Dingleberry Gazette

I am often amused when I see a trend or fad that used to be ‘uncool’. Back when I was a young ‘un, by cracky, it was an invitation to an ass-whuppin’ if you wore your pants down around your knees.

Yeah, I’m old-school fat. In those days, big and tall stores sold suits and leisure suits. (Those fabulous 70s!) A pair of jeans big enough to pull up and wear comfortably had to last forever. One pair I owned had at least five layers of inner-thigh patches. You never know when you’re going to find another ‘keeper’ pair. The thought of showing plumper’s crack was horrifying, and I can hear my Dad, yelling from the grave, “Pull up your goddamned pants!”

So it amuses me when I see the current *fashion* of droopy drawers. A fashion no-no that used to give me nightmares is now a statement of rebellion. Or something.

Another thing I never thought would make me cool? My first concert. Who popped my sonic cherry?

Tom Waits.

One would think, with all the big-time acts of the day, I’d have picked someone different. I wanted Pink Floyd to be the first. The Animals tour came through in May 1977, but I was a few weeks shy of a driver’s license, and it sold out in about three hours. Since that didn’t happen, and Led Zeppelin, Paul McCartney and the Rolling Stones came no closer than Seattle, I went with what was available.

My first exposure to Tom Waits was on Fernwood Tonight, a spin-off of Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman, Norman Lear’s late night soap opera. Fernwood Tonight was a parody of The Tonight Show, a satire of life in middle-America. It launched the careers of two actors; Martin Mull, (Barth Gimble) and Fred Willard (Jerry Hubbard). Ironically-named bandleader Happy Kyne, a Droopy Dawg lookalike, was played by Frank DeVol, the musical mastermind behind the theme to The Brady Bunch. The show was goofy, and you never knew what to take seriously.

So when Tom Waits was the musical guest, I laughed at his guttural growl and intoxicated behavior while noticing how poignant his lyrics and subject matter were. He used a line I have borrowed countless times:

“I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.”

Later on, one of my teenage running buddies, an art student and ‘intellectual’, heard Mr Waits was coming to town, and said he wanted to go. Since I was curious about live music, I figured why not? $6.50 seemed like a lot of money just to listen to music, when I could buy an album for about $4. But, what the hell? Live dangerously.

After smoking a bunch of pot in the Park Blocks, we filed into the Paramount Theater. (Now the Schnitz.) We sat in the second or third row; close enough to see the spittle fly as he scatted. (Singing style, not that other…) Tapestries of seedy life, Hollywood nights, dirty boulevards, hookers named Muriel, growled in that trademark gravel-voice. I left feeling years wiser, and like I needed a shower.

I liked the show so much that when he came through a year later, he was my second concert. Opening act? Leon Redbone. (Folks who know my love of Tool and Rob Zombie are pinching themselves right now. Yeah, you’re awake.) When all the hip young things back then would ask what shows I’d seen, the response was usually one word.

“Who?”

As you’ve deduced, my musical tastes have hardened over time. But Tom Waits never went away. I can’t say I’m the biggest fan of his more progressive works, but I haven’t given it much of a chance. I still love the piano-bar stuff the best.

I worked on Sandy Boulevard, near 82nd Avenue, for about ten years. During the early part, when every night was a gin-soaked, malt liquor-fueled adventure, and hookers and night-crawler types were my ‘known associates’, those melancholy ditties were the soundtrack to my life.

Then, around the turn of the century, something happened. I would tell some young hipster girl that Tom Waits was my first concert, and she’d get all excited. “Ooh! he’s so awesome!” (Or rad, or sick, or fly, or whatever the word for ‘cool’ was that day.)

So now, as I sit listening to Used Songs, 1973-1980, it’s nice to know I’m a cool old guy, with some inter-generational street cred.

The pants, however, are staying up. If I want to moon you, you will know it.

Besides, liking Tom Waits makes me cool enough.