Tom Waits is another of those artists where I figured I knew what they were about and never really bothered to plumb the depths. Well, lets start plumbing, with this album, named the 2nd greatest of all time by an oddly aggressively non-conformist Spin list.
Here's where, I'm told, the hen-legged hut-lurching music machine got rollicking, and its wheezier and creakier than ever after here, sounding recorded on a concrete floor by men crusted from toils in dirty days. The tales are stark, the instrumentation wildly varied while within a particular threadbare spectrum but there's a simplicity to the tales, edges stained dark without sinking into inky pitifulness. The thinness of the mix, the harshness of the space, the tautness left in Wait's signature croak, make it more enjoyable than I expected, will need to revisit when I've (re)visited some of his other stuff on a kick that might be upcoming 3.5/5
You might like this if: if you like ramshackle, lurching rock, with leathery edges and a charcoal heart, sounding like a wasted, undead Aeroplane Over the Sea, just to retrofit the lineage.
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