By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
Take, for instance, Are You Passionate? and Goddess in the Doorway, the recent stiffs by Neil Young (b. 1945) and Mick Jagger (b. 1943). Nobody thinks these guys are fonts of unmediated emotionJagger has always made irony his calling card, and Young regularly indulges a penchant for untraceable imaginings. Nevertheless, they do pretend that some way or other they're expressing themselves. So when they describe feeling alienated from their kids, which both do on these albums, we connect that to what we know about their biographies, just like when they bewail their romantic woes. One reason I prefer Young's album is that there the love songs could be about a rocky marriage, whereas Jagger sounds like he's on some fresh pussy, as biography suggests he probably is. Yet the fresh pussy audience, bless its turned-up nose, has declined to scarf down his expensive new hooks. As for scarfing down either geezer's alienation from his kids, only a very empathetic young person would bother. And young people still dominate the CD market.
On Alice and Blood Money and everywhere else, Waits (b. 1949) avoids these problems. Not that love songs like "Alice" don't evoke the great Kathleen Brennan, the wife and collaborator who picked his music up a notch as of Swordfishtrombones 20 years ago. But his persona never has been first-person. Listen to the 16 selections on Rhino's Asylum-era anthology Used Songs and tell me where you hear a young man expressing himself. Maybe on "Ol' '55," a car song so lyrical it gets covered by Sarah McLachlan, or maybe maybe on "The Heart of Saturday Night," its locale a cruise strip and the joints that line it. But that one's second-person, and "Christmas Card From a Hooker in Minneapolis" isn't. Already he's a tale spinner, a chronicler of low-life observed and low-life stitched together from whole cloth. Maybe once he was unspoiled enough to feel holy on the freeways, but the voice that dominates Used Songs belongs to the huckster who raps out come-ons over the jazz-trio jive of "Step Right Up": "It's effective, it's defective/It creates household odors/It disinfects, it sanitizes for your protection/It gives you an erection/It wins the election/Why put up with painful corns any longer?" Waits earns all those carnival-barker comparisons. He stations himself outside the freak show, cynical and sentimental and funny as shit.
Even as what my Yeats prof used to call a mask, however, it's been a while since any such characterization was classy enough for Tom Waits. His mask is a front. Waits demonstrates no interest in exploring the barker as a character, or the reasons an artist might put the mask on. It's just a way for him to presume an artist's objectivity and cultural prerogatives; his real personaor maybe I mean something broader, like "image"is of someone who creates fictions in a carny's voice. If this sounds hostile, I'm sorry. I think Waits is a first-rate songwriter and a one-of-a-kind performer, and I also think he's fun. But he does get a bit of a free ride, doesn't he?
Yes, his gifts are major and unconventional. He's a visionary bandleader who got a crude solidity out of obscure rock and name jazz studio cats before hitting on the Partch-Weill weirdness he's been permuting since Brennan arrived. He savors the color and concreteness of Americanese and the sound of folks who like to hear themselves talk. He gives the sense that he knows more than he's telling about the people and events he sketches. His rare live shows are funnier than shit. Mix in his anti-establishment bona fides and his freedom from self-expression and Waits can do no wrong. What exactly he has to say, or even how well he says it, is subsumed in his legendary integrity and idiosyncrasy.