We're idling at the end of a cul-de-sac, and we couldn't be more obvious. We're outside of a big house at the end of a little neighborhood in Fuquay-Varina. The three-story brick home with the pond and the dock has been well kept, its paint bright and shrubs trimmed. Two cars are in the drive, and the owners are probably home. From the driver's seat, though, the songwriter Al Riggs stares inscrutably at the suburban palace for several minutes. At last, he speaks.
