An Old Clotheshorse Like Myself: Down At The Tropicana

My Gravelly Voice

There's no one really in show business in my family but there were two relatives who had an effect on me very young and shaped me in some way. They were Uncle Vernon and Uncle Robert. I always hated the sound of my voice when I was a kid. I always wanted to sound more like my Uncle Vernon, who had a raspy, gravelly voice. Everything Uncle Vernon said sounded important, and you always got it the first time because you wouldn't dare ask him to repeat it.Eventually, I learned that Uncle Vernon had had a throat operation as a kid and the doctors had left behind a small pair of scissors and gauze when they closed him up. Years later at Christmas dinner, Uncle Vernon started to choke while trying to dislodge an errant string bean, and he coughed up the gauze and the scissors. That's how Uncle Vernon got his voice, and that's how I got mine

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Down At The Tropicana

Thing is, we are down at the Tropicana.

Rikki is in the background,

soon to take the foreground.

What a vagabond.

Singing 'Easy Money' at The Troubadour

gotta ask yourself, what for?

Some romantic dreamer

stuck in the wrong time zone.

Gotta buy a pair of high heels

falling off your shoes in low style

Santa Monica Boulevard

looking like a little girl.

I wish I was in New Orleans

stealing my own car

with a beret and a mojo

taking it all too far.

Just swimming and imagining

feeling like a movie star

Little Amy playing pi-an-o

singing Wish Upon A Star.

Walking round the same streets

jazz side of life.

I really am that girl.

I'm really not that wife.

Young blood and coolsville

Chuck. E.'s out of love

lost in the bullshit

swallowed up in drugs.

Filling in the darkness

L.A. streets at night

things I saw as a little girl

empty and quiet.

Life, so serious

and hard

and cruel.

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"On Sundays, we'd always visit Uncle Robert, who was the organist at a methodist church in La Verne, California. Uncle Robert had a pipe organ in his house that went right through the roof. When he would play he would smear all the notes together like hot melted crayons and the whole house would shake.I remember his house was a complete mess; his clothes were everywhere, his bed was never made. "Now this is show business," I thought to myself. I asked my mom why I couldn't keep my room like Uncle Robert's, and she said, "Tom, your Uncle Robert is blind."

I have learned a great deal about music from other musicians, and from listening to the world around me. But when I was a kid growing up in Whittier, there was a red-headed boy named Billy Swed who lived with his mom in a trailer by the railroad tracks. Billy is the one who taught me how to play in a minor key.Billy didn't go to school. He was already smoking and drinking at the age of 12, and he lived with his mom at the edge of a hobo jungle on a mud rain lake with tires sticking up out of it. There was blue smoke, dead carp, and gourds as big as lamp shades. You could get lost trying to find their place--through overgrown dogwood and pyrancantha bushes, through a culvert under a freeway, and through canyons littered with mattresses and empy paint cans.While Billy taught me how to play, I noticed that he liked to draw on his jeans with a pen. Every inch was covered with these strange forbidden hieroglyphic tattoos that I was constantly trying to decipher. I was certain it was his own musical notation and that he had hundreds of songs written on his pants.Billy's mother was enormous. I would look at her and then at the door to the trailer, and then back to her, and faced my first real math problem.How could Mrs. Swed ever get through that door? As an eight-year-old, I remember thinking that Mrs. Swed was like a ship in a bottle and she would never be able to leave.Somehow the trailer, the swamp, and Mrs. Swed all came out of Billy's guitar in a minor key.It was New Year's Day after a week of heavy rain when I went back to their spot to see them again, but Billy and his mom were gone. But the secret knowledge of the chords he taught me was to outweigh all I learned in school and give me a foundation for all music.

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An Old Clotheshorse Like Myself

Tom Waits

My Gravelly Voice

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Down At The Tropicana

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