Written by Bob Dylan this song is the toned down, more reflective brother of "Sunday Morning Coming Down". Supposedly written for Dylan's ex girl Suze Rotolo I never thought it captured any feeling of solitude and loneliness until I heard this cover, Walker's raspy fragility exponentially more poignant than in its original form. I may listen to this song on a regular basis but it has been a long time since I heard it in the proper context:
I had just returned home after being away for about a month, before I left I was toeing the line of alcoholism with various slips into full bore destructive mode. For the month I was gone I wagoned up and felt pretty clean, when I came back I was determined not to toe it all again. However, the first night began with eight martinis followed by a twelve of Rolling Rock and two packs of reds. I woke up the next day, made a few phone calls to the enablers I hung with and popped open a bottle of scotch, one glass neat never hurt anyone. We took a ride to the store for some more sauce and after being in the car for not two minutes I rear ended someone. Solved the problem with some sweet talking and continued, on the way home I was pulled over in front of my house as I was about to pull into the driveway, with a stern warning I was released and saved once again from a DUI.
With the adrenaline of the event and the bulletproof ego building we headed back for some more of the brown and continued to rage. Ended up at a party and wandered off for a drive and a pack of cigarettes with my boss's wife. On the way home found a way to drive my other car through a few trees and shrubbery, bending two of the rims; pushed the car down the street back to the party. I had a flatbed come and pick the car up as well as give me and a buddy a ride home, we finished three glasses of scotch a piece with the driver while listening to David Allan Coe.
The next morning I arose in a foggy state, looked out the window and saw both of my modes of transportation wrecked, empty bottles in the kitchen and blood all over my sheets as well as crusted on the side of my body from the broken wine glass I spent the night with, the sun was cresting over the horizon as I looked out over the river and saw the southern haze begin to form for another Sunday of oppressive humidity. In my robe I sat on the balcony, sweating already at six in the morning, thick saliva forming in my mouth while the anxiety set in. This song was a friend patting me on the back saying not to worry about it all.
I know Jerry Jeff had more mornings like these than not and as much as we all hate them it is something to revel in, to appreciate, because in the end without them there would never be songs like this. And in the end we would never know just how far that line is and the dangers of crossing over.
The stripped down guitar, the lonely echoing harmonica, Jerry's voice struggling "Up the streets start barking, the day's getting light, I just spent another lonely lonely restless night" the hesitant, subdued cheering after the solo (yea the crowd knows those mornings), it all comes together in an anthem dedicated to the times when you can't figure out just where you've been and where you'll be heading. It doesn't necessarily take bouts of depressive alcoholism to listen to this song, and if you are in one it doesn't really help to pull you from its grasp but it does make it much more enjoyable.
