I remember years ago a gaunt Bill Evans work his way into the Rowles tune down at the Vanguard, going down deep in the well. I was a moody wastrel back then and heard it as an elegy for lost youth. A load of crap. I wish Evans could've been playing behind Cohen last night -- the cerebral and the sensual in a one night stand.
Quist used to say, "Memory's a tricky bastard, poot. It'll splice scenes together into something that never even happened." That's okay, I think to myself, the past doesn't exist anymore anyway. It did, but no more. It's a movie now, unspooling in that little theater you got inside your skull. The Free Market Boys know it, that's why they don't dwell on it, they just keep selling us the future.
After listening to the young cats play, I walked out into the drizzly night and whistled away all regret. Call it time well spent.