Bob Log III

Bob Log III

Log Bomb

Fat Possum

With songs entitled “Boob Scotch,” “Wigglin’ Room” and “Drunk Stripper,” little is left to the imagination as to what one should expect from Bob Log III’s latest release. Log Bomb is preoccupied with utter debauchery, and it ain’t never sounded so sweet. For those of you who don’t know, Bob Log is kinda like a stripped down, one-man version of the Reverend Horton Heat. It is just Mr. Log, his “telehelmet” (a full-faced motorcycle helmet fit with a microphone), a slide guitar and a three-piece (think Toys-R-Us) drum kit. Need I say more?!

Admittedly, this is one of those albums that is reserved for alcohol-soaked nights; as the eleven o’clock hour approaches and the effect of your fifth shot of Jack Daniels is now being felt, you will undoubtedly find yourself fumbling through your CD collection, desperately trying to decipher the blurred words on each album spin; if you’re lucky, you’ll find this gem. Outside of this “hypothetical” situation (I assure you, I am not recounting anything I myself have experienced), this album is more or less nonsensical drivel. Sober, I just don’t feel it. Sure, it’s hilarious, but lyrics like “Well, I think we need to sit down and talk / Put you boob in my scotch / Come-on put your tit in my drink / Stir my scotch with something that’s pink,” are a bit too puerile. Not to mention that each song sounds like the one that precedes it.

Still, when inebriated, this is some funny-ass shit.

Epitaph Records:

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