Bob Log III is out of his mind — or at least he should be most of the time, if he knows what’s good for him. Photos by .
At the on Friday night, a robust crowd drank and guffawed in an atmosphere thick with creeping sideburns. Animated and impatient, the cluster down front whooped and raised their plastic cups to nothing in particular. Their voodoo worked; within moments the room darkened and the ominous brrrraaanngg of a guitar sounded from somewhere.
Creeping onstage came a figure, its flesh pulled tight beneath skin-tight pleather and rhinestones. It sat atop a stool in the center of the stage and began to pluck its guitar. It didn’t take long, however, before everyone noticed the very suspect mary janes and the synched miming. And then, on stage left, the real Bob Log appeared from behind a curtain in a rumpled suit, and a wave of laughter and applause rippled from the audience.
The inscrutable , incognito from within his visored helmet, quickly dropped trou to reveal a saggy gold jumpsuit — again to the delight of his fans. “This guitar’s ready to do shit you never HEARRRRD!” he burbled. Bookended by his monitors, he lolled and tilted on his perch, keeping time with a kickdrum and a floor covered in blinking electronic bric-a-brac.
The music? Well, it seemed to be the electric blues — albeit a herky-jerky version that played hooky from its own structures. Every tune lurched and teetered like a drunk clutching a doorjamb, and each always concluded with a fist and a spirited “YYYEEAAHHH!!”
Were there still more gags to come? Oh yes, yes indeed. About 15 minutes in, the lovely and amazing stepped out with an inflatable raft. Naturally, the raft was for crowd surfing, which Log did with aplomb. “Don’t drop me, motherfuckers,” he crackled from mid-crowd. That archtop guitar must’ve been cordless, because the experience was completely seamless. Oh, the guitar. At a Bob Log show, it’s difficult to forget how strongly he feels for it. “Did I mention this is my guitar?” he’d say, holding it up every few songs.
Soon thereafter came a birthday shout-out and a bevvy of boob cupcakes (suffice to say, there was frosting smeared everywhere once the show was over). From this point, the hooting began in favor of Log’s most notorious act — “Boob Scotch.” He stalled instead. “This is a mating call for the blind and retarded!” he shrieked, launching into another tickly little instrumental. By this time, the sweat had created a slick over his neck, and it seemed that his comfort inside the jumpsuit was dubious. He blazed onward anyway.
Come the inevitable performance of “Boob Scotch,” Mr. Log bounced ladies on his knee like a demented mall Santa, and the worst that came of it was a few lascivious grins and a close call on shirt removal. The couple inhaling each other to my left was obviously more titillated than I. So what next? What could possibly top liquor and everyone’s favorite lady parts? Very little, as it turns out. After the spectacle petered out, the rest of the night was devoted to more wiggly and wobbly blues.
As he’s said in interviews, Bob Log III is comfortable with the gleeful grotesquerie of his live show. He’s also a solid guitarist with a natural talent and effortless execution. Pair those two together and you’ve got all of your entertainment in one place. Perhaps, though, the jokes should’ve spread more evenly over the evening — the silliness got a bit threadbare in the end. When you’ve got headgear obscuring your identity and a costume exposing your junk, you’d better cling to silliness with all your might.
Alex Edgeworth is a Denver freelance writer and regular contributor to Reverb.
Tina Hagerling is a Denver-based freelance photographer and web designer. See more of her work .
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