Monday, April 10, 2006

Shanty Chicken Scratch



Hi there.

I make certain assumptions about who's out there reading this miniscule little corner of the music obsessives' world. I may be wrong, I may be partially correct, I may have bats in my belfry. Probably the bats part. Regardless, I'm going to guess that most of y'all have at least a passing interest in Country and Blues, and the intersections where they meet. And maybe you like things that sound a bit off, underproduced (read: raw), and/or muddy and scratchy. Greasy, to continue to overuse a descriptive. Most have at least a passing knowledge of Fat Possum (remember: they used to release Blues or Blues influenced albums. Seems a long time ago, I know.). And you probably know all about Bob Log III.

But just in case you haven't dipped your toes, Log is a madman. A manic, slide-butchering, bass drum pounding, space/motorcycle helmet-wearing, rave and shouting one-man-band kind of madman. Where backwoods country and junk drawer blues team up to take on The Cramps and Screaming Jay Hawkins, each winding up a battered and bloody mutant goes by the name of Bob, with a loving nod to his eminence, Hasil Adkins. Did I mention slide guitar abuse? What Log does to the slide geetar is nothing short of criminal, making like a teenager just discovering his hard-on, straight to the gutter. With songs focusing on stripper poles, ass shaking, booze, tail sniffing, and...erm...tit clapping (a notorious percussive device used to great effect on rekkid and live), all shouted and filtered like a bullhorn two miles off, Log stakes his claim in the pantheon of trash. This could all be novelty if Log weren't so bloody damn good. And beneath the fuzz and racket, lies the heart of a good ole country boy in love with the blues. And the booze.

Before the unholy din of his Fat Possum solo albums, Log could be found, with one mysterious Mr. Thermos Malling, hollering under the moniker Doo Rag. More "traditional", only in choice of songs(mostly bullhorn stomps of old timey country blues tunes), Doo Rag released two shanty shaking albums and a handful of singles. Along with the Bassholes, Doo Rag set a standard for the two-man deconstruction that the current crop of contenders can only dream of matching.

Authentic? I dunno. But when it shitkicks this grandly, who gives a fuck.

Doo Rag: Train I Ride (mp3)

Doo Rag: Drop Down Baby (mp3)

Check out your local independent record stores. Before they're all gone.

9 comments:

Reverend Frost said...

Oooh yeah ! Thank you sir, everybody should support madmen.
We're all mad here.

somethingface said...

Drop Down Baby is Awesome!!

Chris Connor said...

Exellent choice - Train I Ride seems better recording but low on volume.
Pleased to see you back.

bopst said...

I booked Doo Rag back in the day and helped screen print t-shirts and patches with them in my back yard (My jacket still has the, "Boom-Chick-Slide" patch on it). They we're a great live band...

Anonymous said...

hey thought you should know a Daily Show correspondent by the name of John Hodgman posted a very informative response as to the origins of the term Big Rock Candy Mountain in a piece for the Onion's AV Club, here's a link:
http://www.avclub.com/content/node/47257

keep up the good work!

bigrockcandymountain said...

thanks folks, we aim to please. i'm jealous of the boom-chick-slide patch. and as for the link...now i'm scared, and feeling a little skeevy....

Pete said...

Wow! I haven't heard these guys since they opened for the Cramps in Vancouver many many years ago...

howard said...

i came across Bob Log III in a guitar magazine a few years ago - opened up a whole new world of slide for me, although I still can't play for crap though.

Rush Kress said...

Yo, Do Rag is from Tucson, AZ, my home town. But back in the day I had my self my own local band of rocking grunge with funkey bass and ripping guitar and we were all about our own selves so we gave Do Rag and Bob Log merely an approving nod. I'd love to give them a listen right now but the links don't work, confound it!

R.