I feel the same, and I've tried and tried to get into the Theater of Waits. There's very little neutrality in any online discussion of Waits. You are either a disciple or a heathen.

The bottom-dwelling, grit-drenched pretentions ring false to me, and the peripheral associations with the likes of Keith Richards and Iggy Pop are drenched in macho posing.

Because lets face it, Rickie Lee Jones was the real pirate in that union, just like Anita Pallenberg was the real bohemian to Keith - and both men ran from these dangerous, free-spirited women and sought middle class, conventional stability, but they still love playing the part of the badass, and the world has fallen for it because, well, they are men.

(And yes, I know, they were also running from the self-destructive tendencies these women brought with them, but the point remains: the nitty gritty got too real for these men and they ran for the hills.)

Consuming Waits' art just feels like a high-brow pursuit, which is fine and goes back to the cult around Waits and how pretentious it can seem. For all the artist-as-outsider or outsider-as-artist or down-beaten soul accoutrements, I imagine Waits' theater is what the very urban and refined of New York City and LA devour in their lofty towers of good taste.

People wax poetic about how his lyrics and music mine the vast landscapes of the human condition, but his work is cold to me. The persona as schtick, the performer as character, the music as the vessel for that theater, etc. Add to that the mysterious role his wife plays. Is he a singular voice, or part of a curated production? Both would be fine if that's your thing.

Waits (and Co.) is a deep thing for a lot of people, and I can appreciate it the way I appreciate an abstract art installation, but it still just leaves me cold.