Tom Waits

Alice was issued simultaneously with the shadowy Blood Money, an exercise in opposites that showed Waits in full command of his artistic facilities. Bar none, this collection is the most compassionate, devastatingly tender set he has ever produced. The opening title track brings to mind waitresses Waits swooned over in '70s ballads, but no longer is he playacting a desperate, world-weary old man; he is one. Forget about picking favorites; Alice deserves to be carefully considered from start to finish. It's a triumph of one of America's most evocative songwriters.

For a guy who operates in self-imposed exile from this business we call show -- going an
eternity between albums, even longer between tours -- Tom Waits knows how to make an
entrance. In the first line of "Poor Edward," a tall tale of satanic possession and suicide on
Alice, one of his two new records, Waits devours the victim's name with Shakespearean
relish, stretching it out in a malignant growl, like a burned-out coroner showing... More >