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.
