Fried green chicken
Automated Message | SF | 09/24/2009
(5 out of 5 stars)
"Ahh, you can always tell it's a Bob Log III album, even if you're wearing your Confederate bandana as a blindfold, because, well, Mista Log only know a couple chords, son. And there's that sweet bottleneck-slide fuzz-filter over the whole mix like Aunt Jemima on your crepe, but really more like Kid Rock with only the prospect of fat chicks for inspiration.
But it is sometimes only through repetition that we are able, while window shopping at the spiritual grocery store, to see what's contained on the higher consciousness shelf. Think Philip Glass, Alan Parsons Project, Cocteau Twins ... Foreigner. All prime examples of transcendental rock, but none has the lyrical chops of Helmethead Footenstein. For instance, this morsel: "We've all got boobs people, look between your, your, non-boobs ..."
Props to BL3 for the addition of dancehall beats and extra cowbell.
P.S.: Dear Amazon flack, It's not the 1950s anymore. Why can't I even list the title of this album without getting put in a censored no-zone, when the offending word is in huge letters at the top of the product page and right there on the cover image you accepted as well? Your pal, Automated Message."