About a quarter to midnight Wednesday, 45 minutes into Bob Log III's set, Aftermath sent the following text message to a friend: "Somebody's top's coming off tonight, and it ain't gonna be mine." Log's pants had long since come off, leaving the Tucson one-man band clad in his signature motorcycle helmet, gold lame bodysuit and no underwear - it's not like Aftermath was really looking, but it was pretty obvious. Log likes nothing more than to get up close and personal with his fans; the metal barricade between he and the audience prompted the following greeting: "Welcome to Houston, where you have to take off your own fuckin' pants!"
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Log entered to the fiery strains of "Mars, Bringer of War" from Gustav Holst's
Punctuated by one foot working a cymbal/tambourine combo and the other a miniature kickdrum, his licks go down rough like bathtub rotgut, and will fuck you up just as quickly. Each song was like a qualifying heat in the stomp-blues Olympic luge... but that, at least, was probably the suit. There's no point for Log to write out a setlist: "I can't see a fuckin' thing in here!" It doesn't matter, because the songs are all fashioned from the same two chords, plenty of Scotch on the rocks and a bucket of sweat. Still, there's a definite wisdom to what he does: "Ladies and gentleman, my name is Bob Log III and this song is about absolutely nothing!" It was the same hypnotic two-chord pattern as before, and absolutely no one gave a shit. Least of all the two dozen or so people sitting onstage, nodding, clapping, stomping, gathered around Log like he was leading the heaviest, drunkest, most twisted campfire singalong (without words) there ever was. Then he beat out "I Want Your Shit on My Leg," with a girl on each knee to illustrate his point. To Aftermath's surprise, everyone managed to keep their tops on after all. As far as I know.