Bloodshot Bill has the speed and old country rhythm of a steam locomotive, with the voice of a smoking straw boss crying for that old moon on a dark and lonely street. His vocals echo in between the legs of every woman who hears him while their soda jerks hold on tighter to keep them from slinging bras and roses. Elvis by way of death-growl peppered with bee-boppa-boppa is the music you can’t sit down and listen to. Take your bongo beatin’ baby to a sock hop, or just to park. Rinse. Repeat.