MAGIC MONGREL

For many years I had a deeply ambivalent relationship with Tom Waits. Beat Generation revivalist or Carny huckster? Jazzbo pretender or theatrical joker? The moment of revelation—conversion, even—came from an unlikely source.

In 1988 A&M Records released a fascinating compilation entitled Stay Awake: Various Interpretations of Music from Vintage Disney Films. Amongst left-field gems from Sun Ra and Sinéad O’Connor, Tom Waits weighed in with a rip-snorting version of "Heigh Ho (The Dwarfs Marching Song)" from Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs. Imagine Quasimodo’s barbershop quartet performing in a foundry; it was like nothing this side the Tropic of Sanity. As I stomped around the room heigh-ho-ing with gusto I realised, grinning from ear to ear, that Tom Waits was in fact all those characters mentioned earlier. And all are on display on Rain Dogs, his eccentric 1985 triumph.

Opening with "Singapore", a song that sees a vocal combo getting drunk in a seedy South East Asian bar, things become both stranger and more familiar on "Clap Hands". The marimba (played by esteemed percussionist Bobby Previte) and rolling basso profundo drums underpin a hummable tune. Then guitarist Marc Ribot leaps in with a thrillingly deranged solo and you are grinning again. That is the joy and wonder of Rain Dogs. Elegant tunes are dressed in Op Shop rags, memorable melodies are assaulted by junkyard percussion. Meanwhile Ribot’s jagged guitar lines cut like a saw-tooth blade, paradoxically grounding the music in a pleasantly unsettling way. Oh, our ears say, hear the guitars? This must be rock music… though certainly not as we know it. Pounding polkas, terrifying tangos, a twisted calypso tune, a brief spoken word piece, even a couple of short instrumentals. This rain dog is a damp but magic mongrel whose snarl offers a rasping welcome to strange and vivid world.

Through it all runs the woozy story-telling of Tom himself; a gravel throated warbler of twisted fairytales and cautionary capers. "Diamonds and Gold" is a fine example, a triple time song sweetened by some gentle Ribot guitar. That this is followed by one of the most straightforward songs on the LP, "Hang Down Your Head," is a kind of relief, an exhalation reinforced by the lilting "Time" that ends side one.

Speaking of accessible songs, Rain Dogs also includes the sublime "Downtown Train", later covered by Rod Stewart. That’s the thing about Waits: you have to mine the tunes, dig for the brilliance, sweep away the rust and dust to reveal the glint of rough diamonds. "Union Square" sounds like nothing so much as a rockin’ party thrown by Bruce Springsteen’s disreputable uncle, but I bet you’ll want to hear it again immediately, especially when I tell you that the deliciously ragged guitar part is provided by Keith Richards.

Given the nineteen tracks and fifty-four minutes encased by these grooves, there is certainly spadework to be done, but it is worth the effort. In fact I would suggest that entering this clanking, grubby, subterranean world is not a descent into darkness but a winding passageway through which to wind our way before emerging, startled but renewed, into sunlight that sparkles just that bit brighter than it did before. Don’t be surprised if you find yourself rummaging in the garage for a hammer and an old piece of steel pipe so you can clang along with the next spin of the record. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, Tom Waits, he knows.

© Bruce Jenkins—November 2023