I first heard William Fitzsimmons before I saw him. As I stepped down the stairs of the Duck Room, the basement venue of the must-see Blueberry Hill in St. Louis, I took notice of the heartbreakingly tender voice that filled the hushed room. That soft voice forced me to pause; it contained this indescribable, poignant quality that instantly captured my attention. So, before I moved further to find my post in the audience for the rest of the show, I went to Fitzsimmons’s merch stand to buy his then latest release, Goodnight. Thirty aurally pleasing seconds was all I needed.
