The Sound of Four More Years



At the risk of stating the obvious (as if that’s ever stopped me), music doesn’t always make sense the first time around, or even the twelfth time. Sometimes it takes a galvanizing event to make it snap into focus. I didn’t really get Beck’s Sea Change at first, but a conveniently timed romantic misadventure turned it into my favorite album of whatever year that was. Similarly, I had some qualms about the latest work of my favoritest musician, Mr. Tom Waits. On the first few listens, I admired Real Gone, but it was bumming me out. In my 20s, I had a much higher tolerance for morbid doom and gloom, but as I edge into my late 30s, it’s not quite as much fun to listen to a guy obsessing on mortality and apocalyptic doings.

But all it took was one little election to put me in a much more receptive frame of mind. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect, as this is a record meant for this time of year anyway. It’s the sound of wind whistling through skeletal trees that have shed all their leaves; it was never meant to be heard during Daylight Savings Time. When it gets dark early and there’s a bite in the air, it’s Tom Waits Time.

This is not Waits For the Beginner. There is no entry point into this album for the uninitiated. (Try Mule Variations instead.) You need to be immersed to even stand a chance. The disc kicks off in the most alienating way imaginable with “Top of the Hill,” a chugging clank-a-thon that is almost completely tuneless for four or five minutes until what may or may not be a kazoo enters the mix, playing a solo that replicates the sound mass murderers hear in their heads when they finally snap. (I’m speculating, of course.)

Next is the song that sticks in my head the most,“Hoist That Rag,” which sounds like the national anthem for a potential Mad Max version of America, as performed by wanted men hiding out in a crumbling bar in some bordertown hellhole. There’s a lot of vocal percussion/human beatbox stuff on the record, but you shouldn’t get the impression this is the equivalent of that a cappella Todd Rundgren album from the ‘80s. In terms of previous Waits records, it bears the most resemblance to Bone Machine, what with all the clattering and doomsaying. But the classic Swordfishtrombones/Rain Dogs sound is alive here, too, in songs like “Sins of the Father” and “How’s It Gonna End.” Then there’s “Circus,” which sounds like it came right out of the Waits-O-Matic; there’s one of these on every album – the creepy spoken word piece with references to peculiar characters like Sassafrass Joe and One-Eyed Davey. (Okay, I made those up, but I don’t have the lyric sheet handy.) Coming 20 years after the fact, the straightforward lament “Day After Tomorrow” bridges the gap between “Johnsburg, Illinois” and “Soldier’s Things.”

I can do without the hidden bonus track, as usual, and “Metropolitan Glide” hasn’t taken me anywhere special yet, but Real Gone is going to get plenty of play over the next few weeks here on Moonshine Mountain. One other thing: the CD sleeve/booklet has the songs in the wrong order. I don’t know why that is. It’s annoying.