Ryan Bingham is alone on a stage. Perched on a stool, clad in a scuffed and tattered cowboy hat, he fingerpicks his guitar and croons in his distinct, road-worn rasp about the death of a drug trafficker. He performs with the calm earnestness of someone whose rent depends on it but knows, even if evicted, everything is gonna be all right. Despite the sincerity of his delivery, outside a few of us lucky onlookers, the old honky-tonk where we find ourselves is entirely empty.