Tom Waits story
TOM WAITS…MOVEMENT IN TIME; Lady in waiting takes on a different spin of romance, weighted in ponder. Bare-keep somber in her waiting hours for musician singer song writer, Tom Waits. — As classy, the lady, too the bar stool. Seated for one in an early day opener, and what is in store the hour. —As unsure as the dense fog…and the look-out a tavern front panned window perceives of a dark coat——back of a stranger. Droop soggy hatted…in a mad sense and feel to his slow step—-while distancing further and further of what entails from the very grasps of a mystery meeting. ‘‘Is it real or is it just wishful thinking?’’ ‘‘Could this just be a mirage in metaphor of it’s movements in time?’’
Lady Burgundy is contemplative, yet not disillusioned . Sits comfortably in stool spin of mind. Burgundy styled dress. Hair cut short, but exceptionally pretty. Slowly she tilts her glass. Then a sip of red burgundy calm liquid favors—-while the black-tie bartender kindly asks as he pure her another; and as she tastes to the bottom of the wine glass—-all along the empties of rows of bar stools and lavishes…a small case sits beside her; and to all her well wishers before the happy hour—-as right until the comings and goings of the night are still young: As it is really about the music. Her name is simply Anna. A flutist with an impromptu mystery meeting…tentatively with Tom Waits. Precision be her grace. Toasts and sips for one, in the quiet moments of alone time playing out in her mind, and of her modes. Her feel for her instrument of her own band of courting time; as the ‘‘Dark Coat Stranger’’ is a mere figment. He must be. A play-act uncertain of daydream and fear. Mr. Waits is the driving force behind what is illusion…and what’s real; as the hour closes in one into the other; Anna looks at all the photos hanging up high on the tavern walls. Lester Young and jazzest Art Tatum…and the well revered look of Tom Waits. Eminence brand of know-how and visceral take as if staring right through her; and at that very moment, he is there in the flesh—-and very real!
Anna looks at Tom with a first sign of gesture and speak: Explaining how much she would love to audition for the band…and how she is not in any way any sort of ‘‘Lady in Waiting’’ Not for her man or any man at that, as she is happily married to her music; and how she adores Tom’s sound and musical experimentation.
‘‘Open up your case and play me something’’ He says… She abides and begins to perform a piece which is very much to the styling that Tom uses… & Waits.
Next, a jelly roll smile. Tom’s dash downtown grins…as he straps his guitar and sings, the chemistry between them is nothing short of sensational. Then next, Tom says to ANNA: ‘‘Lets rehearse’’ ‘‘ i will show you everything we will play for this evening’’ And with full leg-out and arms reached to the advent of the musical event, know-how and experimental blends and sounds—-jump out at the audience! Then Tom confesses to Anna that he was by the bar when it opened…and saw her sitting by herself; as he was indeed the man in ‘‘The Black Coat’’ Out in the opaques and fog’s of early morning…slow strut and observing cool and surreal. This mystery dry form to soggy, as his hat is proudly lowered to the applauds from the crowd…and from Anna too.
Cigarettes burn to a rye storm of magic this night. A real crowd pleas-er too the raise of a glass and toast to a bright future along-side, ‘‘The Burgundy Lady’’ Not in waiting but in the playing…and what an act it truly is. An original at a glance and uniquely drawn man of old word knowledge and trusts. In a tin-cup style of performer Tom Waits…Wool wind burrows…no haver’ cup. Tom Waits song man as he sees it…writes it; and sings of it to the austere of our times…as the past melds with the futures’ sounds…and of the back -runs, in all the empties of ones lives, dreams and of the lost souls seeking to find love. As to Tom Waits famous ‘‘Looking for the heart of Saturday night’’ The opening of doors towards these long writ—-avenues. All to the dead-like city blocks. Beggar leak over a burrow bridge. Home vandals and invented crooks. Sorry eyed looks—wit copper wire end smiles —-too an open city house—-and too all the fryer pan alleys of ‘‘Trombones’’ New blends of metaphor mix in—wool wind burrows…No haver’ cup. Tin cup sorrows of the crumbs on salvages…pennies pitched in the opaques of cold weather re-frames. Bonfire lifts and spirited of the have and have not’s. Tom Waits styling of his own uniqueness bring forth the cutting edge and the new groups of sound that mesh all the blends of life’s misfortunes. Misanthropes in his own brand vocal of drowns.
‘‘Waltzing Matilda’’ rendition and scoped like nobodies business but his own.
Old man sits cozy his rocking chair in a mid-twentieth century setting. Rocks along quite calmly taking in the back-door view of the paire and small town circles of friends…life’s circuses and tends. All in his mind’s eye. His old and slowly torn-down house in the callous of all the years. Yet his love for the words and meanings of Tom Waits…and his songs hold true to him. From his youth and now in old age. So as his house continue to crumble and break down along with this protagonist unsettled score of himself; the soothes of a Waits song as he hears of himself loud and clear. Wind scatter the storm of age…and of life. Mind bends to the locality of a common man. Alone and ends of the ties of days. REASON? And of it all!
‘Leave the bottle…so says the proverbial sad eyed to the barkeep. An allocation at every bar stool and tappy…as Tom Waits so eloquently derives: Wrapping up of the niter. ‘‘Looking for the heart of Saturday night’’ Sundays wee hour needs memoirs in song. Lacks and loss of loves over the years left in the distant ways…and to once so empowered in the brashness of youth.
Old man sits and thinks, as Tom Waits writes and sing it all so real—-and so right every time.
O