The Soundtrack Beneath my Stories

My Introduction Into The World of Tom Waits

— Mix Tapes, Tim Inwood & STAR Inc.

Back in my social work days at STAR Inc., my colleague Tim Inwood handed me a cassette tape — his own curated mix of Tom Waits favorites. That tape changed everything.

I started with Nighthawks at the Diner and the smoky 1970s Waits era: small-café stories, late-night characters, and his uncanny ability to find poetry in cigarette smoke and loneliness.

From there, I dove deeper — Heart of Saturday Night, Small Change, Foreign Affairs, then on into the glorious chaos of Swordfishtrombones, Rain Dogs, and Mule Variations.

That tape wasn’t just music; it was a map into a new kind of storytelling.

What Prompted this Nostalgic Walk Down Memory Lane?

It started with a Christmas gift — one I asked for months early. When the Tom Waits / Anton Corbijn ’77–’11 reissue was announced, I forwarded the email straight to Bob with a not-so-subtle hint. I never ask for specific presents that far in advance, but this one felt different — necessary.

Corbijn’s portraits of Waits have always felt like visual extensions of his music: stark, funny, tragic, and beautiful in their imperfection. The book captures decades of transformation — the evolution of a man who’s made a career out of embracing the offbeat and the broken.

When Bob pre-ordered it, I realized how much Waits’ work had seeped into my own — not just in the music I play when I write, but in the soundtrack beneath my stories. The book became a prompt, a reminder to look closer at how Tom Waits has shaped the stories I tell, and the characters who inhabit them.  

Two Nights with Tom Waits

Some concerts never leave you.

August 13, 2006 — Akron Civic TheatreI went with my brother, Mike, for the Orphans tour. Waits filled that ornate theatre with smoke, light, and gravel. It wasn’t just a concert — it was theatre, séance, confession.

July 1, 2008 — Jacksonville, FloridaTwo years later, I saw him again with my friend Anna, a fellow Starbucks barista. Two years later, I saw him again with my friend Anna, a fellow barista from our Starbucks days. We didn’t sing along — no one really does at a Tom Waits show. His performances are pure theater, part carnival, part confessional. At one point during “Chocolate Jesus,” he stopped mid-song to make a perfectly timed, sardonic remark to the crowd about singing along — the kind of moment that reminds you this isn’t karaoke; it’s church, and he’s the preacher. We just sat there, spellbound, watching him conjure a world from rhythm and smoke.

The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame—Irony & Grace

In 2011, Tom Waits was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

Neil Young introduced him with perfect irony:

“This next man is indescribable, and I’m here to describe him.

He’s sort of a performer, singer, actor, magician, spirit guide, changeling.”

Then Tom, ever self-aware and funny, opened with:

“They say that I have no hits and that I’m difficult to work with.

And they say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He joked about the weight of the award:

“Thank you, this [trophy] is very heavy. I just want to know if there’s a keychain version of this.

Just so I can hear, ‘Pete, take the cuffs off — he’s a Hall of Famer.’”

That moment distilled what I love most about him: humor, humility, poetry, and a wink at the myth he’s built.

Why I Keep Coming Back to Tom

When I created Dr. Chauncy in The Bedlam Series, I found myself reaching for that same Waitsian sensibility — the grit, the tenderness, the characters who live between light and shadow.

What draws me to him:

Economy of language — he renders whole worlds in a few words.

Authenticity — his characters are flawed, raw, and achingly real.

Partnership — his creative bond with Kathleen Brennan feels like art in conversation.

Humor — a grin behind every growl.

Voice — that gravel and gold that somehow holds both ruin and redemption.

When I think of Dr. Chauncy, I think of Tom Waits — a man standing in the alley between chaos and grace, holding a flickering lantern for anyone who dares to look.

How I see Waits Now

Tom Waits doesn’t ask for easy listening. He asks for attention, for presence.

He makes space for the strange, the human, the unseen.

He’s been my muse, my reminder that imperfection is the soul of beauty.

If you’re new to him, start with Nighthawks at the Diner or Rain Dogs.

If you already know him — tell me your favorite song, your most unforgettable lyric.

I’ll be over here, letting “Come On Up to the House” play again,

one more time.