Thursday, May 11, 2017

Noirsville Tune of the Week

From The New Yorker

The voice and times of Tom Waits.
By Sasha Frere-Jones

There is a cliché about Tom Waits, or, as he described it to me, an “oversimplification.” In his words, the received version is that he “growls about booze and gargles with nails and screws.” In keeping with this perception, an affectionate illustration called “Visible Tom Waits,” by the artist Jim Lockey, was posted on Tumblr about a month ago. Waits’s body, with fedora, is depicted in cross-section, like a scientific chart, with his brain tagged “Here be monsters,” his throat filled with sandpaper and “gravel & spiders,” and his lungs noted simply as the location of the furnace. read more: The New Yorker - Gravel Pit

Medley (Jack & Neal , California & Here I come)

jack was sittin poker faced with bullets backed with bitches
neal hunched at the wheel puttin everyone in stiches
braggin bout this nurse he screwed while drivin through nebraska
and when she came she honked the horn and neal just barely missed a
truck and then he asked her if she'd like to come like that to californy
see a red head in a uniform will always get you horny
with her hairnet and those white shoes and a name tag and a hat
she drove like andy granatelli and knew how to fix a flat
and jack was almost at the bottom of his md 2020 neal was yellin
out the window tryin to buy some bennies from a lincoln
full of mexicans whose left rear tire blowed and the sonsobitches
prit near almost ran off the road

well the nurse had spilled the manoshevitz all up and down her dress
then she lit the map on fire neal just had to guess
should we try and find a bootleg route or a fillin station open
the nurse was dumpin out her purse lookin for an envelope and
jack was out of cigarettes we crossed the yellow line
the gas pumps looked like tombstones from here
felt lonelier than a parking lot when the last car pulls away
and the moonlight dressed the double breasted foothills
in the mirror weaving outa negligee and a black brassiere
the mercury was runnin hot and almost out of gas
just then florence nightingale dropped her drawers and
stuck her fat ass half way out of the window with a
wilson pickett tune
and shouted get a load of this and gave the finger to the moon

countin one eyed jacks and whistling dixie in the car
neal was doin least a hundred when we saw a fallin star
florence wished that neal would hold her stead of chewin
his cigar jack was noddin out and dreamin he was in a bar
with charlie parker on the bandstand not a worry in the world
and a glass of beer in one hand and his arm around a girl
and neal was singin to the nurse
underneath a harlem moon
and somehow you could just tell we'd be in california soon

Open up your golden gates
California here I come
I said California here I come
Look out California here I come

No comments:

Post a Comment