Bob Log III, London Metro Club, 7th May
Bob Log III, according to his official biography, lost his left hand in a childhood boating accident. The hand was replaced by a monkey paw, which explains why he can play the guitar twice as quickly as anybody else. This one-man band from Tucson, Arizona, wears a bright orange bodysuit and a large silver motorcycle crash helmet. He never removes the helmet in public and rumours circulate at large regarding his identity. I can confirm, however, that contrary to popular belief, he is not one of the Strokes in disguise. He has installed a telephone microphone, secreted by a length of vacuum cleaner tubing, into the part of the helmet next to his mouth. He calls his guitar String Around A Stick, plays cymbals and drum furiously with his feet, and almost all the songs are about boobies.
"Now I gonna play the fastest song in the mothafucken’ world..." Log pulls a customised Bob Log III designer tea cosy over his head, "...Blindfolded!" He plays with alarming speed and there is macro-pandemonium; three or four brave headbangers in the crowd, a deafening racket, indecipherable screeched lyrics (almost certainly about boobies), and at the centre of it all, a skinny, hairy lunatic wearing a tea cosy over a crash helmet.
After demanding a double Scotch on the rocks from the bar, Bob has a little game for us to play. "Boob Scotch!" he screams through his telephone mic, every word attracting chalk-on-blackboard spine-in-skull feedback.
"Yeah! Come on! Let’s play Boob Scotch!" A male photographer is the first to dip his boob into Bob’s double Scotch. "Dude Boob’s fine with me!" Three female members of the public also oblige, with the breast-covering fabric of their clothing. None of us can see his face, but from his body language I’m sure Bob is disappointed that he’s been denied pure boobie. He takes a swig of Boob Scotch and turns psychic. "You’re 36 years old, you’re 24, you’re 28, and you’re... 12!!! I ain’t drinking no 12 year old Boob Scotch. That’s illegal!!!"
He’s a little like a one-man White Stripes, although his distorted telephone mic voice is similar to Tom Waits. There’s a little Ed Hamell in him, some Billy Childish and a dose of Lightnin’ Hopkins. He describes himself as a ‘blunk’ artist (blues/punk crossover) and his lyrics, an irrelevancy anyway since they can’t be understood, are Bloodhound Gang. All his songs sound very similar but thanks to his bizarre appearance and his sheer energy it doesn’t become dull. For the final song of the night (I think, entitled Boob Trap, there’s a ongoing theme here...) a girl sits on each of his legs so that when his feet pound against the percussion we can all admire their jiggling boobies. And at the end of the song he bends over and lets people in the crowd kiss his magical helmet. Immature, ingenious fun.
posted by Matthew at 11:07 AM
