What is it that makes Tom Waits so impervious to aging? Thirty three years of music and he is still as fresh and relevant as anybody carrying an instrument. Of course, time has left its imprint upon Waits; branding his face with wrinkles and gnarling his voice into something more sinister than a crooked swamp willow, yet his musical skill and sense of quality still remain startlingly intact. In a world where aging rock legends vainly try to recapture their past glories and the Rolling Stones have been serving out heaping piles of crap for twenty five years, Waits has yet to release anything that could be considered a bad album.
Waits’ biggest asset is his inclination towards innovation and his careful eye for when to incorporate it. He flaunts his latest creation on album opener “Top of the Hill,” spitting staccato beat box percussion like tobacco juice over the bizarre addition of turntable scratches, contributed by his young son, Casey. “Hoist That Rag” follows with syncopated drumming, flamenco guitar and Waits repetition of the title line in his signature deafening roar.
The piano-at most times Waits favored companion – makes no appearance on Real Gone. Without it, the slower, more melodic tracks drift along lightly on the slight breeze of acoustic guitar. Longtime collaborator Les Claypool helps out on bass and Marc Ribot, another familiar face, contributes searing, grimy blues riffs that sound like they’ve just been shoveled out of Robert Johnson’s grave. The usual pipe and barrel drumming is still intact, and combines with the newer elements to create moments of staggering violence and power. “Metropolitan Glide” boils over with a series of connected sound bites, and “Shake It” rumbles with thundering intensity as Waits sings about feeling “like a preacher waving a gun around.”
On songs such as “Don’t Go Into That Barn” and “Day After Tomorrow”-a letter from a solider to his home town-Waits evokes his classic lyrical style, creating a timeless setting through the use of ageless pieces of Americana. It’s impossible to tell whether the soldier is writing home from Iraq or from Europe. On “Circus,” Waits indulges two of his obsessions, carnivals and spoken word pieces, rolling out his usual rogue’s gallery of sly tricksters and sideshow freaks in garish film noir detail. It’s on these types of songs where the poetry of Waits’ lyrics shine through. Even his most cacophonous ruminations resonate with genuine emotion and exceptional character detail.
-Jesse Cataldo
