One man he may be, but thin his sounds certainly are not.

With feet frantically pounding away on kick pedals rigged to a set of acoustic drums and cymbals strategically pieced together at the foot of his chair, Bob’s fingers simultaneously blaze across the fretboard of either an electric-hollow body guitar or amplified banjo— often employing a slide to milk every last drop of honk, twang, and down-home country backwoods-ness. The result is a cacophony of country rock and fast-paced rhythm that, although occasionally aided by drum machines, is largely generated by Bob himself.

Bob’s jumpsuit and telephone-microphone laden aviation helmet are true sights to behold. It’s as if the legendary one-man-band crooner himself, Hasil Adkins, had joined the Air Force as a test-pilot, accidentally ejected out of some top-secret experimental aircraft, and parachuted right down onto a set of drums with a beat up old guitar conveniently nearby. That or one of the guys in Daft Punk must have discovered the power of moonshine, and he didn’t bother changing the outfit afterward.

In any case, the telephone on his helmet is constructed to resemble an oxygen mask, and adds a layer of CB-radio-like qualities to Bob’s desert-worn Arizonan drawl. One can't help but be reminded of a trucker upon hearing the effect, and it's a sound very much befitting of his minimalist style of blues, punk, train beats and country rock.