The Heart Of Saturday Night

Now, for Tom Waits's second release, which came out in October 1974, still on Asylum, and was produced by Bones Howe this time.

So this album has not left as strong an impression on me as Closing Time has, but it's nonetheless quite an exciting piece, with a string of beautiful songs and melodies. It is slightly more bluesy, jazzy (well, and there's the obvious Frank Sinatra reference), and has that irresistable smokey club feel. We can still feel the Tom from the debut album, yet he's rapidly evolving as a song-writer. His vocals are already getting grittier on a few tracks. There's less string, more upright bass, a nice amount of electric guitar, and some piano tracks are electrified too.

I'm not sure what to make of his lyrics yet, but I like them quite a bit, perhaps even more than on Closing Time. They still create all these images in your mind as you listen, and they feel a little less personal, but they sound better, as he seems to increase his use of alliterations and other stylistic devices, which makes to songs seemingly flow better. Who could resist a song with lyrics such as "I'm a pool shooting shimmy-shyster shaking my head"? (Fumblin' With The Blues)

What stuck out to me is firstly San Diego Serenade, the second song on the album, which of course is about the town he grew up in, yet you wonder listening to it if he is not talking about some woman he knew back there, "never felt my heart string until I nearly went insane". The melody of course is haunting, and the strings are back, so it's easy to think of that first album again. Shiver Me Timbers has that same kind of feels, and then, stretches sweetly into Diamond Into My Windshield, which has brilliant, brilliant lyrics, and finger snapping mood.

My personal favourite is surely The Ghost Of Saturday Night (After Hours At Napoleone's Pizza House) which has a sweet, simple melody, some double bass and piano, but some of the most playful lyrics on the album:

"A cab combs the snake,
Tryin' to rake in that last night's fare,
And a solitary sailor
Who spends the facts of his life
like small change on strangers
Paws his inside pea coat pocket
for a welcome twenty-five cents,
And the last bent butt from a package of Kents,
As he dreams of a waitress with Maxwell House eyes
And marmalade thighs with scrambled yellow hair.

Her rhinestone-studded moniker says, "Irene"
As she wipes the wisps of dishwater blonde from her eyes

And the Texaco beacon burns on,
The steel-belted attendant with a 'Ring and Valve Special'...
Cryin' "Fill'er up and check that oil"
'You know it could be a distributor and it could be a coil.' "

I mean, that says it all, right?