"I never told the truth so I can never tell a lie."

I have never reached for a Tom Waits album in good spirits. I never thought, “Hey, I feel like getting funky. Put on that “Waltzing Matilda” so I can wag my pointed finger in the air.

Nope. Tom Waits is something to listen to whenever my soul is more funk than funky. When my hopes have been snagged by a three-pronged fish hook - it hurts when I bite it; it hurts even worse when I try to dislodge it. This is when I listen to Tom Waits - when I’m dragging myself along some river bed.

And there he was - Tom’s shadow personifying this fear against the theatre curtain. Stark in its light. Grief articulated in the gravel road of his larynx. His mannerisms are ravenesque. Legs kicking, scratching the stage floor. The angle of his head, the crook of his widespread arms - listening and searching for life underground.

His humor is disarming. He’s like the uncle your family doesn’t approve of…I want to sit on his lap, listen to stories of wigs and bums and pizzle dog treats. Maybe he will bring out some of his crazy toys, his bull horns and optical novelties. He drinks coffee (Or is it whiskey? Or motor oil?) between sets. Witnessing his show that comes around as often as some comet was “like giving a cigar to a five-year old. I turned blue, and I cried.”

Read the Louisville Courier-Journal review here.