Weeping over Waits

I hadn't been able to listen to any of my favourite Tom Waits for some weeks now.

In fact, I haven't been able to listen to any music at all at home since my music centre died several weeks ago. (I'd had it for just over 5 years; I guess that's quite a good innings - not unreasonable 'planned obsolescence' for crappy Korean electronics.)

One of the many wonderful things about new favourite hangout in the neighbourhood, Amilal (a tastefully renovated courtyard, hidden away down an alleyway behind a public toilet), is the boss's eclectic music selection - very diverse, very good, very mellow. If it's not Edith Piaf, it might be Compay Segundo; after Jacques Brel, we might get Nick Drake. A little Leonard Cohen if the mood's getting too light. Back to the Latin jazz if it's getting too dark.

Anyway, I was in there late on Thursday, and asked if he had any Waits. He immediately rooted out Used Songs, a new compilation of classic earlier stuff from his days with Asylum Records. I was in heaven. A very melancholy heaven. Although I haven't listened to some of this stuff for years, I found that I still knew virtually all the words (these were the Waits records I first discovered as an undergraduate, and used to play to death), and couldn't resist occasionally singing along. So many great songs, so many poignant memories associated with them. My eyes were soon embarrassingly moist.

And, of course, I had to listen to the whole album. And it's quite long. I didn't get away until around 3am - which made today a rather difficult day at work.