For Whitey Morgan and the 78's, Monday is actually a Friday night. Tuesday is a Friday night. Wednesday is a Friday night. Thursday is a Friday night. Friday is a double-shot of Friday. Saturday is a re-run of the Friday night that happened an evening earlier and Sunday is mostly seen as one last excuse to squeeze another Friday night into the weekend before Monday hits and starts grinding them down again. What comes out of a succession of imbibing in whatever establishments pay the talent the fairest wages, offer the least watered down drinks and stay open the latest is a litany of stories to share that are only bound to be compounded the following day and the next and the next, right on into the rolling night of forever. Morgan, and his group of exemplary players, burn their candles at both ends and have never met a drink that they didn't like. They've got no rules about when it's too early for the first drink of the day or when enough's enough. They prefer to just maintain a nice even keel, maintaining a good, strong, relatively high whiskey ratio in their bloodstream. It's a lubricated life of honky tonks and the folks who make them their second homes, in Whitey Morgan songs. It's about being prepared to make lots and lots of mistakes, then making them and choosing which ones they're going to learn from and which ones were fun enough that they're going to try and make them again, at least once. Morgan and crew make the kind of country music that the old-timers would all take a shining to if they just had more tattoos and they had at least dabbled with those harder recreational drugs and were open to listening to stories about loose women in more descriptive ways. These are songs that chain smoke, spit and curse, but they're also built around exquisite musicianship and a front man who knows his way around those seedier, less populated sides of nights, as he sings, "I got a late start, but tonight I'm raisin' hell."