When he plays guitar, he usually sits on a chair with a bottle of beer on the floor by his feet. When he sings, his voice is a boarish, Lucky-Striken rasp that sometimes sounds like Tom Waits delivering a tomcat serenade underneath a window. Behind him, a cymbal crashes like the clanging lid on a garbage can. The bass throbs like a hangover, and the band kicks into a disheveled, slightly-rumpled blend of blues and jazz tunes. They sound a little like Tin Pan Alley songs, but dented and ta...