Dear Niel and Ward,

I'd like to tell you -- and indeed I know I promised to tell you -- that the Tom Waits show tonight sucked. Sucked in ways that will take generations of scholars to find, maybe even invent, words to describe its suckitude.

I'd like to tell you that they didn't turn the formerly raucous "Murder in the Red Barn" into a slinky, muscular blues vamp. That the obscure "November" from Waits' Weimaresque The Black Rider didn't bring the house down. That he was in bad form and couldn't hit that gorgeously raspy falsetto at the end of "Shore Leave." That he'd lost his storytelling gift, and that there weren't funny interludes about square watermelons, boxing the crowd up individually in road boxes to take to the next show, and the thought of a man named Dolittle going to the unemployment office.  That he wasn't a herky-jerky, in-the-moment, epitome of the inspired artist.

But, alas, I can't. The show was everything I hoped it would be. Waits was in fine form, marionetting himself around the mike stand while he growled out poetic lyrics about god, the devil, love, murder, blue valentines, storms, and food. The band was tight, sinewy, with loads of interesting percussion. The crowd hooted and hollered all night. They clapped in time to "Clap Hands." They leapt into the call-and-response of "Don't Go Into That Barn."

I'd like to say that the set list -- a wildly eclectic mix of obscure tracks that paid little attention to classics that would dominate my personal best-of comp -- was a letdown. Instead, it put many songs into a new light, adding to my appreciation for each one. Some new favorites were born tonight.

You had your reasons for not being able to go. Good, sound reasons of newfound love, and of familial obligations gladly taken on. Out of respect for that, I'd like to tell you that Tom Waits was worth missing. But he wasn't. It was worth every penny, worth every mile.

Yours in good-natured taunting,

a