Cloaked within the casual confines of a brass-buttoned jean jacket, spectacles steaming against the sweat creeping from his forehead, William Matheny is the quaint town Poet Laureate - that Seer with the Deets surrounding the Friday Night follies that transpire beyond the flashing yellow traffic light across from the local gas station. He’s lost between the strums of his guitar, habitually pushing the glasses back onto his nose between chords. The stage is his arena - at least for a short time - an elegant veracity of sound and word colliding before the crowd. Make no mistake, this is creative energy in full bloom: Matheny, the Maestro, in complete control. It’s Hemingway and Petty thumb-wrestling on a dirty summer road.