Silly that a harrowing experience like Anywhere I Lay My Head doesn't outlive the nursery rhyme gossip of Cemetery Polka. That the slick, James-Bond-latin of Jockey Full Of Bourbon somehow resonates deeper with this group than the masterful backwoods porch yarning of Gun Street Girl. They're all fine songs, executed deftly by Tom Waits. Time and Anywhere I Lay My Head are desolation hymns of perfect stitchery though. In the temple, they are among the altars. They underpin the very soul of the album. I am so surprised to find out the people here take them for garden statues.

Waits’ loves a good scarecrow metaphor, so: without the songs Clap Hands, Time, Rain Dogs, and Anywhere I Lay My Head, we just have stylish clothes hung on branches. Clap Hands gives you the essence of the world, Rain Dogs gives you the essence of the people, Time gives you the essence of their hearts, and Anywhere I Lay My Head gives the essence of their triumph.

Without these, we’re just passing a neighborhood of stories, taking an early night in one of their bars, and then simply catching the ten o’clock train home.