Mississippi Fred McDowell meets Beck meets Slayer: He'll kill us again for the 18th time, no shit, and he'll so do it to us baby! in his customary and elegant giddy-up: A «Human-cannonball-fullbodied-condomsuit» topped off with a prehistoric «Telephone-receiver-helmet». (Don't try calling him - the lights are on but nobody's home, probably).
His music, as always, is a work of human ingenuity, rarely achieved perfection and artistic and physical synchronicity: «I play bass drum with my right foot and cymbal and two drum machines with my left foot and I play guitar at the same time. I'm drumrunning, whatever you want to call it, and I play guitar and sing into the helmet at the same time.» (It's always great to hear yourself sing, Bob). Fruitless attempts at copying his stuff are countless - even Tom Waits wants to be him (Close, but no cigar, Tom). And countless young woman the world over have ridden on his rhythm knees «I want your shit on my knees!» (Good thing you're already wearing a condom, Bob).
He logs in the neighbourhood of 200 concerts a year, all over the globe. He's a virtuoso, manic and mean slide guitarist and the ultimate one-man Blues explosion and personification of a Punk Blues Party. He's the hardest working man in show business, he's a hard-driving-speed-Delta Blues guitarist and he has done his business in laundromats, backalleys and concert stages the world over. We don't claim to be any of those but Bob Log III likes it on our stage and the feeling's mighty mutual. Logging off.