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This is a picture of the street where I work at night. Sorry, let me be more specific, this is a picture of the street where I work at night during what is imaginatively known as “Race Week”. This is, essentially, when hordes of ill bred, over privileged swine descend upon the streets of Galway to over indulge and fritter away their trust funds. They are a curious breed unbeknownst to the average working stiff; their marks are clearly displayed, making them easy to spot.

It is essential that you know how to spot one of these creatures so that you know what you’re dealing with. As with lycanthropes, the undead and the jackalope, you may never need to draw upon the skills necessary to emerge from an encounter unscathed, yet it is better to be prepared.

In a manner befitting the ongoing destruction of every square inch of earth that we inhabit, it is now seemingly fashionable to attain the use of a small city in some remote part of the world to use for grand scale international events so that it can be filled beyond capacity with the idle rich. The deluded figures of celebrity desperately clambering for recognition and possible validation of whatever genetic deficiencies cause the unbridled desire to fawn around their sycophantic, incestuous social circles, are out in force.

The danger in this invasion is the fact that it is all combined with the stereotypical ideals that whilst in Ireland, and particularly Galway for some reason, that it is customary to drink in great excess to your personal capabilities transforming you into a staggering, abusive Neanderthal. Is this too harsh a generalisation? Not when you take into consider the fact that the Police actually assist all of this by cordoning off the streets and assisting the public drunks by taking away their pint glasses and replacing them with plastic ones. Why this is allowed when, contrary to popular belief, it’s not exactly legal at any other time of the year to roam about the streets in a state of aggression, drunkenness and regret, is beyond me. For there is nothing pretty about a man who has lost a fortune and has been drinking since noon.

The most depraved day of all is Thursday, ironically known as “Ladies’ Day”. This is when large toothed daughters of politicians and equine princesses wear gaudy hats and after involving themselves with too much champagne in the sun all day, proceed to fight, squawk, vomit and fall down a lot. There is not much lady present when they are spotted later in the evening, hat in hand, hem in the other whilst they attempt to urinate in an alleyway and not on themselves.

The startling factor in all of this is the fact that there is no class or grace in any of the events surrounding the races themselves. The pink shirted, cream blazer brigade seems incapable of carrying themselves with any dignity whatsoever. If this constitutes the upper classes, then I’ll happily stay where I am thank you.

Be contemptuous, they view kindness as weakness, however, be polite, overly polite, as they may not have any decorum or etiquette whatsoever, this will inherently confuse them and they will suspect you, suspicion is good, it leads to uncertainty and fear.

Let then come, let them drink; let them make asses of themselves. They may be insulting and vile, garish and crass, but the fact that they will never realise this is a peculiar comfort to me.

Sounds like so little. Why five hundred? It is the number of words that Maurice Bendrix, of Graham Greene’s “End of the Affair” set out to write each day. Five hundred being the ideal amount that a man can produce whilst maintaining any form of legitimate scrutiny over his work. What could be misconstrued as a minor personality trait within the character, in fact tells us a great deal of the methodical practice of Greene himself.

To work within personally allocated constraints is indeed one of the most challenging aspects that any artist must face. Their art may manifest itself in words and song, or in a visual format, but the time must still be spent in the studio, garden shed or bedsit transferring grandiose schemes of creativity into something more, well, marketable. This transition can be an arduous, difficult and ultimately frustrating task. This is for the simple reason that, no matter how many good ideas are floating around inside your head, it always seems to take a damn site more effort to construct them than originally planned.

There are those who find this a natural and familiar process associated with any form of creativity, also there are easily those of great diligence and discipline, who slave away all their waking hours in the hope of producing something which does suitable justice for their purpose. Is it a dedication issue, or merely one of the difficulties of imposing a regime on oneself?

Another question that could be derived from this is could this be the factor that separates the posturing creative masses from those with any true integrity?

When the world is our own, in which to do what we will, is it easier to hide behind the illusion of productivity? For if anything, I find that when there are ideas that deserve notation, the less company I desire. The thought of meeting and sharing concepts with the same individuals on a daily basis is a frightening one indeed. How then, can you ever truly gain an outsiders perspective? Or is it better to be your own critic? This, I imagine is where the methodology comes in.

To sit and verbalise ones thoughts might be a cathartic and emotionally beneficial process, but without self censorship, the descent towards self indulgence can be easily embarked upon. In any deeply personal form of self expression, is it best to completely let go? To bare your soul and suffer what retaliation you may endure. When revising and examining material that seems to flow so freely at a given moment, how can it be that it later presents itself as hastily compiled, melodramatic and possibly just badly written?

So for the present future, I fully intend to examine my output more thoroughly than previous efforts may have suggested. Any writer cannot write for his own benefits alone, the reader must be a consideration on some level. Not that content, tone and meaning need be altered, merely presented with a greater attention to detail.

You can climb in behind Salvador Dali’s Mae West Sofa and stick your head up behind it for comedic effect. You may get in trouble though.

I never thought that I would ever get to see Tom Waits. Not the most profound introduction to a review, but it was as simple as that. He just seemed to play so few concerts, with his tours over the last decade being sporadic, to say the least. The announcement of the Glitter and Doom tour filled me, as I am sure it did many, with great excitement and hope of attaining a ticket.

Paris was exceptionally hot and the id requirements for entry to the concert provided several logistical problems. The main drawback was the endless queuing. The day before the concert, we went to pick up our pre booked tickets, thinking that this would be the sensible time saving thing to do. After waiting for an hour, we managed to acquire them thinking that entry on the following day would be a swifter affair. Wrong. More hours were spent waiting in the blistering heat before the show. The doors didn’t open until an hour and a half after the announced time. Then when inside, where there was no bar, the show was late starting. However, none of this could really detract from the event that followed.

Waits captivated all within seconds of his arrival, his sideshow hawking, demented ringmaster persona in full effect tonight. Taking place on a customised podium, rigged with several foot pedals which set off a thundering percussion through the rows of tannoy speakers that hung from the ceiling, he stomped on the wooden panelling of the podium, sending a cloud of sawdust into the air, emphasising his silhouette in the harsh primary coloured spotlights. Stomping and barking, gesticulating wildly and doing some rather nifty things with his hat, he dove into a set, lasting two hours in length, with only one break of a few moments.

This was all accompanied by further percussion, thanks to his sons Casey and Sullivan, with Seth Ford Young on upright bass, organs and lots of saxophone. The primary sound of the night was that of Waits’ recent material and style, more Blood Money and Orphans than Mule Variations and Big Time. The heavy gospel howls exemplified by the clunky blues riffs, dreamlike organs and thundering drums. Stomping his way through an earth shattering Rain Dogs, followed by a beautiful rendition of Falling Down, I was already bleary eyed and perfectly happy to sit and quietly revel.

His trademark banter and fantastical stories were as amusing and ridiculous as ever. His proclamation that he was going to show us all his glass eye, then bounce it around the stage, led into an eerie Eyeball Kid. Gods Away on Business, Lie to Me and Hoist That Rag left a shattering effect. Waits showed no signs of his 58 years, ever the showman; this was theatre at its best. The show was truly magnified by the decadent and intimate settings of Le Grand Rex, an old cinema and vaudeville joint, this could not have been more perfect for Waits. Cantankerous and wry, he stopped a song halfway as the crowd were clapping off time and putting him off. “It’s clear to me that none of you come from a musical background, you will clap when I signal. See this hat, this means I’m in charge. Now I feel that we’ve all come a little further in our relationship, we shall proceed.”

After almost an hour of intense lighting and booming renditions, the band retired, leaving Waits solo on piano, for a short performance of some of his quieter songs, namely Tom Traubert’s Blues, Johnsburg, Illinois and conducting a beautiful sing along version of Innocent When You Dream, not one person could complain that the set was not varied enough. He took quality selections from his entire back catalogue. What I cannot wait for is to see if he will ever do a tour of playing his individual albums, like Sparks did. That would certainly be worth seeing. After the piano, it was back to the clomping around, his dusty work boots epitomising the junkyard vagrant side of the man. Dirt in the Ground was sad, Make it Rain was scary; Jockey Full of Bourbon was sublime. Very few artists can do all these things, let alone well.

So, after over a decade of affection, the man who has seen me through so many late nights, sparked so many conversations and evokes so many memories, was no longer just an idea, it was a joy to behold and an experience that I hope to achieve a few more times round at least. Here’s hoping the touring experience for him is a good one, for in a musical world so full of mediocrity and predictability, it’s a comfort to know that there are still men like Waits about, just to keep rattling things up.

The complete set list was as follows. Pictures to follow. Although cameras weren’t allowed and we nearly got booted out for using it (even with no flash), but we got a few!!!!

Lucinda / Ain’t Going Down To The Well No More
Rain Dogs
Falling Down
The Other Side Of The World
Lucky Day
God’s Away On Business
Hold On
Eyeball Kid
Jesus Gonna Be Here
You Can Never Hold Back Spring
Johnsburg, Illinois
Tom Traubert’s Blues
Innocent When You Dream
Lie To Me
Hoist That Rag
Heigh Ho
Lost At The Bottom Of The World
Hang Down Your Head
Poor Edward
Black Market Baby
Dirt In The Ground
Make It Rain
Way Down In The Hole

Jockey Full Of Bourbon
Anywhere I Lay My Head