
There were the torrential downpours on 70 West, blinding rain the likes of which I hadn't experienced in a long time.
There were the elevator rides at the hotel, chock full of drunken redneck lesbians, some toting 30-packs of Busch Light.
And then there was the beautifully ornate, even whimsical theater that provided a perfectly fitting setting.
There was the crowd. There's no such thing as a casual Tom Waits fan—you either like him or you don't. You either “get” him, or you don't. So there weren't any rude conversations in the background, no overly drunk or stoned assholes, no tag-along jackasses who only went because someone had a spare ticket. It was one big room full of excited and captivated fans.
And when the lights went down, there was little choice but to be captivated.
Then there was the band. The band was awesome. They could put out a huge sound when needed just as well as a gentle waltz.
But everyone came to see Tom Waits. Stomping his feet, waving his arms, strutting with bullhorn under his arm like a baton…the visual was almost as good as the music itself. There's nothing I can write to describe the experience properly. I'm just glad I got to experience it.
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