Ralph Carney, a vital component to Tom Waits’ “original” sound
If there’s a sonic through-line to be found in the best “offbeat” rock and roll of the late 20th century – where the looseness of free jazz and improv comedy and sci-fi B-movies and Weirdo comic books infiltrated the space and welcomed the nerds in – Ralph Carney always seemed to be at the centre of it.
A horn player who mastered a dozen instruments and invented new ones when the others weren’t sufficient, Carney collaborated with a who’s who of the brashly bizarre over his 40-year career, from the B-52s, Jonathan Richman, and Elvis Costello to They Might Be Giants, Yo La Tengo, Les Claypool, and St Vincent. He recorded backing music for the poetry of William S Burroughs, played one of the great sax solos in indie rock history on Galaxie 500’s ‘Decomposing Trees’, and joined his nephew Patrick Carney of the Black Keys to create one of the best TV theme songs of the past 20 years for the Netflix animated series Bojack Horseman.
One of the biggest impacts Carney made, however, was as a recurring member of Tom Waits’ band, both in the studio and on the road. That’s him playing the sax on ‘Jockey Full of Bourbon’ from 1985’s Rain Dogs, and he can be heard contributing three different horns and a violin throughout the 1987 album Frank’s Wild Years. The clarinet and tuba on 1993’s The Black Rider: that’s Carney, as well. All told, he was an ever-present factor in the development of some of Tom Waits’ most unique and exciting work across more than a decade.
“The highly imaginative and original Ralph Carney is gone,” Waits said in a statement following Carney’s untimely death in 2017 at 61, caused by a fall inside his Portland, Oregon home. “Ralph came from the land of strange and whimsical. He could be exploding like popping corn or stretched out like taffy, capable of circular breathing and punctuating and drawing shapes that dangled from your ears. He was simultaneously very old and very young and both an endearing and enduring pain in the ass. Bless you, Ralph, wherever you are.”
Carney’s trademark sound was developed during his early days in Akron, Ohio, when he was a member of the band Tin Huey, part of a vibrant and boundary-pushing music scene that also produced Devo, Chrissie Hynde, and The Waitresses. By the mid-1980s, after relocating to San Francisco, Carney started working with Waits; a coming-together of perfectly matched oddballs with a love for a certain type of jagged, visceral folk-jazz; the kind traditionally relegated to circus folk or wartime Bowery buskers.
“[Ralph] was a one-thousand per cent original human being from top to bottom, left to right,” the Waitresses’ Chris Butler told the Akron Beacon Journal in 2017. “Nicer than he had to be; completely unique approach to just about everything. Loved a good laugh to the point where everything had to be a good laugh.”
Therein lies another critical aspect of Carney’s contributions to the work of Waits and dozens of other musicians. He wasn’t afraid of making “art rock” that didn’t take itself too seriously; that leaned into the funny and absurd. He also seamlessly adapted his weirdness into the existing weirdness of the artists he played with, never looking to steal the spotlight or direct them away from their instincts. That included his own nephew, who went on to drum with one of the most successful rock bands of the 21st century.
“I hope everybody is lucky enough to have someone as special as Ralph in their lives at some point,” Patrick Carney posted to social media after learning of his uncle’s death.
“He taught me so much. He sat me down at 15 and made me listen to The Shaggs. We all need an uncle like that.”
