There’s something so reassuring about listening to early Americana like this alone late at night. Why, I don’t quite know. Perhaps because there’s a point in the early hours of the morning, when everything is asleep and still around you and your consciousness is dulled and fading, that time becomes ambiguous. Outside the four walls enclosing you, it could be any time, any place. The concept of ‘when’ flickers uncertainly. Your exhaustion has a weight like age, you are old and you feel nostalgic for decades of a past you never lived.