I’ve been listening to Tom Waits’ Nighthawks at the Diner (1975) as of late.
I admire the days of live-album recordings, of artists figuring out exactly how to play the song from start to finish, going through the motions over and over again until they settle on something resembling completion peace.
The Beatles were famous for recording scores of takes before deciding on a final version. Anyone who’s listened to The White Album Esher Demos, for example, knows there’s a magic to be found in individual takes that cannot be found anywhere else (“Child of Nature,” for example, is an early version of John Lennon’s 1971 masterpiece “Jealous Guy”).
Something something that old saw about the journey being just as important as the destination.
Artists tend to tacitly accept this truth, and then we go and do something stupid like hide away from ourselves without sharing any part of what makes us tick.
Why, I wonder, do we so often only share what is “complete” versus remember to honor the intrinsic truth that the journey is at least as valuable as the destination?
Maybe this is why I felt motivated to share a new recording of “Annabelle” this morning (the last time some of you heard it, it was a live recording in one of my favorite cocktail lounges in Paris, which is of course named after Nina Simone).
Here’s another reason:
I particularly enjoy playing piano on Sunday mornings, when only the bakeries are open and you can still hear the groans and yelps of the drunkards stumbling off of Rue de Lappe.
The other day I watched from my open window as a youngster chatted up another youngster wearing a mini-skirt next to the Burger King on Rue de la Roquette. She was smoking a cigarette with her back up against the metallic grating of the Chinese takeout, laughing at his boyish antics. He was too drunk to be seductive, but he was making her laugh, and when they departed, they held onto each other like life-rafts thrown from a sinking ship in the night.
One day, perhaps, someday far in the future, these two people will be in an unfulfilled relationship—two dogs in the yard, a happy home—and perhaps this young woman—call her Annabelle—will remember a time before that morning, a time before their story began, a time when she may have been happier alone.
Annabelle sings this song alone, her lover still in bed
In her own voice, to herself, sings what she never says …
I couldn't agree more with your reflection on the value of the journey in art. Sometimes, the raw and unpolished versions of a song or piece of art can capture a unique magic that gets lost in the pursuit of perfection. It's a reminder to embrace the process and share our creative expressions, even if they're not "complete." 🎶🖌️
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That's a very lovely song, all the more so for being a single-take recording. I too agree with your thoughts on the spontenaity of live performance adding something special. It does take an awful lot of practice to reach the point of expressing yourself spontaneously through art, though, which is slightly paradoxical.