<http://schema.org/reviewBody>
"&lt;wm:embed type=\"related\"&gt;&lt;/wm:embed&gt;&lt;p&gt;Tom Waits bellows through &lt;em&gt;Real Gone&lt;/em&gt; like he&amp;apos;s been knocking back pure lava, rasping out sinister names and details: Horse Face Ethel, Knocky Parker, &amp;quot;a tattoo gun made out of a cassette motor and a guitar string.&amp;quot; Waits has all but purged his early records&amp;apos; boozy, sentimental side &amp;#x2014; his one attempt at heartstring-tugging here, the ambivalent soldier&amp;apos;s lament &amp;quot;Day After Tomorrow,&amp;quot; is the album&amp;apos;s slackest moment. These days, he prefers the ravaged lift-and-slam of prison work gangs, such as the murderer&amp;apos;s catechism of &amp;quot;Don&amp;apos;t Go Into That Barn&amp;quot;: &amp;quot;Did you cover your tracks?/Yes, sir!/Did you bring your knife?/Yes, sir!&amp;quot; Waits retains his knack for recruiting world-class musicians &amp;#x2014; notably spider-clawed guitarist Marc Ribot and Primus&amp;apos; Les Claypool and Brain Mantia &amp;#x2014; who can play like they&amp;apos;re falling down the stairs of hell. The percussion behind a lot of these songs is Waits&amp;apos; own coughs, barks and gurgles, a sort of brain-eating zombie-alien-beatbox effect that underscores the lyrics&amp;apos; savage visions. &amp;quot;Make It Rain&amp;quot; is a plea for retribution, not grace, but the God of the ten-minute &amp;quot;Sins of My Father&amp;quot; sneers, &amp;quot;Don&amp;apos;t give me your tinhorn prayers.&amp;quot; The core of &lt;em&gt;Real Gone&lt;/em&gt;, actually, is gospel music flipped inside out &amp;#x2014; an unholy voice, singing about the conspicuous absence of divine mercy.&lt;/p&gt;"^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.rollingstone.com/music/albumreviews/real-gone-20041028>