Pirate Farmer Hobo Carnie Funk

There is danger inherent in writing about Tom Waits release. Many writers are tempted to appear “hipper than thou” and fall victim to this syndrome which, during the Sixties, was known as being a “weekend hippie.” Instead of being sucked into the rabbit hole of all things Waitsian (see his 2001 reworking of Alice in Wonderland, Alice), the best way to scrutinize and/or enjoy any Waits offering is to just let go of pretense and follow his often voiced injunction to dance like no one is watching and play along by grabbing a pan from the cupboard. Waits music is all about abandon rather than pose. While the uninitiated may view his spasm rhythms and stage persona with amusement, the true Raindog (Waits 1974 album title track tune and the moniker of a loosely affiliated and decidely loonie gaggle of Waits devotees) nods knowingly at this artist’s continued journey from outer pose to inner self.

Waits music, like that of his Anti label mate Nick Cave, requires more then just a pop-it-in-the-player-once-and-fall-in-love listening. Tracks like “Hoist That Rag” with its Danjgo Rhienhart meets Flamenco Joe guitar work of long time Waits associate, Mark Ribot, throws down a pirate-turned-farmer Latin beat. On “Circus,” Waits returns to his time-honored coffee can megaphone sotto voiced tale teller persona reminiscent of “The Ocean Doesn’t Want Me Today” from his 1992 release, Bone Machine. To immerse oneself in the overall effect of Real Gone requires a serious listening with lyric sheet in hand. The reward for this focus is a one way ticket into that old Beat spirit, where a cool cat find himself “Gone… Real Gone.”
Waits took almost thirty years to title an album in Beat era slang and this title brings him full circle with his early work. On much of the early material, this porkpie Stetson’d maestro of benevolent/malevolence walked in the figurative and literal footsteps of Kerouac taking him all the way to a Denver bus station, home turf of Keroauc’s muse Neal Cassady. On the 1977 Electra release, Foreign Affair, “Medley: Jack and Neil/California Here I Come,” Waits paid homage to his Beat roots. By 1997, Waits collaborated with Beat elder statesman, William Burroughs on the cd and theatrical production Black Rider. Opting to raise his three children far from the colorful streets lionized in his music, Waits lives an hour’s drive from the Beat holiest of holies, North Beach’s famed City Lights Book Store.

Having run the gamut from beat jazz honk to Three Penny Opera clack and martini drenched piano bar canoodle, Waits’ latest work settles into a niche that reflects his personal life since with wife/muse/collaborator Kathleen Brennan. Their “surrural” life in bucolic Sonoma County (land of boutique vineyards, retired hippie rockers, and long-suffering San Francisco Bay Area commuter) is reflected in Waits’ continuing themes of rural mayhem ala “Don’t Go Into The Barn,” reminiscent of 1992’s Bone Machine track, “Murder in the Red Barn.”
Although this disc does not contain the ambient animal noises of previous outings, the listener is drawn in by the filed holler, call and response of “Barn” as well as the “cubist funk” (Waits’ label for this latest effort) of such offerings as “Madison Glide.” The addition of his son, Casey, on percussion and turntables brings new life and a new dimension to the carnival sideshow cacophony that give voice to what Waits describes as his hyper-sensitivity to the sounds around him and his need to stretch his musical expectations.

Waits mines many of his favorite veins for material on Real Gone. Long gone Americana is well represented in hobo names, train, barns, and a particular fondness for town in Illinois. Like head Beach Boy, Brain Wilson, Waits married a woman from this part of the world and brings that wind maddened prairie landscape into his world view.
This disc melds maudlin (“Green Grass”)to the toe-tappable “Shake It.” Waits and his favorite rhythm section, Brain Mantia and Les Claypool from NoCal band Primus, take the listener on a rhythmic roller coaster of time signatures normally associated with jazz players, Captain Beefheart, and Frank Zappa. Waits and Zappa shared managers and made an odd double bill when they toured together in the Seventies. Real Gone finds Waits and this eclectic Sonoma County crew giving musical voice to that “manic mechanic on cars” Waits mentions in “I Can’t Wait To Get Off Work and See My Baby On Montgomery Avenue” from the 1976 self-confessional Closing Time.

Real Gone’s initial sales are a direct reflection of Waits newfound open accessibility to the media. Debuting in the Top Ten all over Europe and on the US Billboard charts at #28 (Top 200) and #1 on their Top Independent listing; this artist has revitalized his place in the market. Once the darling of his tiny cult following, Waits uncompromising stand as an artist tied to his dark yet whimsical writing style, and sometimes sardonic whit, has garnered him the audience he so richly deserves.
Although Tom Waits brand new release, Real Gone, may not the best choice for a Tom Waits initiation, it does bring the listener to the heart of the man and his music. Playing small venues (3000+ seat houses), Waits limited run of Fall shows have all sold out within minutes. Should the opportunity arise to experience his sideshow live, the wait in line is worth the effort. Until you get that chance to see Tom Waits sideshow, buy a copy of Real Gone, draw the drapes, put out the cat, throw on your “railroad boots,” turn up the volume, and “Shake it, shake, it shake it, baby!”

by Hank Sosnowski