"These are things that have actually happened to me," says Waits, "or I've heard or read about. In any case they're all true."
We'll leave it up to you to decide.

EARLY MUSICAL INFLUENCES (PART I)

VOICE:
There's no one really in show business in my family but there were two relatives who had an effect on me very young and shaped me in some way. They were Uncle Vernon and Uncle Robert. I always hated the sound of my voice when I was a kid. I always wanted to sound more like my Uncle Vernon, who had a raspy, gravelly voice. Everything Uncle Vernon said sounded important, and you always got it the first time because you wouldn't dare ask him to repeat it.

Eventually, I learned that Uncle Vernon had had a throat operation as a kid and the doctors had left behind a small pair of scissors and gauze when they closed him up. Years later at Christmas dinner, Uncle Vernon started to choke while trying to dislodge an errant string bean, and he coughed up the gauze and the scissors. That's how Uncle Vernon got his voice, and that's how I got mine- from trying to sound just like him.

On Sundays, we'd always visit Uncle Robert, who was the organist at a methodist church in La Verne, California. Uncle Robert had a pipe organ in his house that went right through the roof. When he would play he would smear all the notes together like hot melted crayons and the whole house would shake.

I remember his house was a complete mess; his clothes were everywhere, his bed was never made. "Now this is show business," I thought to myself. I asked my mom why I couldn't keep my room like Uncle Robert's, and she said, "Tom, your Uncle Robert is blind."

GUITAR:
I have learned a great deal about music from other musicians, and from listening to the world around me. But when I was a kid growing up in Whittier, there was a red-headed boy named Billy Swed who lived with his mom in a trailer by the railroad tracks. Billy is the one who taught me how to play in a minor key.

Billy didn't go to school. He was already smoking and drinking at the age of 12, and he lived with his mom at the edge of a hobo jungle on a mud rain lake with tires sticking up out of it. There was blue smoke, dead carp, and gourds as big as lamp shades. You could get lost trying to find their place--through overgrown dogwood and pyrancantha bushes, through a culvert under a freeway, and through canyons littered with mattresses and empy paint cans.

While Billy taught me how to play, I noticed that he liked to draw on his jeans with a pen. Every inch was covered with these strange forbidden hieroglyphic tattoos that I was constantly trying to decipher. I was certain it was his own musical notation and that he had hundreds of songs written on his pants.

Billy's mother was enormous. I would look at her and then at the door to the trailer, and then back to her, and faced my first real math problem.
How could Mrs. Swed ever get through that door? As an eight-year-old, I remember thinking that Mrs. Swed was like a ship in a bottle and she would never be able to leave.
Somehow the trailer, the swamp, and Mrs. Swed all came out of Billy's guitar in a minor key.
It was New Year's Day after a week of heavy rain when I went back to their spot to see them again, but Billy and his mom were gone. But the secret knowledge of the chords he taught me was to outweigh all I learned in school and give me a foundation for all music.

SONGS:
I've always loved songs of adventure, murder ballads, songs about shipwrecks and terrible acts of depravity and heroism. Erotic tales of seductions, songs of romance, wild courage, and mystery. Everyone has tried at one time or another to live inside a song. Songs where people die for love. Songs of people on the run. Songs of ghost ships or bank robberies. I've always wanted to live inside songs and never come back. Songs that are recipes for supersitution or unexplained disappearances.

"They Call the Wind Mariah,"
"Teen Angel,"
"Bonnie Bonnie Bedlam,"
"Pretty Boy Floyd,"
"Springhill Mining Disaster,"
"Lonesome Death of Hattie Carol,"
"Winken, Blinken, and Nod,"
"The Sinking of the Titantc,"
"Three Ravens,"
"Zaz Turned Blue,"
"Pretty Polly,"
"Streets of Laredo,"
"Raglan Road,"
"John Henry,"
"Stagger Lee,"
"Ode to Billie Joe,"
"Frankie and Johnny,"
"Brother Can You Spare A Dime?"
"Volga Boatman,"
"In the Hall of the Mountain King,"
"Goodnight Loving Trail,"
"Strange Fruit,"
"Jacob's Ladder,"
"Spanish Is the Loving Tongue,"
"Lost in the Stars,"
"Sympathy for the Devil,"
"Auld Lang Syne,"
"Jesus's Blood Never Fails Me."
These are a few of my favorites.

EARLY MUSICAL INFLUENCES (PART II)

BLUES:
On the southside of Chicago, at the Checkerboard Lounge, the last great bluesman, Hound Dog Taylor, was performing before a rowdy audience and getting heckled by a drunk in the first row. Hound Dog pulled out a .38-caliber revolver, shot the drunk in the foot, put the gun back in his pants, and finished the song. I've thought of doing this many times but never had the courage.

SHOW BIZ:
I saw Monti Rock III in 1969 on the Sunset Strip at a place called Filthy McNasty's with six people in the audience. He was crawling through a bitter and distracted version of "Tennesee Waltz" when he suddenly stopped the band (the members of which were all wearing matching pink jumpsuits). The room screamed with feedback as he threw his drink against the wall and stabbed an amplifier with a mike stand, telling the six business suits in the audience they were all bloodsuckers. He laughed nervously as he sweated in the spotlight and delivered a purely psychotic confession that resembled a cross between an execution and a striptease.
In a style somewhere between a pimp and a preacher, he told stories of being a hairdresser in Puerto Rico and wanting to make it in Hollywood someday. He then lit up and sang "I Who Have Nothing" a cappella. I was there, and I knew that I wanted to get into show business as soon as possible.

HEAVY METAL:
It was Christmas Eve 1975 in Hollywood, California. I was visiting friends and drinking holiday beverage when we all agreed that the neighbor's stereo was up too loud-- Mahogany Rush up on ten. Fueled with liquid courage, I volunteered for the confrontation and staggered up two flights of outdoor stairs and banged on the door with a piece of firewood.
A giant came to the door. He was nine feet tall and his head was as big as a horse's. He said something in German and picked me up by the neck like a stuffed animal and tried to throw me off the balcony. I grabbed hold of him just as the banister gave way, and we both fell two stories into the alley, landing on a variety of bicylces.
He had picked me up by the belt like a suitcase and was preparing to try and fit my face into a faucet when I started laughing. And before I knew it, he was laughing with me. There we were, me and the giant, rolling around on the ground laughing, with Mahogany Rush going full blast and a stuffed Santa and a blinking electric reindeer laughing with us. This was my first real heavy-metal moment.

ELVIS:
I was in Memphis recently for a wedding and I couldn't resist going to Graceland. I especially liked the bullet holes in the swing set and the red faced uniformed teen usherettes and their memorized text delivered while gesturing at the rusted play structure. "Elivs and the boys were just having a little too much fun one night and came out for a some target practice." They also mentioned that Elvis had picked out all the furniture for the Jungle Room in just thirty minutes.

ADVENTURES IN SOUTH AMERICA

SUNKEN SHIP:
When I was a boy, I used to dive for pearls in the warm waters off the coast of Guaymas and San Felipe, where I discovered a sunken ship near San Blas.
I dove down murky corridors, pulling myself along the railings as I made my way toward the galley and the dining room. I pulled on a jammed hatch, looked inside, and saw one hundred skeletons--all sitting at tables and wearing tuxedos--suddenly stand up and raise their arms over their heads and start waving at me. Their bodies were decomposed, but their tuxedos were perfect.

HERMISILLO:
In Hermosillo, I had a midget prostitute climb up my bar stool and sit in my lap and order a double suicide and tell me how she murdered her pimp in cold blood at the Bali-Hai in Tijuana. It had been ten years and she had since become a born-again Christian and wanted me to help her raise enought money to get to Fatima.

MEXICAN CARNIVAL:
I remember when I was ten years old and I went to a Mexican carnival in San Vicente. I saw a woman with a tail, fourteen inches long, covered with hair. It was real. She let me squeeze it, and she smiled at me with a rotting grin. The accordion was ear-bleeding loud with yellow-teeth polkas, and I ate nothing but churros all night until the fair was just a smear of light. With sugar around my mouth, my head spinning and my ears ringing, we rode back to the ranch in a pickup truck loaded with thirty kids, pitch dark, everyone shouting in Spanish.
I was so sick the next day that they put me in one of the out buildings far from the main house. I was certain I'd been put out there to die, so I accepted it as a peaceful kindness. Every day, a little Mexican girl would come and visit me, and I would lick Kool-Aid out of her hand. And the doctor looked like Charles Boyer standing over me with a giant syringe, talking in Portuguese, squirting the yellow serum into the air.

THE NAKED CITY

PIMP WAR:
An all night donut shop at Ninth and Hennepin in Minneapolis. Chuck Weiss and I are having coffee at the counter, late, caught in the middle of a pimp war between two 13-year-old kids. One outside on the street, firing live ammunition, the other running into the cafi, diving behind the counter, unarmed, and screaming, "Leon you're a dead man!" A toothpick dispenser hurls toward the street, the beater of a blender, a spatula, and a handful of forks. Bullets hit the stove, a framed dollar bill, a china dog. Chuck and I drop to the floor while the jukebox pounds out "Our Day Will Come" by Dinah Washington. Each bullet changes the selection on the Wurlitzer to a different song, each more poignant than the one before.

IMPOUND:
Manhattan, middle of the night. Impound. Pier 74. Car towed and chain-ganged to hundreds of others in a hellishly dark garage. The woman behind the bulletproof Plexiglas turns and faces you. You can just make out the shotgun on her lap and the metal chain being hoisted in and out of her cleavage by a twenty-eight-inch neck. She stands between you and the rest of your life. One hundred twenty-five dollars and they could double it just `cuz they could. And your car looks ashamed and beaten. But you and your car will be much closer after tonight.

FAMILY FUN:
Something we have always done as a family is what we call "going for a spin." On a dark, rainy night, we take the old Caddy out on a stretch of treacherous, curving road and get it up to about ninety and slam on the brakes. The kids scream with glee because we always end up in a different place. It's better than the Cyclone or the Tilt-A-Whirl, and best of all, we do it as a family.

THE ANIMAL KINGDOM

VULTURES:
As a boy, we used to play a game of death where we would lie down in the desert and cover ourselves up to our necks in sand and wait for the vultures to come. One by one, they would appear--circling over our heads. And then the bravest would land and make the slow creep toward the eyes, and we could smell the rotting flesh and hear their squawk, low and rusty. And just when we could feel the wind from their wings and watch their necks curl into a question mark, we would jump out of the sand screaming, grab them by the necks, and swing them over our head like black lariats.

HAGFISH:
You want science fiction? Don't look too far. Take the Pacific Hagfish. Their only teeth are in their tongue. They eat other fish from the inside out. They bore into them, leaving a mere bag of skin and bones. They live off the coast of Mexico. They don't have a stomach, just an intestinal tube, but they have four hearts, one near the tail. They eat enthusiastically, but they have a low metabolism so they can go for months in capativicty without food. They are popular as a barbecue item in certain parts of Asia, and their skin is used for wallets, hats, shoes, and purses. They don't have any hard bones. They don't have any jaws or eyes, just some light-sensitive patches around their heads.
Perhaps the hagfish was the inspiration for the Cincinnati instructment builder Qubias Reed Ghazala's "photonclarinet"-- a photosensitive synthesizer that modulates pitch frequency and volume from two light sensitive-patches, offering a wide variety of tone-bent intervals. This allows the musician to create music from a beam of light that sounds like a lobster in a campfire.

BEES:
Scientists have now perfected a method of transplanting the memories of adult bees into bee embryos. Shortly after birth, the bees that received the transplant were able to find their way back to their donors' hives. With a microsyringe, scientists take proteins and molecules from the brain's memory center and inject them into the bee embyos. Steven Ray, who has devoted five years to this research, has revealed that the CIA is now doing the same experiments on humans and using its discoveries in the world of espionage. It seems that the only thing that will not say intact during the memory transplants are people's songs. This is the subject of a new film collaboration between myself and Jim Jarmusch entitled _They All Died Singing_.