The night keeps going long after the reasons thin out. What remains is a person counting years in blocks of five and ten—first trying to get with the plan, then trying to be with friends again—while the body still refuses to stagger home. Stupid decisions are not regretted so much as defended; one of them is worth more than another stretch of careful life. The refrain that finally arrives is not triumph but a plain need: where are your friends tonight, then the softer wish to see them all.

The recording makes that need feel physical rather than nostalgic. A piano figure and a locked pulse run almost the whole length without letting the floor drop, thickening until the voice is riding a machine that will not tire even when the speaker admits he is. By the time the question turns into if I could see all my friends tonight, the groove has already spent its endurance proving the point: the party, the tour, the sales-force push into the dark all end the same way—still upright, still moving, and suddenly alone with the people who were supposed to be there.