For me, that artist is Tom Waits. His music hit me like a back-alley sermon: gritty, poetic, soaked in moonlight and motor oil. From the moment I first heard his voice—half growl, half gospel—I knew I’d stumbled into a world very much unlike any other.
And now, years down the road, I find myself knee-deep in a project I’ve dreamed about for a long time: creating a full-length tribute album to Tom Waits.
But here’s the twist—I’m not covering his songs. Not one.
Instead, I’m creating original music that lives in the shadow of Waits. Songs that echo his surreal storytelling, his rusted melodies, his junkyard jazz, and carnival blues. Songs that could maybe, just maybe, (or maybe not) walk alongside Swordfishtrombones, Rain Dogs, or Mule Variations—definitely not as equals, but perhaps as distant cousins with dirt under their nails.
This isn’t about imitation. You can’t be Tom Waits. That would be both impossible and pointless. But you can be inspired by his bravery—his willingness to let a song stagger, whisper, scream, or fall apart. You can chase that same wild freedom and filter it through your own imagination.
That’s what this album is: my inspirations, my stories, my sounds—but all of it haunted (lovingly) by the spirit of Waits.
Expect gravel and grace. Expect junk percussion and smoke-stained piano. Expect horns that sound like they were stolen from a ghost town Salvation Army band. Expect lyrics that hang out in dive bars, back alleys, circus sideshows, and strange dreamscapes. And most of all, expect songs with a soul. Because if there’s one thing Tom Waits taught me, it’s that truth can be found in the weirdest corners, and sometimes the most beautiful songs wear a crooked hat and a busted shoe.
This record is my tribute.
Not to the notes he played, but to the doors he opened.
Not to the man himself, but to the permission he gave us all to be wild, broken, and beautifully weird.
Thank you, Tom.
— Here’s a taste of what’s to come!
