Bob Log III

School Bus (Fat Possum)
by Jon Sarre

Blues purists may sneer and dismiss this slab o’ anarchic slide guitar’n’bass drum voodoo as mere hipster shuck’n’jive gimmickry, but the next time a Fat Possum records rep knees ya in the groin and tells ya pointedly that they’re not dealin’ in the “same old blues crap,” Bob Log III should probably jump to mind. Log, previously having been one half of Doo Rag (which made things clearer, since before I learned that, I figured the guy for a sanitarium refugee) has got himself set up as a one man band with the aid of a bass drum/drum machine/guitar/monkey’s paw (never mind)/protective helmet (don’t ask, though it satisfies the need for a sorta low tech Gibson Hayes vox distortion effect). Thusly released from the restrictive influences of, well… anyone, Log is free to alarm several generations of G.E. Smith fans with the Beefheartean art rantings and crazed hillbilly noodlings hatched from his own damn head.

School Bus is the operative title Log has chosen for this collection of songs – Lord knows why, tho’ it should be noted that not only does the guy wear a helmet, but the school bus pictured on the inside cover of the record is of the short variety and the most “accessible” track on the album, “All the Rockets Go Bang,” features what sounds like the “Kids of Whitney High” singing along during the chorus. Much like a school bus (okay, maybe there is a point to the title) the songs here run a jerky stop’n’go route through Log’s varying prowess at doing what he does. Tracks either jog a nice slow loop on a lazy summer’s day (on Mars, that is) which would make perfect sense if ya thought a lot like Daniel Johnston (see “Fire in the Hole”), or they spin out like a tornado shakin’ yer jowls ’til they come loose and ya beg the cackling madman dervish bangin’ out the dance beat to stop the hootenanny (see “String Around a Stick”). Dogs barking provide percussion on one number (“Pig Tail Swing”), and another (“Duck Back Down”) sounds like Log is imitating Muddy Waters with a mouth fulla marbles stranglin’ James Brown so the grunts in the background are the lasts gasps of the Godfather of Soul. That, come to think of it, is damn near traditional, but that’s as close as Bob Log is gonna get.
(PO Box 1923 Oxford, MS 38655)