BOB LOG III: BOOB SCOTCH & SLIDE GUITAR DEBAUCHERY

Bob Log III doesn’t play shows. He commits musical arson. One man, one guitar, one helmet, and a phone receiver duct-taped to his face like a CB radio from hell, barking transmissions from the last real dive bar in the universe. He is the bastard child of a juke joint and a demolition derby.

Let’s start where all good theology begins: Boob Scotch.

It’s not just a song. It’s liturgy. A sacred act of communion involving a glass of whiskey and the generous participation of an audience member’s breast. “Put your boob in my scotch!” Bob croons like a back-alley Elvis on amphetamines, while his guitar tears through your equilibrium like a buzzsaw wrapped in snakeskin. And people do it—night after night. Boobs in glasses. Glasses in hands. And Bob Log howling through his helmet, conducting the ritual with slide solos that sound like a UFO crash-landing into a barbecue.

But this isn’t some shock-jock sex joke. Boob Scotch is a declaration: rock & roll should be unhinged, ecstatic, sweaty, a little dangerous. Bob Log III is here to remind you that music can still be fun and filthy without turning into parody. He’s the last man standing at the intersection of absurdity and virtuosity, and he never takes the helmet off.

Born in Tucson, raised on busted gear and desert heat, Bob started his trail of chaos as one half of Doo Rag—a beautiful noise-blues disaster built on trash percussion, homemade amps, and enough distortion to make Satan blush. But when Doo Rag disbanded, Bob didn’t stop. He mutated.

He built the Bob Log III machine—literally. Triggers underfoot. Guitars wired to explode. A telephone mic crammed into a motorcycle helmet, because why the hell not. He became his own band. His own freakshow. His own preacher.

And here’s the wild part: behind the spectacle, the man can play. Bob’s slide guitar is faster than it has any right to be. Fluid, filthy, and aggressive, like he’s trying to melt the frets off the neck. There are no frills, no tech, no gimmicks—just fingers and fury. It’s punk-blues in the truest, ugliest, most glorious sense. Burnt-end Delta riffs at warp speed. Guitar solos that sound like your amp’s being strangled with a garden hose.

On record, it’s chaos bottled. Log Bomb, My Shit Is Perfect, Bump or Meow Vol. 1—every album is a pressure cooker of sleaze, speed, and swing. I Want Your Shit on My Leg might be the most romantic thing ever written by someone who sounds like a malfunctioning toaster. Every track is feels like a 90-second sermon on lust, weirdness, and the sacred act of not giving a single fuck.

And live? That’s the real gospel. A Bob Log III show is a sweaty, beer-soaked revival tent with zero shame and infinite groove. He’ll pull someone onstage for a lap dance, then shred while a total stranger awkwardly gyrates in public. He’ll demand you scream, sweat, move, and you will. Not because he’s pushing you—but because it’s impossible not to.

He is not ironic. He is not nostalgic. Bob Log is a conduit. A dirtbag prophet channeling the ghost of R.L. Burnside through a fuzz pedal and a cracked snare. He’s what happens when rock & roll stays wild, gets older, and decides it doesn’t need to slow down or clean up. He’s survived every scene, every trend, and he’s still out there—show after show, dive after dive, pouring sweat into his helmet and leaving audiences staggering out into the night like they’ve been baptized in bourbon.

And he never changes: crank it loud, make ‘em dance, leave ‘em dazed. Recorded tracks that sound like they were captured in a gas station bathroom during an exorcism. And he still sells his own merch. He still loads his own gear. Still gets on stage every night like it’s his last damn chance to set the world on fire.

Bob Log III is not a nostalgia act. He’s not a cult oddity. He’s the real, snarling, sweat-dripping thing. The part of rock that never got house-trained. The beating heart under the denim and grease and amps turned up too loud. And Boob Scotch—in all its bizarre, beautiful, crowd-participation glory—is the anthem of that gospel.

So yeah, laugh at the helmet. Gawk at the phone mic. Raise an eyebrow at the lyrics. Then shut the hell up, take a sip, and listen.

Because Bob Log III isn’t asking for your respect. He’s earning it, one lapdance and slide solo at a time.

Drink the Boob Scotch. Join the church. Get Log’d.