Live Review: Tom Waits

Tom Waits
Ohio Theatre
Columbus, OH
June 28, 2008






This past weekend I traveled nearly 600 miles to the capital of Ohio to see the legendary Tom Waits perform one of his few dates on the Glitter and Doom Tour. It's not unreasonable to assume that Mr. Waits revels in the opportunity to create adventures for his notoriously passionate fan base, as my friends and I came across people who had come from as far as Australia to catch this show. Not many performances are worthy of the 600 miles I traveled, but Tom Waits certainly justified my expenses and the mind-numbing 6 hours in a car along the excruciatingly straight I-70 between Pittsburgh and Columbus.

Ohio Theatre is an old cinema converted into a Spanish baroque performance theater, holding around 2,000 people (the smallest venue on the short tour, mind you). Such breathtaking architecture combined with an intimate, not-a-bad-seat-in-the-house feel was all too fitting for something like a Tom Waits performance.

As soon as the lights dimmed, the audience shot out of their seats for an ovation, and all eyes were fixed upon the legend himself as he trotted onto the stage and acknowledged the crowd with a tip of his signature bowler hat and a wave of his fingers with arms outstretched in front of him. After stepping up onto his mid-stage circular platform, the band immediately began the bluesy "Lucinda" and Waits stomped the ground beneath him, kicking up clouds of powder while he chanted a syncopated "ha-hoo," as if he were stomping and shouting his way through a back-breaking day on the chain gang line. Invoking the spirit of pre-rock folk and blues, Waits interspersed Leadbelly's classic "Ain't Goin' Down to the Well" with "Lucinda" to create a gritty medley of two of songs which sound the most like the early Deep South field recordings of Alan Lomax.

Following this song, the crowd continued its ovation and anxiously awaited the identification of the next song. This trend recurred after each song, with the residual "Woo!" of excitement being shouted once an individual fan had identified the song that was starting. Not surprisingly, each song was met with deafening applause -- a cliché phrase, indeed, but one which I've come to fully appreciate after being at this show.

On fan-favorite "Chocolate Jesus," Waits sported a megaphone to deliver the chuckle-inducing, tongue-in-cheek tune about the consumption of a chocolate treat in place of the normal means of salvation. A heartbreaking classical guitar intro to the solemn "All the World is Green" showcased guitarist Omar Torrez's Latin-influenced skills, quelling fears that he could not successfully replace long-time Waits collaborator and famed guitarist Marc Ribot.

Waits introduced the Vaudevillian "Cemetery Polka" as a song about everyone's family reunion, acting out a reluctant participant gossiping and sneering at family members entering the room ("There's Vernon -- don't look. There's Edna -- don't look...") before jumping immediately into the jangly, rickety song; grinning widely and accentuating the junkyard ringleader persona he formulated with the recording of 1985's critically-acclaimed Rain Dogs.

Waits continued to growl, howl, shout, and croon his way through the songs, using every limb of his body as an instrument -- stomping like a wild bluesman on the powdery floor; using his over-sized boots to kick makeshift bells and gongs laid out on the floor beside him; and dangling and flailing his long arms about while conducting his junkyard orchestra. The band closed out the first portion of the set with the clattering Waitsian tango "Hoist that Rag," featuring a searing Latin guitar solo from Torrez (though it could not rival the original one recorded by Ribot for its studio version on 2004's Real Gone).

Following "Hoist," the band exited the stage, leaving Mr. Waits alone at a grand piano with a single spotlight fixed upon him. In this piano segment of the performance, Waits combined his Nighthawks-era nightclub pianist/humorist persona with the aged, world-weary balladeer of his recent material. Between the songs in this segment, he delivered his usual dose of surrealist humor accompanied by improvised piano playing, as well as his hilarious running down a list of the State of Oklahoma's absurd blue laws ("It's illegal to photograph rabbits during the week"). Delivering on the promise of some truly touching moments with this segment though, Waits performed a stripped-down version of the theatrical "Lucky Day," as well as a moving rendition of "Innocent When You Dream" that concluded with the entire audience acting as a barroom choir, singing loudly and in unison along with Mr. Waits for the final choruses of the song. The intimate side of Tom Waits was fully on display during this segment, as the crowd was so pin-drop silent you could hear him taking a breath or two between verses, or hear the sound of his piano bench creaking with each and every bodily sway or foot tap.

Returning to the full band arrangements, Waits and Co. played a Nick Cave-like, brooding version of the rhythm-and-blues "Lie to Me," followed by the humorous yet misanthropic "Misery is the River of the World," in which Waits called upon the audience to shout "Everybody row!" as he rowed with imaginary oars behind the microphone stand. Rounding out the main set was a shuffling and sobering version of "Dirt in the Ground" that recalled the great crooners of the 40s, followed by the busted-love "Make it Rain," in which a broken Waits ranted and pleaded with God to make it rain, as confetti poured down from above him with the final chanting of the titular line. With a tip of the hat and his fingers waving out in front of him, Waits exited the stage after introducing the band members and allowing them to jam out for a minute or two following his departure.

The applause was immense following this, as people were stomping and clapping wildly in the hopes of coaxing Waits to come out sooner for an encore. Within only a few short minutes, Waits and his band returned to the stage for an encore including "Jesus Gonna Be Here" followed by a new arrangement of "Eyeball Kid" -- the metaphorical tale of a hideous freak-show child exploited by everyone he knows. During "Kid," Waits donned a disco-ball bowler hat and, during the song's interludes, spun around deliberately and slowly beneath the spotlight, shining light all throughout the theater. After Waits told the somber story of an abandoned home with "House Where Nobody Lives," he once again exited the stage, and the roaring and stomping commenced all over again -- pleading with Waits to come out and continue this show for just a little bit longer.

For the first time on the Glitter and Doom Tour, Waits returned for a second encore, and appeared quite sincere with his thanks for the sustained applause, and then played the classic acoustic-driven "Time," which felt like the most fitting way to end such a perfect evening. Waits thanked the crowd multiple times, and tipped his hat like a true gentleman, walking off the stage for the final time and concluding what was one the better set lists of the tour thus far.

It is no exaggeration when I say that this was the best all-around concert experience I've ever had. Every aspect of the show -- from the lighting, to the stage decor (old instruments strewn about and a structure made of copper wire and old phonograph speakers), to Waits' gestures and idiosyncratic movements, to the music itself -- acted as an integral part of the full Tom Waits experience. Recalling the best of pre-rock music, 40s and 50s nightclub acts, Vaudeville, Depression-era folk, and post-apocalyptic circuses, Waits is a true entertainer with one of the most unforgettable personalities of any songwriter of the past century. It was an absolute pleasure to be a part of his Columbus performance and to witness such a unique and brilliant songwriter act out the legendary part he has written for himself over the past 35 years.

As Waits sang during "Falling Down" that evening, "I've come 500 miles just to see your halo," unknowingly describing the distance that many of the attendees had traveled in order to see a true musical legend perform -- a legend whose music has served as a source of sincerity, intelligence, and poetic candidness in an increasingly shallow music world, as well as an escape through fantastic, oftentimes demented fairy tales and stories of downtrodden nightlife characters.

At 58 years old, Mr. Waits is like the finest of wines, growing better with age and fulfilling his role as a maverick songwriter who never needed commercial success to affirm his brilliance. Such a songwriter and performer is worthy of the travel and expenses the crowd had invested in order to attend this show. After this past weekend's experiences, I feel that my friend's post-show assessment is the best way to sum things up: "There will never be anything else in the world like Tom Waits."