I really enjoyed this. I’m a Waits fan, but not fanatic, and it’s written for people like me. Some of these biographies can be overwritten, as if it’s difficult to leave anything out, but this isn’t. Without the appendices it comes in at about 170 pages.
Here’s a few of the best bits..
..Waits mentions that the great singer Leadbelly 'died the day before I was born. I like to think I passed him in the hall and he banged into me and knocked me over.’
‘I was born at a very young age in the back seat of a yellow cab in the Murphy Hospital parking lot in Whittier, California. It's not easy for a young boy growing up in Whittier. I had to make decisions very early. First thing I did was pay, like a buck eighty-five on the meter. The only job I could land was as a labor organizer on the maternity ward for a while. I got laid off, a little disenchanted with labor.’
Copying his hero (Kerouac), the teenage Waits and a friend, tried to hitchhike out of California to see how far they could go in three days, on a weekend: They ended up stranded in a freezing Arizona small town one New Year's Eve. Broke and hungry, they found themselves ushered into the warmth of a Pentecostal church:
‘They were singing, and they had a tambourine, an electric guitar and a drummer. They were talking in tongues and then they kept gesturing to me and Sam; 'These are our wayfaring strangers here! So, we felt kind of important. And they took up a collection, gave us some money and bought us a hotel room and a meal.’
‘My Dad spent a lot of time in the bars, so I was drawn to places like that - the dark places - my Dad drank in the afternoon... the fact that I hooked into [Bukowski] was because he seemed to be a writer of the common people and street people, looking into the dark corners where no-one seems to want to go - certainly not write about. It seemed like he was the writer for the dispossessed and the people who didn't have a voice.’
..Waits was less interested in Kerouac's religiosity than his melancholy cityscapes, full of the marginal or displaced, and the teeming social life he evoked: 'impressions of America, the roar of the crowd in a bar after work, working for the railroad; living in cheap hotels; jazz'??
To an aspiring songwriter, someone so obsessed with lyrics that he'd pinned Dylan's words onto his bedroom walls, Kerouac showed how vocabulary could be like an instrument; good writing was cool and auditory.
‘Do not follow him
Just take what clues he left and with them, go and build A strange home of your own.’ Waits’s tribute following Captain Beefheart’s death.