The title fits the release date, two months into peak-pandemic here in New York, as far as the daily casualty reports anyway. Nobody was too anxious yet to get outside. There was the virus, and then the weather had been unseasonably cool and rainy. We were all hiding.

The jazz connection is a lot easier to hear in this collection. There’s no mistaking the roots. The noir bit comes in loud and clear as well. It’s very soundtrack-ish, perhaps not French New Wave era but how we might imagine that era of film now, maybe slowed down a bit.

The weekend is, for all intents and purposes, done. Stick a fork in it. It’s funny that Sunday night will just always be Sunday night. It makes no difference that my setting at 9 o’clock tomorrow morning will be pretty much the same as it is now, but six feet towards a different spot in the room. Sunday night is the night for haunting, by the ghost of the weekends that didn’t come to pass, and the ghosts of Monday morning that may or may not come.

I’m just going to let the music speak. You’ll hear it when you hear it, but when you do, you’ll hear a thousand Sunday nights in it. That’s a guarantee. You’ll know what I’m talking about and you’ll know just how I was feeling when I sat down and typed this.