Bob Log III // NNF2012, The Spiegeltent

Waking up the morning after Bob Log III, my head spinning from the giddiness the Spiegeltent seems to leave you with (alright, it was the Bitburger as well), my mouth as dry as the Arizonan desert from where Mr Log was spawned, I gaze down to my wrist to see the remnants of the black entry stamp… It seems only right really; I’d been branded – Bog Log had left his mark on me.

Entering the womb of the Spiegeltent, I know it’s a night that means business - the seats have been done away with, leaving the inviting springy wood floor to be filled by Bob’s disciples. No sooner have we shuffled ourselves into some sort of height / enthusiasm order, than Bob Log enters the fray. This man is a sinister sight to behold; in spandex jumpsuit, suit jacket and motorcycle helmet, complete with phone receiver attached to the front for a mouthpiece, swinging down like an industrial trunk, he’s like the Stig on Six Strings, or a Biker Elephant from Mars. And he carries all the frisson of Darth Vader – his presence is electrifying.

Addressing us Nor-wich folk – hard on the ‘w’ – he introduces us to the lady in his life, his well-fingered guitar. Launching into the set, we’re exposed to the true power of the Bob Log and guitar partnership, along with the steady beating of the bass drums under his heat. Anyone who’s seen Seasick Steve will understand the earthy swoon that blues slide guitar has, but taking it up-tempo, and upping the ante, Bog Log delivers the kind of energy that ol’ Seasick could probably only achieve via use of amphetamines.

The set continues with much the same pace, and much the same sound; there’s little to differentiate between songs, his southern Tucson drawl being distorted immeasurably by the shield of his headgear, but it doesn’t seem to matter – we’re clapping and toe-tapping along wildly to the bluesy slide guitar all the same, much to Bob’s appreciation. The crowd is reaching fever pitch with a country dancing-style mosh erupting, as Bob invites the more adventurous girls than I to perch on his knee throughout his famous ballad (?!) ‘I Want Your Shit On My Leg’. A timid girl goes from a reluctant genuflection, to making herself at home, and at the end seems all but ready to sacrifice her purity for him.

“I like the applause”, Bob says, “It’s good when you applaud by putting your hands together, but it’s even better when you applaud by buying me a drink. I call that liquid applause.” Like a true pie-eyed piper, the crowd slowly start delivering liquor-based appreciation to the stage. “God Bless Nor-wich”. And God bless you, Bob.

Emma Garwood