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The idea of an obstetrician-gynecologist who moonlights as an itinerant folksinger is obviously unusual. In the ’70s, for instance, the most ardent female fan of James Taylor might, in a moment of abandon, have selected him to deliver her babies, but that she would’ve ever forgiven him for preferring the road to her, especially in her hour of greatest need, is doubtful.

So far, Hill’s strategy for avoiding such conflicts has been to travel light (i.e., with only guitar, violin and PA) and to make his gigs both few and far between. But since the release last August of Solo Conmigo, his first album since his days with the New Orleans rockers Nuclear Choir, the gigs have begun to pick up. And with good reason: the album’s hushed virtuosity — especially on the Windham Hill-worthy instrumentals “Spanish Moon” and “Violin Crazy” — gives eloquent testimony to the skills of a musician capable of attracting fans and keeping their attention.

Hill, 37, grew up in New Orleans and began violin lessons as a child. By the time he reached high school, he’d abandoned formal training but was still practicing daily. “Nobody ever knew it,” he says. “I wrestled and played football, and it’s a little embarrassing to play violin and be on the wrestling team, so I didn’t tell anybody.”

Hill was less secretive about his other musical talents. From roles in high-school productions of Godspell and Fiddler on the Roof to singing and playing the guitar in garage bands, he began crafting an identity as a musician that at times would be the only constant element in his life. After entering LSU as a petroleum-engineering major, he switched to zoology, intending to complete the university’s pre-med requirements. He withdrew when it became clear that “fun” was his real major and that his GPA was headed south.

Then, after a year of doing everything from working as an electrician in the projects of New Orleans to shucking oysters and getting accepted by the architecture school at Tulane, Hill decided to re-enter the pre-med sweepstakes, this time at Loyola. Entering med school in ’86, he graduated in ’90 and began a residency that took him to Earl K. Long Hospital in Baton Rouge and the University Medical Center in Lafayette. In ’94 he and his wife made Lafayette their home, and by ’97 Hill and Nuclear Choir — after more than a decade as one of New Orleans’s hardest-working bands — parted ways. By the time he met and struck up a friendship with George Hollier at a Songwriters’ Night at Cornwell’s, he was ready to explore a new, quieter direction. “In Nuclear Choir,” laughs Hill, “I screamed a lot.”

He also wrote songs with his fellow Nuclear Chorister Ed Mitchell, one of which — “Burger King Girl” — has become a source of bittersweet emotion. It seems that Deadeye Dick’s Caleb Guillotte, an on-again, off-again friend of the band whose group often shared billings with the Choir and who produced its lone album, patterned Deadeye Dick’s 1994 smash “New Age Girl” after the similarly titled Hill-Mitchell composition. “I thought about suing Caleb,” says Hill. “In fact, when he produced our record, I said, ‘Well, thanks,’ because he did it for free. He said, ‘That’s OK. I mean, I ripped off ‘Burger King Girl.’”

At his Carrollton Station show (a show at which he shared the bill with Jim McCormick, the regional workshop coordinator of the Nashville Songwriters Association International), Hill performed not only “Burger King Girl” but also the latest song in his proliferating cache of “girl” songs, “Magnet School Girl.” “This song is about people who are smart enough to go to magnet schools,” he said. (After the show he explained that the song is dedicated to his wife.)

Like another high point of Hill’s set that night, the spiritually earnest “Jesus Christ,” “Magnet School Girl” does not show up on Solo Conmigo. Nevertheless, other songs that reflect Hill’s obsessions, intelligence and talents do, with the especially poignant “Didn’t Know Mama,” a song rooted in his own turbulent childhood, leading the pack.

“At Songwriters’ Night,” Hill recalls, “we’d try to have a new song every week, and I remember thinking, ‘What do I write about?’ George said, ‘Just write about stuff you know and see what happens.’ That’s all this stuff is—stuff I know painfully well.”