The sound was awful, but the band was good. Quiet. Precise. Bass and guitar and that’s all.
And the singer lacked the intensity, but who doesn’t? She didn’t try to be Waits. No one can be, though many have tried.
And the beer was flat, but the lovely bar-lady brought me an extra-large helping of bourbon. And that’s basically what you need for that perfect Waits evening:

A wild turkey, make it a double.
A five o’clock shadow deep into its second week running,
and a bass line that can kick you into next Friday.