In a city, I’m somewhere in an indigo mood and listening to In the Wee Small Hours, the album, the heavy eyelids and first deep nap after the concept album’s surprising and easy birth. The idea was so decadent, to make all that music about a solitary human thing. God deserved the attention, the composers knew and had circumscribed for ages. But to sense an expanse on Earth and react with feelings both observational and adventurous, that was manifest destiny’s spit fading into pastoral American desire. Sinatra gives us CinemaScope of the heart here. In a night scene, acres of grassland lie flat and dark with a few trees in the foreground, trunks hoping you’ll sit among their roots and lean against them. The nearest clock is far away. You cleared, scrubbed and had to walk. The bark is damp, and your thoughts roll outward, gentle across mixes of glacier-tamped clay, still stoic. Somewhere, though not within sight, the land gives up its plain and revolves similarly. You’re in a city, you know, playing an album. But play the album and tell me I’m wrong.