Tom Waits – One From the Heart

I have a funeral to attend tomorrow and I’m drunk, so who gives a shit. Nick Cave attributed to Tommy dub what he called “saldage”, or the apparently Portuguese way of meaning abstract sadness. And Senor Waits is all about sadness. My dad called her a “feisty old broad”, for instance. This is a movie soundtrack or something, but it fits into the motifs pretty well except for all the female vocal on like a third of the songs. “She’s got big plans / That don’t include you / Take it like a man.” It’s harsh bullshit. Life is full of it. We think we’re important but we’re not. There isn’t enough here. There isn’t enough within us. Tom Waits is the last shot of whiskey at the end of the night that calls for three shots. I spend half of my masturbation time thinking about threesomes, and the last time I had one I ran my mouth so stupidly my girlfriend only wants to do it again with an escort. But I don’t want to pay for sex, because I like donating blood. It makes me feel like I’m helping people, but however many people I ask they don’t tell me if I am or not.

This one’s from the heart but T-dub albums have always been about assuming the heart and speaking from that presumed position. So there’s no pathos, nor any bathos. The latter’s good, Tom’s not about bathos or some such shit, but it’s hard to judge meaning from a soundtrack. Who cares and Jew cares and all that. I’m going to be hungover for my pallbearing and it’s okay. The world is remarkably consistent, in line with the laws of physics. This album’s underwhelming but it has its moments and keeps to theme. “Old Boyfriends” is a brilliant run-through of a woman’s thoughts about her old exes. I need to write my last ex. My message would go like this:

“You need to invite me to your wedding. To not do so is an insult to the dignity of the music. I’m trying to get a book published. How are you?”

I should send it. Maybe I will. Stubbornness is the worst kind of pride but it sticks to your insides and make you feel self-respected. This is just a bunch of Waitsy showtunes, but filtered through a prism of showy sadness. Some people seem to work best under put-on circumstances, and Tom seems to be among them. That’s okay, but significantly sad. When we love somebody’s work we want to know them seriously, and we don’t get to with Tom. There’s some filler here; there’s some nonsense here. It sounds from the heart, but that’s how something honestly meant would sound.

Tom Waits is a goddess and I don’t mean to speak otherwise. I’m sad. Tomorrow I funeral and I Shiva, which is a Jewish wake, not the Hindu God of war even if it’s spelled the same. Then I have a job interview Monday morning, so I don’t get to wake too hard. Gotta get down with it. Tom understands but he has his own problems. I don’t believe that songs are just songs; music has formed the path to and through everything I’ve ever felt, from first love to my mother’s death to everything between. I love love music and I hope I will until I die. This is good, not great. This commiserates but doesn’t walk. Tom, this is a movie soundtrack. Or a play. Something. I love Gilleen. I do, I admit, think other girls are hot. That’s how it is; she probably thinks other men are hot. Hotness is non-exclusive and we’d be foolish to pretend it is. Not going to lie, I’d like to stick my penis is a couple of those other hot people. That doesn’t affect that I love Gilleen. And I know she’ll be pissed that I wrote as much, but I didn’t write about love because she should know I love her. I love her to death. I love love love her. I love her. Love of a love of a love. I love her tits and personality and ass. I’m a jerk-off and a hard “man” to compile. What are we going to do? I’d be sexually open if I wasn’t a head case. I think that’s what I am. An enlightened man in the man of a troglodyte. Life is a hard thing to compile. Like defragmenting an impossibly large hard drive. Something not the soundtrack of something real, and that affects it. I didn’t say enough about why “Small Change” is so wonderful. This is just there. There is good. But it’s just there. And it’s just good.



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