L'Avvelenata").
1) INTRODUCTION.
The edition I own unfortunately ends in 1986, with the lyrics of "Rain Dogs." I purchased it when I was 16/17 in 1989/90. There are more recent versions, other editions, there's the web today. Back then, it was only in the darkest corner of a bookstore, where those who watched you said, "he's not looking for literature," and looked at you dismissively. But I had come into possession of the vinyl "Bouced Cheecks" and the next step had to be that little book. An operation similar to the one carried out for the Floyd and Dylan in the previous two-year period.
2) EXAMINATION.
Sure, the artistic trajectory of Tom Waits could follow three lines, linking them to his three important record labels (Asylum, Island, Epitaph), to the cities where he lived (Los Angeles, New York, and Petaluma in California), or to the styles of his music: mesmerizing Jazz pianist and nocturnal Blues in the first phase (1973-1982); versatile, multifaceted, and experimental, with Avant Jazz musicians breaking genre barriers, between Weill and Beefheart (the "Frank" trilogy); then minimalist, noise-driven, and eccentric songwriter, author of grand or sandpaper ballads, searching for sharp and hard grooves, in a kind of independent and over-the-top artistic liberation, towards the most atypical Folk-Rock modernization, from "Bone Machine" to today. Or, one could follow the evolution of his singing and voice, from emotional and wild, to hoarse and dirty, to rusty, tar-like, and methodically delirious; throughout these three phases, the paradigms he seems to transfigure are, in order, Howlin' Wolf, Charley Patton, and Captain Beefheart. In this context, I would like to emphasize, however, certain aspects related to the early Waits' lyrics, those of the Asylum Years, which are steeped in Jazz, Blues soot, and "Comedy"/"Spoken" genre madrigals.
If the song form is properly in his debut, since Waits tends to propose himself as a "synthetic cubist," attempting to make the song the reality itself—naturally raw—and not just its representation. He then adopts, in his versification, multiple points of view or at least unexpected angles. Let's consider that during this phase, there isn't yet the partnership with Kateleen Brennan, with whom he will have three children and a lasting artistic collaboration from "Strange Weather" in "Big Time" (1988). Behind Waits looms a surrealist deconstruction akin to Miró, a progressive corrosion of song canons, which parallels Picasso and Braque's painting. But the most reinforcing literary references are: Kerouac of "Subterraneans," Corso, Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Bukowski ("what's there in life besides drinking, making love, betting on horses, and writing?" could easily be on the lips of the singer from Pomona). Ezra Pound. And Groucho Marx ("Warm beer and cold women," a witticism programmatically become song).
In the beginnings, Jazz and Poetry sessions were heavily influential, culminating in his third work ("Nighthawks at the Diner"), where he performs as a crooner and perfect sly, sardonic, enigmatic, melancholic entertainer, a gray and nuanced narrator who applies chiaroscuro strokes with great effect. From "Small Change," which showcases complex Jazz openings, he imbues the narrative ego with references profusely in digressions that are sometimes difficult to understand, where art clearly imitates life, as Dostoevsky demanded, developing and congealing upon its own experiences and inclinations.
How to define Waits' writing style? Underground? Post Underground? Beyond that, it paints a certain humanity with "dirty realism" and lived compromise, with involved emotionality. The principle "humanity, you're a pain in the ass" of Bukowski is then not so much in value as his aesthetic influence. Thus, the singer-storyteller Waits represents the depravity of urban life landscapes, fascinated by the more sordid aspects of the modern metropolis juxtaposed with the feelings and aspirations of men of all times, he places his gaze on the oppressed in an emphatic but truthful manner; the language is raw, but evocative, ultimately refined, in some way unconventional. The style is harsh, sparse, damned, grotesque, self-ironic, colloquial, direct, witty, laconic, and very tactile, olfactory, visual, physically perceptible. It embraces all the senses, therefore translation and reading of his song lyrics are necessary. Cotto, Caredda, and Buja provide a translation that balances literalism and interpretation, with notable poetic achievement in this book.
The American dream is a pious illusion. Only the dispossessed can grasp the meaning of life, all others inevitably grope around, paraphrasing Bukowski once again. With suspended judgment, a non-evaluative eye, ataraxy, Waits looks at the consciences of the defeated and exiled, from the perspective of emotion and with a certain solidarity. He captures, in their unsuspected subversion, their very freedom to lose.
He observes the marginal and (tragi)comic side of life, without falling into pessimism. The juxtaposition of unusual elements, the repeated sounds, the interest in unresolved people, the sparse yet suggestive vocabulary, are the weapons he preferentially adopts (a certain hermeticism will prevail in the future). He uses the unpoetic, sterile, and unmanageable with poetic, fertile, and richly communicative outcomes. Bohemian and damned ways to express a consciousness shattered, incinerated, and reconstructed, the consciousness of an uneasy, often squalid, always defeated humanity. However, and by now, ready for redemption.
Thus, at least until "Heartattack and Vine," everything flows into a dynamic, verbose, alarming, volatile, dirty yet clear "poetry," lyrical and accessible. Behind the mask of irony.
What does Waits write? Caricatures, not outrage, sentimental weather reports, invocations to the moon, interludes on scrambled eggs with sausage, stories of broken hearts, scams, and shady deals, always telling lies, such that you can no longer even lie (paraphrasing the conclusion of "Whistlin’ Past The Graveyard").
What places does he describe? Buses, trains, wrong-way cars, "piss-yellow wandering taxis," gas stations, motels, amusement parks, less-ossian cemeteries, suburban backstreets "where someone's always watering the sidewalk," the fervor of ports, striptease clubs, bars, whorehouses.
Who does Waits talk about? Soldiers, sailors, whores, crooks, derelicts, alcoholics, vagrants, ghosts, misfits, beautiful losers, and shipwrecks of the American dream.
What kind of men are they? Behind his oppressed, a hope and an ethic become visible, a non-condemnation and the reconstruction of an apparently unredeemed humanity, but one to be saved or at least never blamed. The wait is not in vain, but nourished by hopes and uncertainties. At least a change of consciousness is predicted in those who look with him.
The lyrics, ultimately, are an essential part of his work, their beauty, sometimes dirty, irritating, shameless, does not leave one indifferent or unreflective.
Tom Waits is a great storyteller, a genuine ferryman of souls. He is certainly an excellent verse writer. So, here is an invitation to read his lyrics, especially aimed at young listeners, because they are far from banality and nihilism, where they sing with a harsh voice they can put sweetness into your mouth, where they sing of despair they can give hope, dreaming where seemingly, there's only exhausted realism and obtuse cynicism.
3) EXAMPLES
Below I propose some excerpts from songs.
DIAMONDS ON MY WINDSHIELDS (1974)
Diamonds on my windshield
And these tears from heaven
I'm coming into town from the Interstate
Beside a steel train under the rain
And drafts bite my cheek
These highway runs in the dead of night
Push you to sing every time
There's a Duster trying to change my tune
Speeding fast on my right
Running non-stop for a whole day
And there's a hitchhiker from Wisconsin with a billiard-ball head
Wishing he were in his bed in Wisconsin
But there are four and a half feet of snow on the East Coast
And it's colder than a gold digger's ass.
And it's colder than a gold digger's ass.
[…]
FUMBLIN’ WITH THE BLUES (1974)
[…]
Friday left me fumbling and melancholic
And it's hard to start winning when you've always lost
And the shards of the night have shattered the mood
And pushed your head against the wall
Two dead ends and you still have to make up your mind
All the bartenders know my name…
[…]
PUTNAM COUNTY (1975)
It's easy to imagine things have always been quiet
In Putnam County
Reserved and sleepy, perched on the edges
Of the two-lane road, laid out like
It was sprawled like a dancing asphalt floor.
An asphalt dance floor where old men
Curled up inside their overalls and clunky boots
And lied about their past and places they had been
While they swilled Coca Cola and spat Days Work
[…]
And all the town bullies will demand attention
And fame and will keep boasting
About having owned more pussy and ass
Than toilet bowls.
[…]
TOM TRAUBERT'S BLUES (1976)
[…]
I'm an innocent victim of a blind alley
And I'm tired of all these soldiers down here
No one speaks English and everything's broken
And my Stacys are soaking wet
To take Matilda dancing, come on Matilda, you'll dance
Matilda with me.
[…]
I lost my chain now that I've kissed her
And the one-armed bandit knows it
[…]
And it's a battered suitcase
Heading for a hotel somewhere
And a wound that will never heal
There's no perfume on a prima donna
On this old shirt with stains
Of blood and whiskey
And so goodnight to all the scavengers
To the night watchmen, to those who keep that flame burning
And goodnight to Matilda too
THE PIANO HAS BEEN DRINKING (1976)
The piano has been drinking
My tie is asleep
The musicians are back from New York
The jukebox needs to take a leak
And this carpet needs a haircut
The spotlight looks like a prison escapee
And the phone's run out of cigarettes
[…]
The light guy is blind in one eye
And can't see out of the other
The piano tuner has a hearing aid
And came accompanied by his mother
The piano has been drinking
The piano has been drinking
[…]
And the owner is a mental deficient
With the IQ of a fence post
[…]
The newspapers are teasing you
The ashtrays are gone
And the piano has been drinking
The piano has been drinking
Not me, not me.
WHISTLIN’ PAST THE GRAVEYARD (1978)
[…]
My eyes have seen the glory
Of the sewers and the drains
I'm coming to Baton Rouge
Just to find a woman
I intend to get one
Every time it rains
You see a locomotive
And probably think it's a train
Whistling past the graveyard
And stepping on a crack in the ground
[…]
KENTUCKY AVENUE (1978)
Eddie's Buick has four bullet holes on one side
Charlie Delisle is sitting atop an avocado tree
Mrs. Stormll will stab you if you step on her lawn
I've got half a pack of Lucky Strike come with me
Let's fill our pockets with macadamia nuts
Then go to Bobby Goodmanson’s
And jump off the roof
Hilda plays strip poker
And her mother is across the street
Joey Navinski claims she put her tongue in his mouth
Dicky Faulkner has a switchblade
And a few tools
That eucalyptus tree is crooked
And there's a wind coming from the south
Let me tie you with kite string
And I'll show you the scabs on my knee
Watch out for that broken glass, put on shoes and socks and come away with me
Let's follow that fire truck
Maybe it's your house that's burning
[…]
Then we'll spit on Ronnie Arnold
And flip him the bird
And slash the tires on the school bus
[…]
Take the spokes from your wheelchair
And the wings of a magpie
And tie them to your shoulders and your feet
I'll steal a hacksaw from my dad
And cut off the braces from your legs
We'll bury it tonight in the cornfield
Put a bottle opener in your pocket
We'll jump on that freight train with some booze in our guts
And slide all the way down
In the fall to New Orleans
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