Snapshots of a Friday night in Knoxville's Old City

Dusk comes a little earlier as the summer wanes, the days drawing to a close in increments so minute that it catches you off guard.

One minute, you're sitting in a restaurant, enjoying a meal with friends, the air conditioning a welcomed respite from the heat shimmering off of concrete and glass and blacktop outside. The next, you step out the door, full and drowsy, and the Western sky is the color of bruises, the stars coming into focus in the East like pinpricks through a blanket of night.

In downtown Knoxville, the block of Gay Street just up from the Knox Area Rescue Ministries -- also known as the Mission -- teams with an odd assortment of characters. The well-to-do walk past the down-and-out on their way into Nama, the sushi restaurant, a stone's throw from the Volunteer Ministry Center. The homeless wander these blocks after the center closes its doors, aimless, like the survivors of an ant colony wondering what to do when an errant footstep has destroyed the mound.

Across the street, the Sterchi Lofts rise up, the old brick facade disguising the opulent splendor within. Orange construction barrels dot various intersections, and the constant buzz of interstate traffic is conspicuously absent with the closure of Interstate 40. Flyers for a missing cat, a dog wash, a rock show flutter from telephone and utility poles. The sidewalks are cracked blocks of masonry casserole, still holding onto the day's heat even though the overhead oven that is the Southern sun in July is off.

Down Jackson Avenue, in the heart of the Old City, a bleary-eyed singer-songwriter orders a couple of bourbon-and-Cokes at a bar that won't get busy until after midnight. He plays across the street at The Pilot Light, that funky little indie rock club where the scene kids often crowd around the doorway, smoking and staring off into the Abyss, which looks suspiciously like a couple of garbage cans and a crammed-full alley separating it from Hanna's Cafe next door.

His name is Jim Bianco, a traveling troubadour who's happened to luck up and land two gigs, back-to-back, opening for Americana goddesses right here in East Tennessee. On this night, he's the warm-up act for Tift Merritt at The Pilot Light; the next he'll take the stage at The Bijou Theatre opening for Shelby Lynne.

He has the clipped accent of a native New Yorker, even though he's been in Los Angeles for the past several years. He drinks too much, he admits, and as he talks about LA and the road and music, he seems distracted. His timing is just a little bit off; his head turns a fraction of a second after someone says his name, and his cigarette drifts like an afterthought stuck between fingers, trapped midway between tray and lips.

He climbs on stage with an invisible mask, shifting from a morose frame of mind to affable and witty, bantering with the crowd and telling stories with the aplomb of a master craftsman. The normally raucous Pilot Light crowd, while admittedly skewed in favor of Tift Merritt fans who have likely never set foot in the place, is subdued during his set -- silent, even, as he presents his songs with nothing more than an acoustic guitar and a voice that's pleasantly grating, like Tom Waits tempered with a little Joe Henry.

His subdued approach to performance is a stark contrast to Ms. Merritt, who takes the stage with the effervescence of a Sunday school teacher excited to impart new lessons on a room full of adoring students. A tiny little thing, she's barely visible over the heads of standing audience members near the front, even wearing 4-inch heels. Shifting from guitar to keyboard, her voice soars, filling the small room with bits of her soul that flit back and forth like fireflies, cupped and wondered over by fans moved by her music.

Outside, Jim leans against The Pilot Light's plate-glass windows, smoking and gazing up and down the street. The girls in their short skirts saunter past, stepping around the Pilot Light denizens as if afraid they'll catch something on their way to the Old City's dance clubs. They quicken their pace just a little bit, occasionally stealing a furtive glance at The Pilot Light's doorway, both intrigued and repulse by the gritty little establishment and the music emanating from within, no doubt strange to their ears.

He watches them for a moment, those sleepy eyes never seeming to focus. A college kid carrying a box of pizza leftovers from Barley's walks by; a few minutes later, he's giving it to a couple of guys who claim to be homeless and hungry. One bums a smoke from Jim; aside from the request, they say nothing.

Night deepens. Bands stop playing in one bar, start up in another, and the sounds of hip-hop from the dance clubs bounce back and forth from store front to store front. Tift Merritt finishes playing, and as we leave, Jim Bianco is still standing there, still smoking, one more ghost of an Old City night that never seems to end.

Steve Wildsmith is the Weekend editor of The Daily Times. Contact him at steve.wildsmith@thedailytimes.com or at 981-1144.