So, here's the question: how do you go from James Taylor comparisons to being mentioned in the same breath as weirdos Harry Partch, Captain Beefheart and William S. Burroughs? And the answer is: I don't know. Ask Tom Waits. He'd probably tip his hat back, mumble some lengthy convoluted story about how he was born in the back of a cab, and go straight into how he was hired for his first paying gig based solely on the shoes he was wearing. After which, he'll most likely break into a wide, toothy grin, scoop up some confetti from his coat pocket and sprinkle it over his head before he vanishes in a cloud of sawdust and smoke.
Back before his days as demented carnival barker and the macabre stories of butchers, German dwarves and the Eyeball Kid, Tom Waits was plying his craft as a gravel voiced faux-beat singer plink-plonking his way around a piano and writing songs about hookers, hobos and gangsters. Come to think of it, Waits has been dancing around the same ideas, updating variations on the same characters in his own twisted, offbeat mythologies since the mid-70s. It's just that when 1983 and Swordfishtrombones rolled around the songs transformed into something much more carnival-esque, while the music drifted into the sphere of Partch-like percussion and disjointed guitar riffs.
Up to that point, he'd (for the most part) been working with mainly conventional melodies and dipping his fingers into folk, rock and jazz. During that early time, he had a musical persona that was street-smart swagger mixed with affection for all the losers and down-and-outs. Throughout three decades of writing songs, he's always been in touch with society's seedy underbelly, reserving a place in his songs for the downtrodden and the beat. Whether you belong to an underground civilization of dwarves or you're a down-on-his-luck bum sitting in a puddle of rain, you've got a place in Waits' world.
What with the drastic musical makeover and label jump in the 80s, a distinctive line was drawn between the later work and the 70s stuff. Ask pretty much any longtime Waits fan what their favorite album is and they might just give you two: one from his early drunken-lounge-singer years and one from his post-1983-metamorphosis into ghoulish Vaudevillian ringleader. All this shifting and change makes it frustratingly impossible to put together a career-spanning single disc retrospective, so what Rhino and Mr. Waits have put together instead is a hodgepodge of tracks from the Elektra/Asylum years.
Enough with the introduction, then. Let's get to the meat of the matter. What's the track selection like? Are there rarities? Outtakes and demos? Live obscurities? Well, as the title suggests, Used Songs is an assortment of 16 tracks spanning from Waits' first album, Closing Time, to 1980's Heartattack and Vine. Everything that's to be had here is available on the official releases from the period and much of it's been collected previously on two separate anthologies. So everyone out there holding their breath for unreleased tracks and live-only gems like "Hokey Pokey" and "Trash Day" can keep their fingers crossed for next time.
What's obvious on first glance at the song selection is the lack of very early material. Only three tracks from the first three albums appear, while the later albums often get three or four tracks apiece. "Ol' 55," made famous by the Eagles, is the only track on here from Closing Time and it's drastically different than anything else, even though it might be the most recognizable to the Waits novice. It captures Waits in his early years, his voice still smooth, and the comparisons to James Taylor and the singer/songwriters of the period still apt.
By the time he'd recorded the rambling small-town beauty of "(Looking for) The Heart of Saturday Night" Waits' voice was already exhibiting signs of the gravel voice that would become so signature to his later sound. The only live track available here is from Nighthawks at the Diner, the in-studio recording documenting Waits' inclination to rambling offbeat stories, which eventually segue into tracks like "Eggs and Sausage (In a Cadillac with Susan Michelson)."
And then, somewhere around 1976, Waits found a new distinctive voice that blended the sprawling myths of American culture and city life with the poetry and swagger of beats like Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady. If you add to the mix his ability to turn a line, an offbeat sense of humor and an increasing musical vocabulary, the result was something completely enchanting. Tracks like the Elvis-inspired strut of "Burma Shave" or the heartbreaking pair "Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis" and "Blue Valentines" are windows into American life akin to the heartbreak, desolation and simple warmth of an Edward Hopper painting. In the jazz-poetry goof on the sleazy-salesman's "Step Right Up," Waits spits out a sequence of hilarious one-liners: "It gives you an erection/ It wins the election" or "Change your shorts/ Change your life/ Change your life/ Change into a nine-year old Hindu boy/ Get rid of your wife."
An odd inclusion here is the duet with Bette Midler, "I Never Talk to Strangers," from 1977's Foreign Affairs. The track itself is a pretty standard jazz duet, with banter between the two singers exchanged throughout. Even though they're not included here, Waits went on to offer much more successful duets on record, with Crystal Gayle (an even odder choice?) on the soundtrack to One from the Heart. By the time Waits recorded his last album for Asylum in 1980 (Heartattack and Vine), rock was his primary musical influence and he'd almost abandoned the neo-beat persona completely. Bruce Springsteen would later take the sha-la-la's and tenderness of "Jersey Girl" and turn them into a hit. Notice the trend in artists turning Waits-penned tunes into hits.
"Tom Traubert's Blues (Four Sheets to the Wind in Copenhagen)" closes the disc. Taken from 1976's Small Change, it's the perfect closer to the album and, in my opinion, the best track available here. A downtrodden tale full of woe and misfortune, it's one of those tracks that puts you right on the barstool, fifth beer in front of you-- a portrait of loneliness and bleakness. It's a harrowing romance from probably the greatest album of Waits' early years, which brings me to my problem with the collection.
Small Change is sadly under-represented here, with only the amazing "Step Right Up" and "Tom Traubert's Blues" on the roll call. So, my only complaint about this record is the questionable absence of the gorgeous "Invitation to the Blues." Other than that and some near-clunkers ("I Never Talk to Strangers"), Used Songs is an exceptional gathering of Waits' material.
But I guess the question remains: is the compilation worth the investment? Well, for Waits beginners, this and the recently compiled Beautiful Maladies are perfect launching points into both eras of his career. Sadly, these are only temporary fixes. It'll just make most people clamber for albums like Small Change and Blue Valentines or Rain Dogs and Bone Machine. But, for me and fellow collector scum, sets like this serve as additions to a completists' collection. Finally, though, these two anthologies make it painfully obvious that if anyone at all deserves the box set treatment (outtakes, demos, live cuts and unreleased nuggets like "Alice"), Mr. Waits is easily the number one contender.
