Suddenly, a parcel arrives, and I'm excited - I see by the packaging that it's from Tom Waits. Well, it's Tom Waits merchandise, from Anti, the label he's signed to. A hoody, from a new line of clothing. I'm plenty excited.
I'm reaching for my phone, to take a photo of it before I've opened it.
I purchase merchandise related to the artists I love, over the internet. While I sleep. And then devise stupid puns for blogposts, ensuring - to the best of my ability - that I'm not repeating a stupid pun I devised earlier. While I sleep.
In honour of MasterChef: The Professionals, and following on from Soup to Nuts: BastardChef Too, hereâs the latest edition of food music compiled for your listening and dining pleasure â BarstardChef III: Just Desserts. Though not consciously intended, this edition is even more of a novelty than previously, thanks to the heap of instrumentals, silly lyrics and spoken word. Enjoy.
We know how hard it is to pull off a dessert: it has be not just
delicious and indulgent, it has to complement dinner without spoiling
it. Itâs a delicate balancing act. As is genuinely engaging instrumental
music. We start Bastard Chef III:Just Desserts with a Miles Davis instrumental entitled 'Chocolate Chip'. Yes, of course, we acknowledge that the chocolate chip is no dessert in and of itself. But how much charm, fun and class does it bring to more staid post-dinner offerings? Add them to everything - from fruit salad and cream, to coffee, to ice cream - to make them a little more exciting. (Although, let's face it, every chocoholic knows a handful from the stash of choc chips in the back of the pantry will tide you over in times without your favourite candy bars!)
This 'Chocolate Chip' certainly brought a little more fun and excitement to the world of jazz, along with the album that contained it: Doo-Bop. It was the last platter Miles Davis embarked upon before he passed away and although it sounds rooted in its early-90s sound now, like so many of the albums Davis released, it was brave and daring in its time.
Again, we acknowledge: despite a long and varied career that involved frequent abrupt turns that led to the development of whole new genres, Miles Davis isn't to
everybody's taste. Or is he? Work your way through his monumental
output, you'll find something that appeals. And like fusion food, that takes something familiar and creates something new by adding something exotic, Doo-Bop was the latest jazz-fusion experiment that Miles Davis cooked up before he died.
As the story goes, Davis was hangin' in his New York apartment in the summer of 1991, listening to the world outside. Inspired, he decided to create an album that captured the sound of his neighbourhood streets. He approached his buddy Russell Simmons (who, with Rick Rubin, founded the hip-hop label Def Jam) for some recommendations: Davis wanted a hip young producer to help him make this foray into jazz/hip hop fusion.
The producer was Osten Harvey, Jr, AKA Easy Mo Bee, who'd cut his teeth producing early work of Wu-Tang Clansmen GZA and RZA.
Davis and Easy Mo Bee worked on a series of sessions before Miles Davis's death in late September 1991. The album was completed by building tracks around some incomplete trumpet performances, resulting in a cohesive work that was released, some nine months later, to mixed reviews. Had Davis lived, the album would probably have been more daring; it may have been disconcerting for polite jazz circles back in 1992 - it was certainly too 'urban' to play in the Classics & Jazz music store I worked in - but it's quite straightforward now. Still, Doo-Bop took out the 1993 Grammy Award for Best R&B Instrumental Performance - not a bad way to finish an amazing career.
Find it: on the album replete with sampled street sounds, vinyl crackle and spoken rap known as Doo-Bop. Or download it here.
2: Rubber Biscuit - The Chips
Ben Elton once pointed out the division that arose when airlines offered bread and butter pudding as part of the in-flight meal: the first class passengers loved it, since it reminded them of boarding school, where it was a popular dessert. The economy class passengers werenât impressed at all: theyâd paid good money for their flight - why should they put up with the cheap muck they could have at home? Nowadays, in the age of discount airfare, virtually anyone can afford to fly - though few can afford to pay extra for the most meagre and unsatisfactory of meals.
Meanwhile, we live in an age where less food is being produced than being consumed and national economies all over the world are in crisis. Knowing how to cook well at a lower cost is essential. Hence, we suppose, the MasterChef/Coles synergy.
With all of that in mind, the natural progression from the 'Chocolate Chip' is to a biscuit. But not just any biscuit: it's the well-loved nonsensical vocals of âRubber Biscuitâ, that encapsulated the current food predicament of today, way back in the mid-â50s.
They consist of scat singing based on co-writer and lead vocalist Charles Johnsonâs parody of the marching calls imposed upon him during his earlier internment at the Warwick School For Delinquent Teenagers. Beyond them are the seemingly foolish 'recipes' that break up the verses. They speak of poverty: the 'wish sandwich', where you have two pieces of bread and "wish you had some meat"; the 'ricochet biscuit' that bounces off the wall and into your mouthâ¦ unless it fails to bounce back, in which case "you go hungry"; and the "cold water sandwich". The result is beautiful art created from hardship.
The song endures, predominantly, as a ânoveltyâ staple, frequently featuring on childrenâs compilations. And yet, like the posh folk who loved bread and butter pudding in boarding school, the âkidsâ who first heard it when it was new carried it through life and still remember it fondly.
While the Blues Brothers covered it successfully on Briefcase Full of Blues, the original features in an excellent scene in Martin Scorseseâs crime flick Mean Streets, in which a party is thrown for a returned Viet Nam vet: it ends with Harvey Keitelâs character passing out. Because the camera is attached to him, as he collapses, his head remains upright while the room spins around him. âRubber Biscuitâ adds to the disorientation.
Frank Zappa had, at one stage, intended to compile an album of his favourite doo-wop and early rock songs, with âRubber Biscuitâ included. Although it never eventuated, another artistic freak who, like Frankie, hailed from Baltimore, Maryland with idiosyncratic facial foliage compiled an excellent album of such songs: that freak was John Waters and the album was the soundtrack to his film Cry-Baby. âRubber Biscuitâ is one of the stand-outs.
Find it: on the soundtrack to John Watersâ film Cry-Baby Download it here.
3. A Taste Of Honey - Herb Alpertâs Tijuana Brass
If âHoney Pieâ, a Beatles (well, let's face it, Paul McCartney) song that comes later in this compilation, is too much honey as well as too much pie, perhaps youâ prefer just a taste. âA Taste Of Honeyâ was written by Bobby Scott and Ric Marlow as the recurring instrumental theme in the 1960 Broadway production of a 1958 British play of the same name. Bobby Scott won a Grammy Award for his recording of it. A vocal version followed, though the more popular version of it wasby the Beatles, who recorded it for their debut album Please Please Me. You gotta dig the Beatlesâ version: when Macca reiterates its quality, of âtasting much sweeter than wineâ, his sibilance renders the word âshweeterâ, making him sound like a slurring drunk who knows full well the qualities of wine, as well as the honey.
Alpert is an interesting person in his own right. Apart from leading this instrumental combo, he was the âAâ in A&M Records, a label he founded with business partner Jerry Moss. (After selling it to PolyGram [now Universal], he and Moss start AlMo Sounds whose title is also derived from their surnames. Not as spectacular a label. But then, no record nowadays is as spectacular as when records were still the primary delivery vehicle for music.)
In more recent years, Alpert has taken to painting and sculpture. However, his contribution to popular music is massive, both as a label executive and as a musician.
The dessert more chefs appear to make a mess of than get right on MasterChef is ice cream - even though, when they get it wrong they can pretend itâs some other posh desserty substance like parfait. But Tom Waits ainât talkinâ about no genteel delicacy.
Once, many years ago while visiting a cute girl who really, really tolerated me, I was engaged in an intense conversation with her incredibly sexy flatmate. We were discussing music, and she was of the opinion that âTom Waits is just âsex-on-a-stickâ.â Which went some way to explaining the raggedy-assed hobo of a backpacker she was seeing at the time. They more than merely tolerated each other. Theyâd more than merely tolerate the hell out of each other quite loudly, most of the night, I seem to remember. âIce Cream Manâ is about sex-on-a-stick's sex-on-a-stick, as the lyrics clearly outline, and heâll âsure taste good to you.â
In 1970 Waits would play every Monday night at the legendary Troubadour in LA, delivering Dylan covers and a handful of original compositions, of which âIce Cream Manâ was one. Hence its inclusion on his 1973 debut Closing Time â its languid opening giving way to an up-tempo jazz rendition replete with hot guitar licks and snazzy snare shots. Personally, I prefer the demo version Waits recorded a couple of years earlier, when he first landed a management deal. It starts slightly faster, but maintains that pace throughout, with the guitar and drums sticking closer to rock than jazz. Furthermore, the initial piano motif better evokes the tinny chime of the ice cream van. The demo surfaced, against Waitsâs wishes, on the first of two volumes of demos entitled The Early Years.
To answer the annoying question, I assume the songâs about indulgence, consumerism and conspicuous consumption â with a chorus about Tammy Baker, wife of disgraced TV evangelist Jim and Andy Warhol laughing in his grave at âcheap Picasso fakesâ. The recording certainly offers a rich production with the wild harmonica interlude and almost buried vocoderâ¦
Although, in hindsight, it may well have been inspired by how to slice up the cake of royalties, responsibility and influence now that there was one more band member. It certainly seems that way now, considering the way in which the album came about and Crowded House evolved subsequently.
Turns out the brothers Finn had gotten together to start recording a new album. Before its completion, Neil had another due with Crowded House. Unfortunately, Capitol, their label, rejected it considering some of the tracks to be a little weak. So Neil asked Tim if he could use some of the material theyâd written together. Tim was happy for that to happen, on condition that he joined the band. It wasnât the ideal situation â tensions arose, Tim left before theyâd completed touring behind the album. Now he says he was joking at the time. Even if the album proved to be neither flesh nor fish â not quite as good as previous Crowded House albums, not quite as good as the Finn album that followed later that decade â Neil and Timâs harmonies are always a treat. They really are our Antipodean Everlies. The first fruit of their new collaboration was âChocolate Cakeâ, whose chorus fittingly opens mid-decadence: âCan I have another piece of chocolate cakeâ¦?â Go on. Indulge yourself.
6. Tra La La (Banana Splits Theme) - The Banana Splits
Way back in the earlier part of the 20th Century, Aussie writer Norman Lindsay maintained that kids loved reading about food far more than they did fairies and the like â even though âfairy talesâ, in the most literal sense, were the popular form of childrenâs literature. Lindsay proved his point in 1918, with the publication of The Magic Pudding, which remains in print today.
Why is this relevant? Because chocolate cake may be an indulgent pleasure for most (and wild honey pie, for a more discerning group that includes Patti Boyd), but the real treat is the banana in the presence of ice cream: the dessert known as the banana split. Which most people will remember as the name of a show they loved as kids: The Banana Splits Adventure Hour.
The show was hosted by another manufactured band aimed at the kids.
The Monkees were manufactured to be like the Beatles, but, proving hard to control, were superseded by the Archies, animated version of the same (and discussed at length in the notes for BastardChef 2). The Archies couldn't rebel like the Monkeesâ¦
The Banana Splits couldn't rebel either, but weren't pure animations. They were actors in animal costumes, based on both the Beatles and Monkees. Fleegle the Beagle played guitar, gorilla Bingo took the drum duties, Drooper the lion was on bass and Snorky the elephant played keyboards.
The show was the first produced by Hanna-Barbera to mix live action with cartoons. It employed the services of Sid and Marty Krofft to provide the costumes â serving as a precurs0r to the Krofft-produced HR Pufnstuf. Like HR Pufnstuf, The Banana Splits was a so-called kids' show that appealed to adults - at least the ones who indulged in certain chemical refreshments. Which kind of makes sense, in a drug-addled, conspiracy theorist way:
Among the various varieties of puffin' stuff was the banana skin, or 'banana spliff', that led to the 'Mellow Yellow' high that Donavan sang about. And certain controlled substances, LSD in particular, seem to lead to users reverting to the security of childhood. You see this especially in British psychedelia. When you consider that British kids born just before or during the post-war boom would, when visiting grandma's house, see the remnants of Victoriana - posters of Lord Kitchener, antique spinning tops, photos of tragic Uncle Wilfred in uniform, who was never the same after he came back from the trenchesâ¦ these were the childhood memories young, hip cool people of the mid- to late-'60s.
The psychedelic sound of the â60s - phasing, Indian instrumentation, backwards vocals and guitars - isnât evident in 'The Banana Splits Theme' (though traces of the âStrawberry Fieldsâ mellotron flute are discernible), but it is still childishly simple. The bubblegum sound was provided by an array of fine studio musicians. Coupled with the showâs popularity, it made for durable hits, not least of all the theme song. Sing along: âTra la la, la la la laâ¦â
Not too loudly, though! While loved by many, the few who particularly despise the song sometimes have good reason. Like the neighbours of seemingly indulgent Brighton resident Amanda Millard, for example. They were driven to distraction Amandaâs endless playing of it, along with the Animalsâ âHouse of the Rising Sunâ and Bob Marleyâs âBuffalo Soldierâ. (The chorus of the latter, some have pointed out, shares similar notes as âTra La Laâ.) While Amandaâs 250-pound fine means she continues to enjoy banana splits rather than being subjected to the bread and water of a custodial sentence, she has to do so at a more considerate volume.
Letâs just take a moment to catch our breath after all the desserts. We will resume gorging on food songs in a moment. For now, a spoken word piece - to music accompaniment - for everyone who loves their food more than they love their physique, courtesy of portly comedian Allan Sherman.
You may profess not to know him, but you certainly know at least one of Allanâs recorded works.
Shermanâs professional calling was as a comedy writer and producer of television game shows, having devised several successful formats that proved long-lived on the small screen. His sideline was in devising parody lyrics to popular tunes. Initially a party trick, it was a very good one. His next door neighbour Harpo Marx used to invite him over to entertain party guests with his songs. One guest, comedian George Burns, made the call that led to Shermanâs first album, My Son, The Folk Singer, in 1962 â in which old folk tunes were given new lyrics based on Jewish shtick. Like his phone conversation with Sarah Jackman, to the tune of âFrÃ¨re Jacquesâ: âSarah Jackman, Sarah Jackman, howâs by you? Howâs your sister Rita?â âA regular Lolita!â
My Son, The Folk Singer was the fastest selling album for its time, certainly aided by the fact that President Kennedy, for example, was overheard singing âSarah Jackmanâ to himself in a hotel foyer.
Other popular parodies include âA Waste of Moneyâ, about consumer debt, to the tune of âA Taste of Honeyâ, and âPop Hates The Beatles!â to the tune of âPop Goes The Weaselâ. But the song youâll know is Shermanâs âHello Muddah! Hello Fuddah!â from his third album, My Son, The Nut. And you know it in its own right, without realising itâs a parody. So much so, youâll do the aural equivalent of a double take when you finally hear composer Amilcare Ponchielliâs âDance of the Hoursâ (featuring, as it does, in the Disney masterpiece Fantasia, for example) and marvel at how much this piece of classical music reminds you of âHello Muddah! Hello Fuddah!â
But enough of the musicology lesson.
âHail To Thee, Fat Personâ is Shermanâs justification of his girth: the result, he insists, of forever being told to âclean his plateâ, as there were âchildren starving in Europeâ. We fat people (Sherman, Preston, me, etc) are merely performing a community service. The social imperatives of being a fatso became a big issue recently when a TV anchor made the news for facing down a camera after receiving some feedback from a viewer, proving the timelessness of this piece of social satire.
Donât think for an instant that the absence of the seemingly obvious choice â for this volume â of Warrantâs âCherry Pieâ is an oversight. The best thing about that song has always been the image adorning both the single and album cover: pendulously-bosomed, pigeon-toed, redheaded waitress on roller skates (a ârollerskaitressâ?) whoâs accidentally dropped the dessert off her plate. Oh, but look where the slice happens to be situated in the photo, nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Pete ânâ Dud would probably marvel at all the rejected covers, in which the the slice was in the wrong place (it's a classic sketch, should you choose to persevere with the referenceâ¦)
But heavy metal riffs and fond memories of having a bit of a think about the cover late at night during an â80s adolescence notwithstanding, the song kinda sucks. Big time. So apologies if youâre currently shaking your head in disbelief that thereâs no, no cherry pie. Instead there's âNo, No Cherryâ, a 1950s doo-wop song originally recorded by The Turbans. Itâs based on the same euphemism Warrant called upon for âCherry Pieâ. And if you're wondering where this euphemism comes from, research dates it back to at least the 15th Century, where a folk song that tells of âthe cherye with-outyn ony stoneâ is said to be about virginity. Or lack thereof.
You'll agree, itâs fitting then that this happens to be another Frank Zappa song! His version of âNo, No Cherryâ was performed live as a medley with his own âMan From Utopiaâ, this recording dating from the 1984 tour.
There may be 'No, No Cherry', but there is also âCherry Pieâ, and it's another â50s doo-wop song. It comes replete with the âfairly redundant piano tripletsâ (to quote Frank Zappaâs notes on his own nostalgic tribute to the genre and period, Cruising with Ruben & The Jets. Which, incidently, has been given the deluxe reissue treatment more recently as Greasy Love Songs).
âCherry Pieâ was written by Joe Josea and Marvin Phillips and originally performed by Marvin & Johnny, but the version included here is by Aussie band Daddy Cool, fronted by local legend Ross Wilson.
The thing about Daddy Cool is that their embrace of vintage American rockânâroll was authentic. Rather than mere nostalgia, even with the arched eyebrow of irony so beloved for Frank Zappa, the most novel aspect of Daddy Coolâs approach was their sincerity. Hence their securing such gigs as opening for the Everly Brothers. They really did do doo-wop (or perhaps they 'did-wop') better than most. Itâs all over their debut album, Daddy Who? Daddy Cool! which features brilliant original compositions along with a wealth of '50s covers.
Daddy Who? Daddy Cool! was such a fine album that it was the first Aussie long play platter to sell over a 100,000 copies in this country â helped, no doubt, by the inclusion of such strong single cuts as âEagle Rockâ and âCome Back Againâ. The local success, coupled with their accurate reproduction of an essentially American musical idiom, meant the album got a Stateside release â albeit with a revised tracklisting that did not include âCherry Pieâ.
Find it: on the re-mastered, re-issued (with additional tracks!) original debut, Daddy Who? Daddy Cool!. If youâre just dabbling, grab the compilation The Essential Daddy Cool. Itâs the most comprehensive âdabbleâ you could hope for.
10: Honey Pie - The Beatles
Enough with the cherry pies already. Time to move from the cheap innuendo and old-time '50s music to virtually the same innuendo, and slightly more modern-time music of a '60s song. Except that it is itself a pastiche of a much older music hall style. It seemed to be one of Paul McCartneyâs passions, from about 1967, to produce at least one sweet ballad mimicking an older musical idiom, per album: 'When Iâm 64' on Sgt Pepper, 'Your Mother Should Know' on Magical Mystery Tour and 'Honey Pie'.
Although John Lennon derided Macca, dismissing his âgranny musicâ as uncool, fact is, its underpinning is as authentically 'swingin' '60s' and cool as any acid drenched masterpiece Lennon created at the time. Recall, as discussed above, the tendency for users of LSD to revert to the comfort of childhood. For Paul McCartney, childhood comfort was a time when his mother was still alive and his dad played in a big band, delivering the sort of songs that Paul would become so adept at recreating a generation later. And it's not as though the 'granny music' was without its charm. That second line, for example, with its super-imposed crackle, as if from the shellac of an old 78 (which in fact it was - a fine bit of sampling) and heavy top-end equalising, is a device still popular today in advertising: think of the amount of radio ads that alternate normal tone with distorted tone throughout the narration.
The protagonist of 'Honey Pie' is bemoaning his beloved's departure from his side to the showbiz stage across the water. It's a love letter to an absent â feared wayward â partner, most likely inspired by McCartneyâs own relationship with young actress Jane Asher, whose career was leading her further away from Macca. The song doesn't tell more of a story than that because it doesnât contain much more than a couple of verses and choruses. At the time, there probably wasn't a lot more to tell - seeing as Macca wasn't the kiss-and-tell type (some of his erstwhile conquests were, however; see Francie Schwartz's Body Count, for example).
Although the lyrics and story stop, the music continues. The syncopated Charleston rhythms speak volumes: Macca embracing the old music that takes him back to a happier place. As he maintains in the spoken line over the instrumental break, he likes that kind of music. Take that, Lennon!
Nearly 45 years later, itâs fitting to note the Jane Asher â effectively responsible for âHoney Pieâ in the first place, now has another string to her bow that enables her to be responsible for honey pie still. Since 1990, Asher has run a posh cake company which her website boasts as being âBritainâs foremost cake and sugarcraft supplier.â And, let's face it, also nearly 45 years later, itâs fitting to note that Jane Asher is still quite a tasty dish.
Moving on from the cherry and honey pies via Jane Asherâs âforemost supply of cake and sugarcraftâ comes this evocative instrumental, âWedding Cake Islandâ, named not for a massive wedding cake that resembles an island (for no man-and-wife is an island), but for an island allegedly resembling a wedding cake, lying off Sydneyâs Coogee Beach. âAllegedly resembling a wedding cakeâ is correct: there arenât many accounts of how the island got its name. In fact, there are only two: once claims it looks like a wedding cake, but it clearly does not. The other suggests itâs the thick layer of predominantly white seagull guano, resembling a smooth icing, which leads to the cakular allusion.
If not a wedding cake, what does the instrumental evoke? Itâs described as a âsurf instrumentalâ, inspired as it is by an ocean formation. And it certainly shares a big, broad twang beloved of surf music. Consider, for example, the Atlanticsâ âBomboraâ. A bombora, or âbommieâ is a submerged rock, reef or other formation creating large, crashing waves over a shallower area beyond where the surf normally breaks. The surging surf music perfectly evokes those impressive, surging surf waves.
The calmer âWedding Cake Islandâ doesnât seem to speak of the mighty surf that the island in question often produces, having more in common with the spaced-out sounds of recording pioneer Joe Meek (responsible for the likes of âTelstarâ and âI Hear A New Worldâ). Bent notes courtesy of the wammy bar may sound âHawaiianâ, and therefore irrefutably âsurfyâ, but coupled with the high-pitched vibrato, suggests a very different seascape â almost otherworldly.
If you reckon not many cakes can transport you out of this world in everyday life â well, not legally, anyway â you donât have a sweet enough tooth.
We started with an instrumental, we're gonna almost end with one. Almost, because it's not quite an instrumental. But it's certainly an excellent closer: phased synths, surging guitars, crashing drumsâ¦ itâs almost surf music â certainly closer to the blueprint than Midnight Oilâs âWedding Cake Islandâ. But itâs got nothing to do with the ocean. In fact, itâs almost got nothing to do with anything at all.
The reason itâs here is not for composer Paul McCartneyâs grunts, but for the one vocal refrain: âI still have not had any dinner!â As everyone knows â you have to finish your dinner before you get to enjoy your dessert. Or, as that mean old school master put it in Pink Floydâs The Wall, âhow can you have any pudding if you donât eat your meat?â (âYou! Yes you! Stand still, laddieâ¦!â)
George Harrison may have invented the charity rock-on-athon with 1971âs Concert for Bangladesh, and Bob Geldof, taken it to its supreme conclusion with Band Aid in 1985. Paul McCartneyâs own version was the Concerts for Kampuchea that involved the likes of The Who, Queen, The Clash, Elvis Costello and the Attractions, Ian Dury and the Blockheads, Rockpile and The Pretenders. The finale was an all-star jam with members of the various groups, combined in one supergroup called Rockestra, delivering the classic rocker âLucilleâ, modern-day rockânâroll hymn âLet It Beâ and their very own âRockestra Themeâ.
McCartney had the melody that makes up the theme for years. Thereâs a rough work tape from about 1974 â bootlegged under the title The Piano Tape â that features Macca at the piano, banging out snatches and fragments of various worksâinâprogress, many of which would be finished and recorded during the subsequent decade-and-a-half. âRockestraâ appears on that tape. The studio version was recorded at Abbey Road with Paul McCartney fronting not just Wings, but a megaband similar to the one captured live as the final to the Concerts for Kampuchea. It was, indeed, a âRock Orchestraâ. Or, if you will, a Rockestra, and it included members of The Who, Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin.
The 'Rockestra Theme' was included on Wingsâ final album, 1979âs Back to the Egg. A fitting title, given this 'BastardChef' project. But it's a little ironic that the piece of music became the signature tune for a fundraiser to aid a starving people in war-torn Cambodia, given the vocal refrain about still not having had any dinner. To say the very least, it is of questionable â ahem â taste.
After all the conjecture and discussion regarding live television appearances and a big announcement pending, turns out Tom Waits is flogging a new video clip. Not a tour. Or an album. Just a video. But a great video, mind: 'Hell Broke Luce', from the brilliant Bad As Me.
It wasn't even a year ago my fingers were jumping for j0y across the computer keyboard, blogging about an impending Tom Waits release. It started with the airing of the first single, Bad As Me on Soundcloud. There were cool clips of listening parties in the back of rusting cars and the like. Remember?
Now, with much less lead time and, it appears, no tasters being distributed anywhere just yet, Tom's letting us know about an impendingâ¦ somethingâ¦ via some visual teasers. Not long to go.
Smart money is that it's a tour, since albums can take ages for him. (Bad As Me came after an extended silence.)
The evidence appears to be his recent performance of 'Raised Right Men' on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon:
There was a recent appearance on Letterman just before it, as wellâ¦
Shoulda known something was up when this excellent mash-up clip was doing the rounds. Cookie Monster covering his vocal doppelganger, Tom Waits.
Worth noting that while the vocal similarities between Cookie Monstor and Tom Waits are obvious, it is accidental. Whereas The Muppet Show's philosophical balladeer Rolf was definitely modelled on Waits.
More recently, the title track from Waitsâs new album, Bad As Me, was released as a teaser to herald the album (due to land in Australia in about a week). The song's a corker. I like it so much Iâd make it my wedding song. If onlyâ¦ I could find someoneâ¦ bad as me.
Tomâs been notoriously protective of his work over the years; heâs not sanctioned any of his music for advertising. Heâs even gone so far as to pursue Frito-Lay through the courts for an advertising campaign which utilised a song in his style. It would appear they're not the only ones, seeing as the clip below also references Waits. How many foolhardy advertising angencies are there? With ignorant clients?
Explains why Tom's so cautious with the first clip off the album - as he explains here, regarding the pitfalls of putting your music 'out there', online.
He's got a suitably eccentric old school solution to having his stuff ripped off.
Two days a week I work in a âHigh Fidelityâ kind of store, called Egg Records. Yesterday, while Iâm tidying up the âsoulâ section, I see, out of the corner of my eye, a little old man holding a Zappa album. Itâs a copy of Absolutely Free, a first US pressing on the Verve label, and I'm pretty excited; we've got $50 (Australian) on it; thatâs a nice one-off sale to make, and, more interestingly, although hardcore fans are willing to make such a purchase, such fans rarely happen to be little old men.
A little while later, the old man comes up to the counter holding a record in each hand. He brings the Zappa album forward and drawls, in an old man kind of drawl, âthis one says âAbsolutely Freeâ.â
âI'm sorry, Sir,â I reply, as straight-faced and polite as possible, âthat is in fact the title of the album.â I point to the price tag, to show him as I tell him that it actually says âfifty dollarsâ.
So he hands the record to me. He doesn't want it at that price. He only wants it if it is absolutely free.
âWhat about this one?â he drawls, proffering the record in his other hand. It turns out to be a Tom Waits albumâ¦ the one calledâ¦ (wait for it)â¦ Small Change!
Before he can whip out some pocket shrapnel, I let him know that once again, âSmall Changeâ is the album title, so rather than forty-five cents, or thrupence, or whatever jangly combination happens to reside his coin pocket, the price, as stated on the price tag, is seventeen dollars.
I guess Iâm just glad he hadnât tried to purchase a copy of that live charity album that the Oxbridge mafia comedians like the Pythons, the Goodies, Peter Cook and Alan Bennett recorded for Amnesty International in the mid-70s.
Its cover says âA Poke In The Eye (With A Sharp Stick)â!