But rather than fillet you with a switchblade, each one would prefer to regale you with an explanation - something that lends their story some dignity.
This air of steamy squalor is conjured by a collage of disparate sounds. Marimba brings 'dem jangling bones alive, accordions pump and wheeze, and trombones front a circus-troupe parade of misfits as they lurch past figures hunched in doorways and "rain dogs" shaving in the gutter.
The guitar of Marc Ribot picks out zigzagging pathways through the broken glass and rusty nails.
Waits himself is in full Cookie Monster mode, especially on album opener Singapore, where he barks out a fantasist's tale of maritime adventure. His gravelled throat burns with the effort.
Building on the departure into adventurous territory that Waits began with Swordfishtrombones (1983), Rain Dogs is, if anything, a more authentic experience.
While there's no getting way from the theatre of it all, the entire 53 minutes of this trip is dedicated to peering past the bluster that many edgier characters surround themselves in, and to gaining some small understanding of the lives of the downtrodden.
The never-a-dull-moment ethos that propels the album along throws up a grab bag of musical styles.
The tribal thump of Clap Hands gives way to the woozy Cemetery Polka and the Latin rhythms of Jockey Full Of Bourbon. The bluesy Big Black Mariah becomes the drunken waltz of Diamonds And Gold and the Springsteen-styled pop of Hang Down Your Head, and on it goes. Time and country ballad Blind Love are classics by most definitions.
By journey's end, it's impossible not to feel something for the rag-tag bunch you have met along the way.
