The Man In Charge Of The Broken Circus

I wanted to take a small break from the woes and wisdom of the Rusted Sun Films DVD/Independent movement struggle... and share with you a bright shining moment that had taken place exactly one week ago.

Let's just start this whimsical little conversation with a short statement of fact. Tom Waits is an eclectic talent that is either loved in the extreme measures that are usually reserved for those celebrities that grace the cover of grocery aisle magazines -OR- he is despised by the types that prefer to learn about "music" through a weeknight telecast of American 'Idle'.
Okay, are you with me? On the same page? Good. Now sit down with a tin cup, a bottle of whiskey, and I'll relay the story of a heat-dipped Memphis night that melted down the glass and steel like the fires of the underworld had clawed it's way through the pavement. Hell had not frozen over... the broken carnival of Tom Waits just remembered a spot on the side of the highway where they left a baby. That little child had been raised by wolves and waited for the return of his brethren... finally they had returned. (Christine had also decidedly taken a 'perhaps misguided' opportunity to return to Memph-o for the show. I suppose that was an added bonus for me).
On Friday August 4th, the long awaited reappearance of a minstrel in scare-crow form stretched an ominous shadow across a cemetery drape stage curtain. The hanging arms were raised through a tidal wave of glorious screams and chants that easily could have been mistaken for a locomotive attempting to stop on a dime. Dressed in what would have appeared to be "grave-digging-attire" Tom grabbed the microphone and growled through an opening rendition of Singapore. The mad-capped night had begin to sling sweat like a Filipino hooker dancing for her next John. A smile stretched so far across my skull that I was certain my teeth would rocket out of my head like poison darts into the backs of necks of the sonic-shaken fans seated directly infront of me.
The Orpheum was a can of Albacore Tuna in oil. Everything seemed to slip and slide through familiar songs of Tom Waits yore as well as a fist full of rumbled tunes from his latest album, REAL GONE. At a spot set aside for breathing room, Tom turned to the knights keeping musical vigilance just behind the brim of his bent and busted hat and with the wink of an eye, the troupe took leave stage left. As they slowly melted into the blood red curtains they left a void. It was an awkward moment that seemed to mimic the silence just before a junkyard dog viciously attacks. The dark empty spaces were only to be replaced by a piano that received an overzealous series of wall rumbling wails... rivaling that to the monstrous human chorus that greeted Tom, himself.
Tom tinkled through a few stories, switched his gravel chewed voice from 4-wheel drive to a soft and subtle 1st gear... either that or decided to take a half rusted muffler from an old Dodge Rambler and attached with duct tape to his vocal chords.
For some it marked the memories of a familiar bartop setting... a stretch back to the piano ballad past that Tom was most known for. Instead of the Cuban shouts and hacks of a literal blues explosion, they could slide headfirst into fond memories of strings, sad piano swoons, and blurred midnight drunks. I truly believe that the asshole next to me needed this little interlude. There were a couple of body odorous Midtown hippies that needed to get up and leave a few of times during the show. The seating in the Orpheum does not leave any room for such antics. Now, when one has to visit the lavatory or perhaps quickly run up/down a flight of antique carpeted stairs for another Jack and Coke, the entire aisle has to raise from their seats so that said person(s) can follow their desire. The man seated one over from my left (next to Christine) became vocally agitated with these two individuals and (I believe) threatened to crush their skulls. It was getting out of hand, even for a bearded self-obsessed prick. I do remember at one point that the man stated, "I paid 77 Dollars a piece for these tickets." Yeah, so did everyone else. I would have given you 10 Dollars to shut the f#({ up.
Anyway...
The night poured on, the piano took a bow and the band returned for a continued stomp through the tales of greasy spoons and the eternal search for a truly bad cup of coffee. Eventually, Tom took his leave... a small teasing moment of pleasure just before an encore return. However, his son, Casey Waits, who had been clamoring behind the drums all night did not return. I suspect that it has something to do with the song just before they left the stage. It appeared that the young Mr. Waits jumped the gun on a return during GOIN' OUT WEST. I was seated in the balcony and I could tell that it caught 'ol pa's attention.
So they finished up the two hour night with a ten minute version of SINS OF THE FATHER took off his hat, smiled a devilish smile, wiggled a finger or two, and left his screaming fans dearly desiring more.
The young boy sat in the crowd, fighting tears. His family had come home... but only for a short time. After all of the clank, boom, and steam he had found that he wasn't left by mistake. He was a gift from those that felt it necessary to share their vision with the world. His mission was to spread the word, to share the misadventure, and to bring us all into salvation. It was a big hat to fill. He remembered the fateful words shared on stage, "We'll do this again... We'll definitely do something again. But like I told you last time... save your money." And with that, the tears dried, a smile returned... and the adventure continues

-B