Saturday, April 25, 2009

Bob Log 111 - My Shit Is Perfect
Voodoo Rhythm

One man blues berserker Log regales us once agin from ‘neath his flight helmet and telephone contraption with chest-beating, alpha-male tales from a junkyard of broken scales. Log’s syndrome is hypnotic riff repetition in a tuning as idiosyncratic as Leadbelly’s set to sociopathic woodcutter rhythms that will make you dance like Mike Patton in the From Out Of Nowhere vid, deliver rectal evacuating punches like Ricky Hatton – quite possibly to yourself - and shake your head ‘round like you’re forever landing in your leading lady’s Dolly Parton-esque abundant breast. He’s no snake oil salesman with quack remedies but mantras for thy feets to shuffle about to, with sermons spoken in tongues collected from roadside safaris in the deep south of wild dogs intestines. Though noted for his stage antics, this Arizona desert rat is a long ways from an addled curio or novelty that he may have once seemed – and anyone that decries a guy who can entice the female audience contingent to mix his whiskey with their nipples is simply jealous. (I abhor the cunt by the way – I just want some more VR rekkids!). This isn’t as metabolically disintegrating as his earliest serrated ultra-Sonic torrents of tormented country blues stomps – he wails on opener Goddam Sounds Good ‘Turn up my fucking guitar’ and such cantankerous inducements should be adhered to more - though this proves a boon as he resembles an electric-shock crazed JJ Cale or a Hubert Sumlin swinging every hellhound by it’s scabby tail as he clangs chaingang hollers such as Bang Your Thing At The Ball, the titular track and Shake A Little, Wiggle It, And Jiggle It Too. Some of the splintering crisp-packet percussion doesn’t sit too well atop the gut-atrophying congregation of gregarious chin/ear/forehead swelling spittoon blues grooves at times but insensate serenades like Mr. Sis Boom Bah, Bucktooth Potato and Bumper Car he adeptly demonstrates his undoubted proficiency at the asylum inmates grand prix pile up of pickpocket-fast fingerpicking and artery-ailing slide-swipes. The occasional, purposeful tape-glitches that riddle various tracks like Bump Pow! Bump Bump Bump Pow! and Manipulate Your Figments manage to meld thirties carny blues of lore to trailer park monster truck trash-fests between the best of Butthole Surfers and Ministry while the bunny-fuck of Shinkansen Teh!! could easily eclipse itself under Belgian hardcore rave or in Death Metal enclaves. From the Beefheart (and maybe even Beck in his jalopy-rap delivery) influence you can see why Tom Waits is such a huge fan (indeed, twas once curiously rumoured to have been Tom himself behind the still elusive façade), though this possesses little, or none, of Waits’ narrative style nor does that matter as this moonshine and methedrine shaboogie is here to allow you to dance yer way merrily to delirium and devilment, and anything that makes you swill ‘Swamp swoowmp swoowwmp swooomp music’ round your open mouth is only ever a good thing. Not as sassy or malevolent as you may expect, by no means perfect – again what’s the point in that, especially on a label with such a ridiculously brilliant catalogue? - but for a unique re-imagining, or re-acquainting with, old idioms, this unruly secretion is right at home on this label that serves as a hovel for the most vital hoodoo. To paraphrase old Dolly, ya gotta be clever to be this cretinous.
Stu Gibson

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