I'd like to preface this with - this isn't some "yee-haw-we-just-fucked-for-the-first-time-bubble-gum" album. This is more for after the third or fourth time... and it's going good. It's more of a "geez-I-captilulate-I-acutally-want-to-go-to-the-farmer's-market-and-art-museum-with-you-TOMORROW" album. It's heavy...I think.

Allow me to set the scene...

It's post-coitus so a dull nostalgic shit-eatin' grin is on your face. All the preliminaries are taken care of: Water? Check. Cigarettes? Check. Music?

That's when this essay pops in your head and you put on Tom Waits, the Early Years, Vol. 2.

A lonely guitar and the soft hiss of static permeates and slowly transforms your den of carnal desires into a smoke-filled speakeasy during last call. "I hope I don't fall in love with you..."

I know. It's a pretty big matzo ball, but men take risks. That's what we do. Take risks and do push-ups. Just play it cool, give your best "aww shucks" shoulder shrug and let Tom Waits do his thing, he knows exactly what he's doing and you should too.

This is the perfect song for the situation; the lyrics encapsulate the cautious optimism of a new relationship. A doleful ballad that hits and commands attention because it is so heartbreaking and holy... A hymn for the down and out, a forlorn prayer, a humble plea for just one chance:

Well the music plays and you display your heart for me to see, I had a beer and now I hear you calling out for me
Well if you sit down with this old clown, take that frown and break it, Before the evening's gone away, I think that we could make it

As a caveat, he never gets around to actually talking to her. He just sits by the bar and drinks Guiness, which is actually kind of sad mostly because I find it so relatable. But whatever, the chorus is all she's paying attention to anyway.

The transfiguration is almost complete! You're thinking "I'm fucking Tom Waits, I AM Tom Waits - This is awesome!" and she's thinking "I'm fucking Tom Waits - This is awesome!"

An impromptu high-five may ensue.

You're both going to be silently imagining meeting parents, going on vacation, etc., a montage of the perfect relationship. There won't be much talking now; words have been superseded with the tactile, the unsaid affections of the gentlest touch as she coos from the crook of your arm. Congratulations, you just leveled up buddy! And we haven't even gotten to the second song yet.

The rest of the album ambles along like a long walk home from the bar. A beat poet Buddah's Rumi-esque ruminations about mockin' birds and grapefruit moons. This is the album that banged James Taylor's girlfriend.

When the time's right tell her, "I was a roadie for Metallica on the Speed of Sound tour...bunch of assholes".

If she laughs, make her breakfast.


check it:
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