52 Albums That Shaped My Life - #16

Tom Waits – Nighthawks at the Diner

(Asylum, 1975)

Buy the album second-hand online somewhere because I can't find a reputable place selling the damn thing any longer.

I’ve potentially broken my own rules in choosing this Waits album for the blog.  Is it technically a live album?  I would argue that in its production intent it is essentially a studio album recorded before a live audience.  But I would say that, wouldn’t I.  You and I will have to forgive me as this record NEEDS to be on the list.  Nighthawks at the Diner is a watershed moment in my cultural existence, and deserves to be discussed, criticised, and praised along with all the other albums here.  But mostly it will just be celebrated as the endearing, heart-warming, and wonderful performance it is.

Tom Waits was at the beginning of his recording career, so it might seem strange to opt for a “live” album so early on.  The difference here was that almost all the songs were original compositions written for this album.  The live setting was intended to bring out his jazz influences, and bring in the jazz fans.  Devotees of Closing Time and The Heart of Saturday Night, of which there were a handful, would have recognised Waits’ idiosyncratic tone, but may have been surprised by the humour, the stage persona, and the jazz atmosphere.  In creating this sound, producer Bones Howe was dedicated to bringing in some of jazz’s best musicians: Mike Melvoin, piano; Pete Christlieb, tenor sax; Jim Hughart, upright bass; Bill Goodwin, drums.  Waits even went to the length of writing this about them in the liner notes for the record:

I’ve had the privilege to work with some of the most creative and imaginative, leviticously duteronomous hi voltage musicians

I don’t know what he means, but it sounds pretty damn good.  The music they created together is bewildering, beautiful, and continually surprising.  Bass sounds deeper than the Mariana Trench and sax smoother than Dr. J gliding to the hoop create a disarming and charming jazz foundation over which Waits’ ramblings, croons, and asides hang like the cigarette smoke you can almost feel in the air of the club as you listen to this record.

Pulling out individual songs is a strange way to talk about an album of this sort – it’s more about how the whole experience moves you – but there are highlights worthy of note.  “Nighthawk Postcards” is a wandering lounge jazz epic in which you’ll bump into all of Waits’ knowledge, heart, obsessions, and observations.  In “Nobody” we are dealt a more sincere, Streisand-like, Tom Waits, but his gravel-raked throat lends this story of a tumultuous relationship a down-to-earth quality that draws it in line with the rest of the performance.  “Better Off Without a Wife” has more than a hint of irony to it, especially considering the number of songs Waits has written with or dedicated to his wife Kathleen Brennan, but its cliché-filled longing for male freedom shows off Waits’ incredible storytelling prowess and his under-appreciated (at least in his later career) ear for a melody.  This is sing-along song-writing and performance at its best.  As a raconteur-cum-troubadour Waits is in a class of his own, and in “On a Foggy Night” these skills are on full display.  His voice draws you in with its tuneful laziness, and is somehow able to create a mesmerising tale of being lost driving in the dark, before leaving you in a trance with its delicate repetition of the chorus.  Even “Eggs and Sausage”, a song with a delightfully irreverent chorus, becomes a touching observation of the humanity on display in society’s meeting places.

Indeed, it is Waits’ raconteur-like ability to put on display his humanity, even in persona, and his belief in the goodness of everyday people that makes his performance so enthralling.  While this record has indirectly led me to the music of Frank Zappa and Nick Cave, I’ve never felt as connected to an overt storytelling songwriter as I do with Tom Waits, and this ability to connect is no more evident than in the spoken-word/stand-up intros.  Whether it’s discussing the service in the venue or really romantic wanks, his words are inclusive and expertly gauged.  His ability to pass this all off as spontaneous stream-of-consciousness is inspirational and probably a source of embarrassment to many supposedly professional comedians.  Even when he makes jokes specific to 1970s America or even about local LA hotels and diners, his delivery ensures we all feel part of the joke, whether we get it or not.  With the line “I’m so damn horny, the crack of dawn better be careful around me… I wanna pull on your coat about something” in the opening moments of the record, Waits makes you his friend in an instant, and prepares you for the gently cutting wit that you assume must be stolen, but isn’t.  A little more than 70-minutes later, after laughing, singing, and bopping to the whole affair, Waits is confident enough to leave us with nothing more than a “thanks for coming”.  The End.