Today’s song, from Tom Waits’ debut album, Closing
Time, way back in 1973, is here for old times’ sake, but it’s also
here to commemorate 55 years on this planet for your humble narrator. The 17th
is my day of birth, so why not go with a song title that indirectly alludes to
the age reached? It’s an irresistible opening when heard that way: “Well, my
time went so quickly / I went lickety-splitly / Out to my ol’ 55 / As I drove
away slowly / I was feeling so holy / God knows, I was feeling alive.”
The situation and the feeling that Waits’ song captures so
well, with its subdued sense of self-satisfaction leavened with a touch of
lonesomeness, is the “morning after” departure by dawn’s early light from a
woman’s bed. “Just a-wishing I’d stayed a little longer.” The scene of post-coital
blues always puts me in mind of my older brother who, back when I was still
virginal, first played this song for me—in both Waits’ version and the slicker,
less bluesy version the Eagles released on On
the Border (1974)—commenting that he was of the “leave as soon after sex as
possible” contingent. I have to admit that’s never really been my experience,
so what Waits portrays here is something I imagined back then and still pretty
much only imagine. The lift of manliness with which he intones the following
has a kind of testosterone kick to it: “Well, it’s six in the morning / Gave me
no warning / I had to be on my way / Now the trucks are all passing me / The
lights are a-flashing / I’m on my way home from your place.”
So now he’s put it out there. He had a nice night and now he’s
got to get back to doing whatever he’s got to be doing. The image he makes so clear
is of a guy on the road as “the sun’s coming up / I’m riding with Lady Luck /
freeway, cars, and trucks / Stars beginning to fade / And I lead the parade.”
There’s the sense of settling back into his solitary routine, with the woman
back there behind him and what’s ahead is the rest of his day, maybe even the
rest of his life. It’s dawn, and luck be a lady. And there’s a chorus of voices
just in the background, giving grounds to his assertion that he’s “feeling so
holy.” This guy could ascend into heaven if he’s not careful.
But all the power in the song is the tension between this
lyrical moment alone and how he spent his night. It’s a transitional state,
filled with the longing to go back (and that’s something, even as a kid in
school, I could relate to—that feeling of wanting to go back to bed, regretting
that you had to get up and get into a cold car, moving through a day that “gave
me no warning,” a working stiff, back to work), and the simple contemplation of
a moment on the road, blending in with—as we used to say, quoting the Firesign
Theater—“the freeway, already in progress.” Back into the stream of life goes
our hero, proud and manly and feeling alive, but wishing he’d had more time
with his girl.
And that’s why I chose the song for today. We’re always
wishing we’d had more time. We’re always joining the road—or the river—in medias
res. We’re—some of us, anyway—reaching and moving past those “middle years,”
just a-wishing we’d stayed a little longer, “And, Lord, don’t you know, that
feeling’s getting stronger.” But however much “back there” beckons the road is
only going one way. That’s built into the nature of time, even if the “Ol ’55”
does have “reverse.” The song, with that one little detail, “out to my ol’ 55,”
gets across a lot as well. This guy’s driving a car that—when the song was
released—is almost twenty years old. It’s a throwback. It’s a car that was new
when Kerouac published On the Road, indicating
that Waits might be recalling himself as a teen—16 in 1955—or the car, like the Packards in Kerouac, his
speaker still drives, dating from that time, a car proudly turned off the
assembly line a mere ten years after “the Big One” ended. This guy, like my own
birth was, is swaddled in post-war nostalgia.
For those who know primarily the raspier-voiced Waits this
album is a bit of a revelation. The first Waits I knew was the Waits of Nighthawks at the Diner (1975) and Small Change (1976). He got to that
classic Waits voice by degrees. On his first album, he’s a sweeter singer, able
to exploit an understated pathos that creeps into almost every song on the
album. It’s a late-night album, a pre-dawn album, an album for a guy who sits
up to see the dawn, smoking, maybe sipping a little whiskey. An album for the
hours between the closing of the bars and rising of the sun.
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