Bob Log III is an enigma. In the early 00s there were rumours (largely put about by an already increasingly dumbed-down NME) that the man behind the mask was an errant Stroke.  Initial press releases also told tales of a bluesman who owed his lightning fast picking style to a monkey paw, grafted in place of his real hand after a childhood accident. Whether you like to picture an aging Casablancas sweating under the visor or you spend the duration squinting for signs of simion dexterity, an opportunity to catch the man in action is not to be scoffed at.

Log is the alternative one-man-band, his swampy slide playing bolstered by clunks and bangs from foot-triggered samples as he barks through the phone receiver embedded in his fighter pilot helmet. Like the Tony Clifton of garage -blues, Log is a crass, exciting and, at some points, profoundly offensive showman. His topic of choice seems to be the female body and a variety of unsavoury uses he has found for its’ various working parts (Clap Your Tits, Boob Scotch, Shake Your Boot). Although he has been known to work in a coprophilic angle too (I Want Your Shit On My Leg).  

Parody, punk, balloons and a skinny Arizonan weirdo in a human cannonball suit, what more could you want? On Friday March 16th Mr Log will be dragging his dingy to Liverpool’s premier dockside venue Drop The Dumbulls. Support comes from Mr Marcaille and Liverpool punk pelters Salt The Snail. Let’s get weird.

Grab advance tickets for the gig here before they all go!

Stephen Lewin