The Song, by Toad Official Tom Waits Pilgrimage
Yes, woo hoo, we are all going to Tom Waits tonight. By we, I mean Martin from The Savings & Loan, Euan from The Kays Lavelle and a healthy portion of Broken Records. A couple of folk from work will be coming along too, as will Morgan, the Song, by Toad *ahem* cinematographer, as well as my old Dad. It will be something of a outing.
The plan is to meet sometimes from 5pm onwards up at the back of Joseph Pearce’s and have a few pints, and to rise to the Tom Waits Challenge. What’s that you say? Well Euan and I decided to have a bet about who could name the most songs from his set, before the actual event. But it strikes me that we might as well make it a pound-a-go sweepstake (is that gambling – does that make this website officially illegal in the United States?) whereby everyone writes down fifteen songs they think he’ll play, and then at the end we count them up and the winner takes the pot, which should be a princely, erm, twenty quid or so. And then spends it on a round of beers, of course.
So here we go, Tom Waits tonight. The first time I’ve seen him live since 1999 in Boston, when he played the Orpheum.
Tom Waits – Goodnight Lovin’ Trail (Live at Ebbet’s Field, 1974 – this is something of a rare recording, apparently.)
Tom Waits – Hold On (Live)
Tom Waits – New Coat of Paint (Live)
Tom Waits – That Feel (Live)
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
YFSP. While you’re off enjoying yourselves I’ll be here cleaning my confounded basement.
Uh, I think your blog is already illegal in the US, it’s way over the legal limit for profanity, obscenity, wit and snark. Why else do you think we yanks keep reading it?
It’s like unpasteurised cheese!
Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker. Fucker.
Oh, & did I mention?, Cunt.
So the show must be nearly over by now. Once your priapism wears off let’s hear a review, eh?
Yeah. Where’s the review?
The show must have been over for nearly an hour by now.
I really like unpasteurised cheese.
There was a bloke down in Pembrokeshire, along the coast between St. David’s and Fishguard, who used to make an unpateurised cheddar called Llangfloffan and it was breathtakingly good.
He retired a couple of years ago after he’d had enough of EU fart-arse piss-take regulations regarding food production.
The UK should really take the same attitude as the rest of Europe regarding EU food regulations.
I mean they should actively propose the motions, sit on the legislative committees that investigate them, vote in favour of the proposals.
Then, when the proposals are passed; the yshould utterly and wantonly disegard them,, stick two fingers up to Strasbourg, Brussles and The Hague, and tell the whole ridiculous shower of hopeless fuckwits to fuck off right back to the stinking public lavatory outflow of hell from which they first slithered.
How was Tom Waits, by the way?
If you guys think you’ve had a good night of musical entertainment; it’ll be nothing compared to the average UK wedding:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/7523781.stm
Tom Waits. Sounds like a frog. So Toad goes to see him. It’s the law. Gosh! Big news. Let’s not give the over-rated oaf any more airspace.
I think Ctel should be banned from the site for such comments.
That is a dangerously bannable sort of attitude. But then, he listens to rave music which really is its own punishment.
P.S. DC: nyah nyah!
I think Ctel was offended because so many of his favourite songs were listed in that BBC article I linked to a few comments back..
p.p.s. Toad, Double Cunt
Yes, yes, but my basement is now immaculate.
What an enormous relief for everyone, C&B. Still, nyah nyah DC. And Dylan, come to think of it.
I’m still gutted they’ve stopped making Llangloffan cheese.
Maybe C&B can set up a moonshine dairy in his freshly-spruce basement?
Alas, my basement is now so pristine that I fear it would have a pasteurizing effect of the fromage. Now my garage is another matter entirely.
Avec l’arome du gazole, Dylan?
Or however the fuck you spell that in Welsh. Jkjhdgjhllgogogolllpfft, probably.
Ach I was only playing. sorry matthew.
That’s close, actually.
Only there’s no ‘k’ in the Welsh alphabet.
Mmm, a lovely piece of Jjhdgjhllgogogolllpfft with a digestive biscuit. Sounds splendid.
With a glass of some amusing Pinot Noir and a little Rod Stewart on the hi-fi…. Rod Stewart? Now what does that remind me of? Oh, yes! Foul-smelling cheese.
Sorry, there’s no ‘j’ either.
Or ‘v’, for that matter, but you haven’t used any of them.
Indeed. Matthew, you can go an fuck yourself with an agave cactus covered in horseradish sauce.
Also, how was the concert?
Shit.
Ah ha haha, of course it wasn’t, it was FUCKING BRILLIANT! Hahahahahaaaaa!
Did he play his wonderful cover version of that tremendous Rod Stewart song, “Downtown Trains”?
I was a concert recently and, like, half of it was, just like, you know, totally ripped off the new Scarlett Johansen album!
You can mock, but I will forever have the last laugh: what were you doing last night?
Last night? Hmmm. Well, first there was the basement of course…it’s really very very clean. Then at around 8:00 Nick Cave, Bob Fisher, and Alela Diane came over for poker night. We drank six bottles of Bombay Sapphire and we talked about you, Matthew. It wasn’t pretty, I’m afraid. Especially Nick. He hasn’t forgotten the time when you called him “a right tosser.”