Another Perfect Friday Night

I left the factory early yesterday, came home in the beautiful sunlight of an early Spring day. . . and sat inside.  Something somewhere is still wrecking me, some virus or bacteria. . . I hope for if it is not that. . . au revoir.  I was just pooped.  So I worked on some of the billions of unprocessed images in my cache  without bothering to even turn on some music.  And then the day was done.  It was just gone, first slowly, then suddenly.  It was Friday night, oh so lovely and exciting, something to make young hearts tremble.

I got into the car and picked up some takeout Thai and some beer.

Back home, alone, I made my place before the television and put on "Inside Llewyn Davis."  Or as I have been saying it, Llewellen Davis.

It was O.K. if you like movies about assholes.  I'm guessing, though, that not so many people do.  Not assholes who are boring assholes, anyway.  Davis must have been.  The movie was a like a joke booger the Coen Brothers wiped on your arm.

Afterwards, apparently having not gotten enough of the big Folk Scare of the early 1960s, I watched the documentary the Coens made with T Bone Burnett of a concert performed in New York City's Town Hall called "Another Day, Another Time" featuring David Rawlings and Gillian Welch, Jack White, Patti Smith, Joan Baez, and Marcus Mumford.  I say "featuring," but they were not the pick of the litter.  Nobody is as talented as Gillian Welch and David Rawlings at this sort of music, but they have given David his dues and have fronted him more which is a mistake.  Gillian Welch doesn't sound right without his crazy harmonies and incredible scales, but he is no front man and it shows.  Jack White was pitiful, sloppy and off key (though I loved his fiddle player far too much, she looking like such a bad, bad girl), and Patti Smith was just about nothing.  Joan Baez.  What can I say.  One is supposed to fold one's hands and look at his lap when she comes about, but I never liked it, never liked her, and the movie shows her to have become what she always was, dour and sanctimonious.  There has never been a spark of life in her music, just that overly-dramatic warble.  Fuck Joe Hill.

But man were the younger kids terrific.  The house band, The Punch Brothers were talented fun.  Rhiannon Giddens of the Carolina Chocolate Drops broke the bank.  And the Milk Carton Kids were the biggest find of the night.  Jesus, nothing has ever been tighter than they are.  But it was Lake Street Dive that stole everything but the small change.  Holy smokes. . . oh hell, just listen.

That is what you do on a perfect Friday night, I guess, what it comes to and all of that.  And now the weekend is not living up to its promise, clouds rather than sun, my nose still running, my knee tight and bent.  But I have ideas if not a plan.  I will do something rather than nothing.  You wait and see.