The Ghosts Of Saturday Night, The Heart Of Saturday Night, Tom Waits [023]

The final song of The Heart of Saturday Night takes on a contemplative air, with Isy, Sam and Martin looking at the structure of both this track as well as the album as a whole. The virtue of the "Best Of" compilation, the wonder of covering Frank Zappa, and Waits as a voyeur wrap up our discussion... but not our season. [Disclaimer: This episode was recorded before the death of the peerless David Bowie] Song by Song is Martin Zaltz Austwick and Sam Pay; two musicians listening to and discussing every single Tom Waits track in chronological order. website: www.songbysongpodcast.com twitter: @songbysongpod e-mail: [email protected] Music extracts used for illustrative/review purposes include: The Ghosts Of Saturday Night (After Hours At Napoleone's Pizza House), The Heart of Saturday Night, Tom Waits (1974) We think your Song by Song experience will be enhanced by hearing, in full, the songs featured in the show, which you can get hold of from your favourite record shop or online platform. Please support artists by buying their music, or using services which guarantee artists a revenue - listen responsibly. Lyrics - The Ghosts of Saturday Night A cab combs the snake, tryin' to rake in that last night's fare And a solitary sailor, who spends the facts of his life like small change on strangers Paws his inside peacoat pocket for a welcome twenty-five cents And the last bent butt from a package of Kents As he dreams of a waitress with Maxwell House eyes And marmalade thighs with scrambled yellow hair Her rhinestone-studded moniker says "Irene" As she wipes the wisps of dishwater blonde from her eyes And the Texaco beacon burns on The steel-belted attendant with a ring and valve special crying 'Fill 'er up and check that oil You know it could be your distributor and it could be your coil' The early morning final edition is on the stands And the town crier is crying there with nickels in his hands Pigs in a blanket, sixty-nine cents Eggs, roll 'em over, and a package of Kents Adam and Eve on a log, you can sink 'em down straight Hash browns, hash browns, you know I can't be late And the early dawn cracks out a carpet of diamonds Across a cash crop car lot, filled with twilight Coupe Devilles Leaving the town in the keeping Of the one who is sweeping Up the ghosts of Saturday night