I zip up my boots and make a mad dash out into the Ridgewood, Queens, dusk to witness Bloodshot Bill around the corner at Jones Bar. Tonight my favorite one-man band is stopping off at my favorite local for a last-minute gig on his way down to a festival in New Jersey. And I don’t want to miss a beat of the Canadian rock ’n’ roll wild man’s locomotive electric guitar, kick drum, and hi-hat rhythm symphony or his broad vocabulary of howls, growls, and hollers. I’m ready to experience the fire of the exquisite entertainment spectacle that fellow Bloodshot Bill fan John Waters famously described as "Roy Orbison with a head injury."

I stumble through the door to find him strumming an acoustic guitar and crooning country songs to a youngish neighborhood crowd. It isn’t what I anticipated, but with Bill I’ve learned to expect the unexpected and love him even more for it. Plus, the man still put on a heck of a show and had the thirsty room wrapped around his little finger by the time he strolled off stage.