It's 1996. There's a radio onslaught of Hootie & The Blowfish that's inescapable. Before satellite radio and iPods saved the sanity of listeners wanting to hear something different every ten minutes, there seemed no conceivable way to avoid that band at that time. I'd surrendered to my fate one night, listening to a radio simulcast of Hootie & The Blowfish playing a gig for MTV Unplugged. One of the songs they played, however, didn't sound like one of their songs. The lyrics were perceptive and unusually candid. The music echoed and swayed in a gloomy melody. The song struck me so hard and so instantaneously that I wrote down the words as I heard them. The title of the song seemed to be called "I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love WIth You," which sounded like an odd sentiment. Shortly after that performance, I did a little research and learned that the writer of the song was a guy named Tom Waits.
A couple days later, I stole away to my local music shop, in search of something by this Waits guy. The first disc I spotted contained the song, "I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You". The album, which was recorded in 1972, was called Closing Time. I bought the disc, took it home, turned it on, and the way I appreciated music changed forever. Songs about loneliness, old flames, and new sparks that wouldn't light hit me hard. Even for a boy like me who thought he understood sadness and loss, these songs illustrated how far down I still could fall.
Within weeks, I'd amassed every album Tom Waits had recorded to that point. I found a book about him, which said that he'd been born in a taxicab somewhere in California (the details are still sketchy now). I learned about his famous romance with Rickie Lee Jones in the late 70s, his nine-year residency at the infamous Tropicana Motel, the notorious drunken beatnik persona he assumed on stage. I found myself fascinated by this guy's life as much as his music. The fact that his music sounded so unconventional only made this whole adventure all the more thrilling for me. Even the song titles sounded bizarre: "Telephone Call From Istanbul," "Rain Dogs," "Christmas Card From A Hooker In Minneapolis". For a boy who'd stayed pretty close to home growing up, these songs shot my imagination wide open. Listening to Tom Waits was (and remains) an unparalleled vicarious experience.
Now, a decade after first discovering this treasure trove of musical despondency, I'm traveling to Atlanta to see Tom Waits in concert for the first time. I've spent the last ten years listening, learning. Hang on St. Christopher. Yesterday is here. And thanks, Hootie, for getting me hooked in the first place.
