Tom Waits

Tom Waits struck a pose, stomped his foot, and raised a cloud of fine, eerie dust. It was Thursday night at Birmingham's Alabama Theatre, and a near sold-out crowd had waited for this moment -- about 35 minutes past the scheduled start time of 8 p.m.

Special/Joe Odea/Pitchfork.comTom Waits in Phoenix, the first stop on the "Glitter and Doom" tour.

But when Waits appeared, any annoyance over the delay vanished, along with the apprehension that his concert might not be worth its $85 ticket price. His initial tableau -- dramatic, carnival-like, brilliantly bizarre -- established a singular tone that was upheld throughout the evening.

Audience members could not fail to realize that Waits, 58, is an uncompromising artist with a highly specific vision. Music and visuals merged seamlessly throughout the 135-minute show, which was darkly literary and gruffly poetic, with a vaudeville overlay and blues-jazz underpinnings. 

It pulled songs from many phases of Waits' 35-year career, such as "Hold On," "Chocolate Jesus," "Down in the Hole," "Frank's Wild Year," "Make It Rain," "Black Market Baby," "November," "Jesus Gonna Be Here," "Cold, Cold Ground," "Come On Up to the House" and "Innocent When You Dream."

Picture Waits this way: bowler hat, sparkly charcoal-gray suit (made of material like faux snakeskin), chocolate-brown shirt, weathered leather belt, heavy work boots.

Four rings, two on each hand. Deeply lined face that perspired heavily. Eyes that squinted and shut as he sang. Voice like barbed wire -- rusted, fuzzed and snagging through a junkyard -- with the occasional Al Jolson or Louis Armstrong timbre.

At first, you might have thought that Waits was channeling his vocals through special sound gear, striving for the thickest and fuzziest growl imaginable. Not so, however; the effects he produced were entirely natural.

The Birmingham date is one of just 13 concerts Waits has undertaken this summer in 12 U.S. cities. He seldom tours (this jaunt is called "Glitter and Doom") and has rarely, if ever, performed here.

Scarcity adds to his eccentric mystique, but Waits didn't rely on reputation to make an impact at the Alabama. Everything, from the lighting to the costuming to the props, was calibrated to suit his aesthetic. Even the dust helped to set the mood, emerging in chalky puffs when Waits pounded his feet on a low platform ringed with colored bulbs.

Of course, the enticing frontman -- part ringmaster, part clown, part twisted tramp -- took center stage. At times, it was difficult to tear your eyes away from Waits, but he often gestured to his five-member band, making sure its contributions were acknowledged.

Standouts included Waits' son, skillful drummer Casey Waits, subtle guitarist Omar Torrez and sax man Vincent Henry, who tossed off some stellar solos. Another member of the Waits family, younger son Sullivan, made a couple of cameos on congas and clarinet.

Although the concert lasted more than two hours, Waits kept listeners on the edges of their seats, wondering what he'd do next. No sluggish spots, no dead ends, just an immaculately paced, consistently exciting meld of music and theater.