Honestly, if I’d wanted to see a dodgy-looking character fingering his lady friend at a gig, I’d…actually, no; I’D NEVER WANT TO SEE THAT. So, many snaps to Monsieur and Mistress Gropealot who, thanks to their total lack of effort in disguising their debauchery, made me heinously uncomfortable….like watching a car crash…
After sexy marching band Red Brigade did their hut-two-three-four thing in such a funky manner, gypsy/dark country rockers The Toot Toot Toots busted out a hearty cover of Fatman Scoop’s Put Your Hands Up (“Got a twenty dollah bill, put your hands up! You got a ten dollah bill, make noiiiise!”)- hello, Year Eight! Singer Danny Eucalyptus is like Tom Waits with a Mexican moustache. Far removed from the average rock band beaten track, the Toots incorporated some lovely dancers (Go Girl Gadget Go Go Dancers, that Bob Log III borrows later) and have saxophone and mandolin in their arsenal- nice touch.
As a broken English cover of All Shook Up pumps over the house speakers (it’s just that kind of night), a line from ‘Ferris Bueller’s Day Off’ rings in my head as I survey the crowd here tonight: “The sportos and motor heads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wasteoids, dweebies, dickheads, they all adore him. They think he’s a righteous dude”. It’s a pretty apt representation of the punters tonight; no discernible niche of folk, just a partying mish-mash. A guy in a suit with a frilly shirt and helmet that looks like a gas mask takes to the stage- this is Bob Log III.
A Bob Log III show is essentially just the man and his guitar; any other sounds he needs pump over the speakers, though he doesn’t utilise much instrumental-wise. I begin to feel the way I did when watching That 1 Guy at the Corner a few months back; though an admirable and adroit performer, the shtick eventually becomes tiresome. After an hour or so, I began to get, oh, I don’t know…. sick of it? I dig Bob Log III, make no mistake, as a person and as a performer (he was the funniest interviewee I’ve had yet), but, after a while, I couldn’t tell my Mr Sis Boom Bahs from my Bump Pow! Bump Bump Bump Pow! Bump Pow! Bump Bump Bump, Baby! Bump Pow! Bump Bump Bump Pow! Bump Pow! Bump Bump Bumps.
As the Toots dancers joined Log onstage and he strips down to a velvet unitard, I hear the aforementioned female of the fingering party say to her companion, apparently totally ignorant of Bob Log III and his wares; that Log “is like a comedian as well”. Although it pains to agree with someone with no qualms about, you know, I do think she hits on a point. Part of Log’s appeal is his charm; he calls every woman “nice lady”, he gives out small trophies to best dancers in the crowd; he chats to a collective as if it were one good mate in the room: an admirable trait in anyone you would pay money to see. Log invites two pretty young things from the crowd to sit on his lap as he plays I Want Your Shit On My Leg; it’s a little pervy, but not enough to get me on the phone to any kind of law enforcement. .
As we all shuffle out, along with the women that got her nork out for Boob Scotch, then tripped and unplugged a whole bunch of equipment, bump bow, I can tell that, to the East Brunswick Club patrons, tonight was a night to write home about. Although I wouldn’t (to be honest, I doubt either of my parents would appreciate Bob Log III, because it has nothing to do with wine or fishing), it’s nice to see people genuinely enjoying themselves. Sometimes, I think cynically, in Melbourne, it’s a thing of rare beauty.
– Lisa Dib