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"Nighthawks at the Diner" è un disco registrato in un locale dal vivo nel luglio del 1975. È un album ridanciano, alcolico e fumoso.
Questo disco può essere interpretato come un tributo agli albori della carriera di Waits. Prima di diventare un affermato musicista il nostro Tom era il lavapiatti di un diner (ristorante o meglio bettola metropolitana). Al termine del suo lavoro verso l'orario di chiusura si piazzava al piano del locale, dove raccontava storie cantate, divertenti e tristi, accompagnandosi strimpellando con il piano. I nottambuli che gli si siedevano attorno ad ascoltarlo erano ogni sera più numerosi.
Dopo avere inciso due album di studio veri e propri "Closing Time" del '73 e "The Heart of Saturday Night" '74, Waits sembra essersi 'riseduto' al piano di quella bettola, e abbia ricominciato a narrare storie accompagnate da un sottofondo jazz. Quasi ogni canzone è preceduta da una traccia di introduzione, dove Tom racconta come nasce la canzone, spesso inserendovi spunti comici (in sottofondo spesso si sente il pubblico che si sganascia), tanto che potrei definirlo un album dicabaret-jazz. La voce di Tom in questo live, bassa e rauca, con una cadenza propria di chi ne ha bevuti due di troppo, si sposa grandiosamente con il sound-jazz-blues dell'album. Dopo pochi secondi di ascolto appare chiara all'ascoltatore la visione dell'artista barcollante sul seggiolino del piano, con tanto di sigaretta in bocca e boccali di birra davanti agli occhi. Una delle tracce più divertenti e belle è "Better Off Without a Wife", dove Tom enuncia ironicamente i 'vantaggi' dell'essere single: ululare nelle notti di luna piena, dormire fino a mezzogiorno, andare a pesca senza chiedere il permesso, nn dovere uscire con donne sposate talmente tante volte che hanno i segni dei chicchi di riso sul viso... la canzone termina però con una marcia nuziale. Nell'introduzione di "Putnam County" Tom offre la birra agli spettatori del concerto, dicendo che possono servirsi liberamente senza pagare, poi aggiunge che tanto qualcuno del bar li fermerà all'uscita con il conto.
Le migliori: "On a Foggy Night", "Eggs and Sausage", lo splendido slow-jazz di "Warm Beer and Cold Women", "Nobody" e "Big Joe and Phantom 309" con Waits impegnato alla chitarra.
Consigli per un ascolto ottimale dell'album:
- farsi scaricare dal rispettivo partner, poco prima dell'ascolto...
- bere due wiskey lisci prima dell'inizio, poi continuare sorseggiando due pinte di chiara doppio
malto durante i '73 min del concerto...
- tabacco a volontà in modo da rendere nebbioso il luogo dell'ascolto...
So che Tom approverebbe a pieno questi consigli.
In conclusione un album coinvolgente splendido e unico nel suo genere, la miglior colonna sonora di ogni sbronza. "Is time to get down to drinkin' and tell the band to play the blues..."
Elenco tracce testi samples e video
06 Eggs and Sausage (In a Cadillac With Susan Michelson) (04:19)
Nighthawks at the diner of Emma's 49er
There's a rendezvous of strangers around the coffee turn tonight
All the gypsy hacks, the insomniacs
Now the paper's been read
Now the waitress said
Eggs and sausage and a side of toast
Coffee and a roll, hash browns over easy
Chile in a bowl with burgers and fries
What kind of pie?
In a graveyard charade, a late shift masquerade
2 for a quarter, dime for a dance
With Woolworth rhinestone diamond
Earrings, and a sideway's glance
And now the register rings
And now the waitress sings
Eggs and sausage and a side of toast
Coffee and a roll, hash browns over easy
Chile in a bowl with burgers and fries
What kind of pie?
The classified section offered no direction
It's a cold caffeine in a nicotine cloud
Now the touch of your fingers
Lingers burning in my memory
I've been 86ed from your scheme
I'm in a melodramatic nocturnal scene
I'm a refugee from a disconcerted affair
As the lead pipe morning falls
And the waitress calls
Eggs and sausage and a side of toast
Coffee and a roll, hash browns over easy
Chile in a bowl with burgers and fries
What kind of pie?
13 Putnam County (07:35)
I guess things were always quiet
around Putnam County
kind of shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts
of the 2-lane, that was stretched out like an
asphalt dance floor where all the oldtimers would
hunker down in bib jeans and store bought boots
lyin' about their lives and the places that they'd been
suckin' on Coca Colas and be spittin' Days Work
they's be suckin' on Coca Colas
and be spittin' Day's Work
until the moon was a stray dog on the ridge and
the taverns would be swollen until the naked eye
of 2am, and the Stratocaster guitars slung over
Burgermeister beer guts, and the swizzle stick legs
jacknifed over naugahyde stools and the
witch hazel spread out over the linoleum floors,
the pedal pushers stretched out over midriff bulge
and the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline eyes
wearing Prince Machiavelli, Estee Lauder,
smells so sweet
I elbowed up at the counter with mixed feelings
over mixed drinks
and Bubba and the Roadmasters moaned in pool hall
concentration as they knit their brows to
cover the entire Hank Williams Song Book
and the old National register was singing to the
tune of $57.57
until last call, one last game of 8 ball
and Berneice would be putting the chairs on the tables,
someone come in say "Hey man, anyone got
any Jumper Cables, is that a 6 or a 12 volt?"
and all the studs in town would toss 'em down
and claim to fame as they stomped their feet
boasting about being able to get more ass
than a toilet seat.
And the GMCs and the Straight 8 Fords
were coughing and wheezing and they
perculated as they tossed the gravel
underneath the fenders to weave home
a wet slick anaconda of a two lane
with tire irons and crowbars a rattlin'
with a tool box and a pony saddle
you're grinding gears, shifting into first
yea and that goddam tranny's just getting worse
with the melodies of "see ya later"
and screwdrivers on carburettors
talkin' shop about money to loan
and palominos and strawberry roans
See ya tomorrow, hello to the Mrs.
money to borrow and goodnight kisses
the radio spittin' out Charlie Rich
sure can sing that sonofabitch
and you weave home, weavin' home
leaving the little joint winking in the
dark warm narcotic American night
beneath a pin cushion sky and it's
home to toast and honey, start
up the Ford, your lunch money's there on the
draining board, toilet's runnin' shake the
handle, telephone's ringin' it's Mrs Randal
where the hell are my goddam sandals
and the porcelain poodles and the glass swans
staring down from the knick knack shelf
with the parent permission slips for the
kids' field trips
pair of Muckalucks scraping across
the shag carpet
and the impending squint of
first light, that lurked behind
a weeping marquee in downtown Putnam
and would be pullin' up any minute now
just like a bastard amber
Velveeta yellow cab on a rainy corner
and be blowin' its horn, in every window
in town.
14 Spare Parts I (A Nocturnal Emission) (06:25)
well the damn cracked hard just like a bull whip
cause it wasn't takin' no lip from the night before
as it shook out the street, the stew bums showed up
just like bounced checks, rubbin' their necks
and the sky turned the color of Pepto-Bismol
and the parking lots growled
and my old sports coat full of promissory notes
and a receipt from a late night motel
and the hawk had his whole family out
there in the wind, and he's got a message
for you to beware cause he be kickin' your
ass in, in a cold blooded fashion
dishin' out more than a good man can bear
I got shoes untied, shirt tail's out, ain't got a
ghost of a chance with this old romance
just an apartment for rent down the block
Ivar Theater with live burlesque
and the manager's scowlin', feet on his desk
boom boom against the curtain
you're still hurtin'
and then push came to shove, shove came to biff
girls like that just lay you out stiff
maybe I'll go to Cleveland or
get me a tattoo or somethin', my brother
in law's there
skid mark tattoo on the asphalt blue
was that a Malibu
Liz Taylor and Montgomery Clift
cumming on to the broads with the
same ol' riff. Hey baby come up to
my place, we'll listen to some
smooth music on the stereo, no thank you
got any Stan Getz records
no I got Smothers Brothers
so I combed back my Detroit
jack up my pegs, wiped my Stacy Adams
jacknifed my legs, yea I got designs
on a moving violation
hey baby, you put me on hold and I'm
out in the wind and it's getting
mighty cold...
colder than a gut shot bitch wolf dog
with 9 sucking pups pullin' a 4 trap
up a hill in the dead of winter
in the middle of a snowstorm
with a mouth full of porcupine quills
(scat)
yea well I don't need you baby
It's a well known fact
I'm 4 sheets to the wind
I'm glad you're gone
I'm glad you're gone
I'm finally alone
glad you're gone, but I
wish you'd come home
and I struggled out of bed
cause the dawn was crackin' hard like a bullwhip
cause it wasn't takin' no lip from the night before
as it shook out the streets the stew bums
showed up just like bounced checks
rubbin' their necks, and the sky turned the
color of Pepto-Bismol
and my old sports coat full of promissory notes
and the hawk had his whole family out there
in the wind, he got a message for you to beware
kickin' your ass in, in a cold blooded fashion
he be dishin' out more than a good man can bear
well hey baby let's take it to Bakersfield
get a little apartment somewhere
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