an ode
 

"The face forgives the mirror
The worm forgives the plow
The question begs the answer
Can you forgive me somehow?
Maybe when our story's over
We'll go where it's always spring
The band is playing our song again
And all the world is green." -TW



Brian Baker + other critics
Tom Waits long ago transcended the ability to objectively judge his work utilizing any of the critical criteria that can be used to compare and contrast similarly toned artists and material. Waits has become so singular in his output that it seems he can really only be measured against his own previous accomplishments. With the dual release of Blood Money and Alice, Waits stacks up against himself effortlessly.


Think lullabies, funeral dirges, gothic gospels and anachronistic operas.

While Alice moves through spatial netherworlds, Blood Money is firmly planted in the bowels of existence.


The songs of Alice are slow, sublime nursery rhymes sung as if Alice in Wonderland were taken out of context and performed on Quaaludes instead of hallucinogens.

Tom Waits' music is theatrical by its very nature. Played out before a woozy panorama of junkyards, tramp bars, farms and carnivals, his songs tell common stories in uncommon language. His characters, somewhere between sideshow freak and revival preacher, are amplified by the grizzled megaphone of Waits' voice.

As his voice has gone beyond gravelly and slowly become some force of nature, alternately blustering and rattling with buckshot, then whispering like a ghost, it has become banal to say that Tom Waits' voice is an acquired taste. It's way beyond that now. You either love it or you hate it, but you can't place a value judgment on it any more than you can on a thunderstorm or a flood - it's here and it's gonna do whatever it damn well pleases.