BY MIKE SHANLEY

Some of the things that make Tom Waits a fascinating artist can be attributed to the personal quirks that come out in his music. One minute he’s scaring the bejesus out of you, the next he’s breaking your heart. (Case in point for the latter: Discovering, in the final lines of “Kentucky Avenue,” that the romantic adventure he’s hatching involves a female bound to a wheelchair, rendering the plan either impossible or tragically naïve.)

His onstage persona also comes off like a trainwreck of various personalities. He shuffles and gesticulates like the old loveable rummy at the corner bar. He stands in stiffly front of a microphone like an arthritic circus ringmaster who’s having a heart attack or already had and doesn’t know it, with his fingers locked in a position that Thelonious Monk held over a piano. But when he tears into an impassioned version of “Falling Down,” a soul singer possesses him. Even if he doesn’t sound like Otis Redding, he has the unshakeable spirit.

Waits barreled into Columbus’ Ohio Theater and held court for just over two hours, putting all these qualities on display and in the process coming off like a family guy who lets his kids sit in with the big guns. The stage was designed with a combination of ramshackle junk scraps and musical equipment. A towering pole at the back of the stage held 20 vintage horn speakers, which blared scratchy 78s of country, western and ethnic records before the show. Speaking of ringmasters, Waits’ riser looked like it was nicked from some traveling carney’s trailer, with drawings on the side that resembled either Hebrew letters or hieroglyphics. A marching bass drum, several bullhorns and a fire alarm bell harnessed to a kick pedal all stood within arm’s reach on the riser.

Dressed in a bowler hat and mismatched undersized jacket and pants, Waits started the night off with a bang, literally. “Lucinda” began with him stomping on his riser, stirring up a cloud of dust and kicking the alarm bell. His stiff hand movements were largely for show, but throughout the night they also conducted the five-piece band in and out of time shifts and final chords. “Cemetery Polka,” from Rain Dogs, offered the best example of this, going into a warped waltz between verses, only to be jerked back by the leader.

Vincent Henry frequently did the work of two saxophonists, blowing two tenors at once when he wasn’t honking on baritone or blowing some gritty blues harp on songs like “Chocolate Jesus.” Guitarist Omar Torrez also provided plenty of tart leads, inspired by Marc Ribot’s recordings with Waits.

At this point in his career, Tom Waits’ material often sound like variations on two or three different tunes he’s composed over the past two decades. Sitting at the piano, he even quipped, “Oh hell, they all start like that,” while trying to explain an intro to bassist Seth Ford-Young. The variety comes in his lyrics, which might explain why cheers often went up in the theater one or two lines into a song. Sometimes older material didn’t have as much edge as the original recording. “16 Shells From a Thirty-Ought Six” lost some of the clunky charm heard on Swordfishtrombones. On the other hand, The Black Rider’s “Lucky Day” was transformed from an over-the-top drunk singalong into one of those heartbreakers when Waits used his more sincere voice to sing it.

The move to the piano also included something missing from the first hour of the show: the surreal Waits shtick. He added the occasional quip early on (“The banjo is from Detroit. Not the banjo player, the instrument.”), but it wasn’t until he sat at the 88s that he regaled the audience at length with tales of his first eBay purchase – the last dying breath of Henry Ford, captured in a Coke bottle – and the antiquated laws he discovered after visiting Oklahoma: “You can’t get a fish drunk in Oklahoma, It’s not allowed.”

But anything that sounds like a shortcoming can only be attributed to a fan’s lifelong anticipation of what a Waits concert might hold. In fact, his energy never wavered and he made everything count. The band sounded tight and when they missed cues, it was hard to tell if that was part of the plan or a flub. Waits’ son Casey knows how to play Pop’s junkyard beats and drive the band. (His other son Sullivan joined the group briefly on congas and clarinet, though Waits forgot to announce him during band introductions.) So when he came out for the second encore and played “Time,” it served as the ideal closing for a great evening.