I’ve been meaning to write something about Tom Waits.
I’ve even been preparing something in my head. But it’s still too big of a subject for me to tackle. Tom Waits represents just about everything to me: talk about a life-changing artist. For me, anyway. Sheesh. From getting turned on to Nighthawks at the Diner and Bukowski by high school dropout Ryan Rossi one summer, and then going off to spend a semester abroad and picking up tapes of The Heart of Saturday Night and Swordfishtrombones in foreign record stores. And then coming back to the States and fully embracing the ragged hobo Americanness of Waits’ entire seventies catalog and image, from which by that time he had already fully distanced himself. I could write a whole fucking memoir about my relationship with Tom Waits.
So instead, I write nothing.