Tom Waits

I just love Tom Waits...

While I had heard of him during high school (I subscribed to Rolling Stone back then), it seems to me that I didn't actually start listening to his music until I'd moved into Bromfield Hall at Bowling Green.

Scott Hilyard and Ed Nolan roomed a couple of doors down and across the hall from me, and — like most every other dorm room — would have music blaring out into the halls, inviting the curious and annoying the studious. I usually fell into the former category.

Scott and Ed had lived together the previous year at Bromfield (Scott was a townie and Ed was from Rocky River, Ohio), so they'd already had their living quarters well-situated; they knew how to make the best use of the small rooms we called home for nine months. I was new to the dorm, having enrolled the previous January and commuted from Toledo for my first two terms of school. Developing a social life was fairly high on my list of priorities that year, and I popped into Scott's and Ed's as often as they'd allow. Their room, though, was often the center of activity on our wing, so it wasn't unusual for six or eight of us from our wing to hang out at any given time.

While Scott and Ed were hilarious jokesters, they were serious about the music they listened to, as was I... and their tastes seemed to run pretty consistent with mine (with one notable exception they liked to constantly remind me about), so in the darkness of their room one night — except perhaps for the glow of their cigarettes — Scott played "Putnam County" from Waits' live recording, Nighthawks At The Diner. It's actually a story that Waits tells over a haunting piano with bowed bass accompaniment.

This has become my favorite way to listen to "Putnam County"... in the dark silence of late night — eyes closed; body motionless; imagination in high gear.

Putnam County

By Tom Waits

I guess things were always kinda quiet around Putnam County
kind of shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts of the two-lane,
that was stretched out just like an asphalt dance floor
where all the old-timers in bib jeans and store-bought boots
were hunkerin' down in the dirt
to lie about their lives and the places that they'd been
and they'd suck on Coca Colas
yeah, and be spittin' day's work
until the moon was a stray dog on the ridge and...
and the taverns would be swollen until the naked eye of 2am
and the Stratocasters slung over the Burgermeister beer guts,
swizzle stick legs jacknifed over naugahyde stools,
yeah, and the witch hazel spread out over the linoleum floors,
pedal pushers stretched out over midriff bulges,
and the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline eyes
wearing Prince Machiavelli or something, hell...
Estee Lauder smells so sweet
and I elbowed up at the counter
with mixed feelings over mixed drinks
as Bubba and the Roadmasters moaned in pool hall concentration
and knit their brows to cover the entire Hank Williams Song Book
whether you like it — or not
and the old National register was singing to the tune of fifty-seven dollars and fifty-seven cents
Yeah, and then it's last call, one more game of 8-ball
Bernice would be putting the chairs on the tables,
someone come in say "Hey man, anybody got any jumper cables?"
"Is that a 6 or a 12 volt, man? I don't know..."
yeah, and all the studs in town would toss 'em down
and claim to fame as they stomped their feet
yeah, boasting about being able to get more ass than a toilet seat.
And the GMCs and the Straight-8 Fords were coughing and wheezing
and they perculated as they tossed the gravel
underneath the fenders to weave home
a wet slick anaconda of a two-lane
with tire irons and crowbars a rattlin'
with a tool box and a pony saddle
you're grinding gears and you're shifting into first
yeah, and that goddam tranny's just getting worse
with a melody of "see ya laters"
and screwdrivers on carburetors
talkin' shop about money to loan
and palominos and strawberry roans
"See ya tomorrow, hello to the Mrs."
with money to borrow and goodnight kisses
as the radio spit out Charlie Rich,
man, and he sure can sing that son-of-a-bitch
and you weave home, yeah, weavin' home
leaving the little joint winking in the
dark warm narcotic American night
beneath a pin cushion sky
and it's home to toast and honey,
gotta start up the Ford, man
yeah, and your lunch money's right over there on the draining board,
and the toilet's runnin', Christ, shake the handle,
and the telephone's ringin' — it's Mrs Randall
and "where the hell are my goddam sandals —
what do you mean the dog chewed up my left foot?"
and the porcelain poodles and the glass swans
staring down from the knick knack shelf
yeah, and the parent permission slips for the kids' field trips
yeah, and a pair of Muckalucks scraping across the shag carpet
and the impending squint of first light,
and it lurked behind a weeping marquee in downtown Putnam
yeah, and it'd be pullin' up any minute now
just like a bastard amber Velveeta yellow cab
on a rainy corner
and be blowin' its horn
in every window in town.