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Taken from my blog:
In a way I can't believe it's over. I can't believe I stood with what seemed like hundreds of people and heard my oracle speak. My prophet and saint in a porkpie hat, unkempt hair, and a voice that even sandpaper would envy. The kind of saint who bribed his way into heaven with a bottle of whiskey and a knowledge of love's most terrible truths. The seer who tells the fortunes of the damned and the found. He was there. He spoke to me. He spoke to all of us.
Then he was gone, just another ghost in a night wind, another word of reverence on our lips and minds.
But none can compare to Tom Waits, my patron saint. For every Waits song I love--and there are so many--there are strong memories attached. From the first night at Molly's on Toulouse to a drive back from the beach on a dusky summer evening, it's all there. Catalogued, filed, stamped, indexed, treasured.
This man writes and sings in shades and nuances no one else could capture. He tells the stories I yearn to tell, lives lived in beauty and squalor. If there is anyone better to listen to on a rainy humid day, then I have yet to hear it. And one day I hope to tell him thank you.
In other words, he was fucking amazing.
He mostly played stuff off Real Gone, but threw in some older gems as well. In fact, the third song he sang was "Shore Leave." He performed two encores with material off Rain Dogs, Heartattack & Vine, Bone Machine.
The way they lit the stage was surreal. All the lights were at the bottom of the stage and they projected this spindly spidery shadow of Waits over these immense curtains. It was like watching a Indonesian shadow-puppet play. Only damned.
Well, the only other thing I can say is: Wow.
Gobsmacked, that's me. |
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