If thereâs a filthier white-boy blues rocker than Bob Log III, Iâll eat the Jon Spencer Blues Explosionâs entire catalog. Donning a motorcycle helmet with a built-in mic, Log forges an ornery, adrenalized species of blues that reeks of the scrap yard and squalid Mississippi saloons. If American musical archivist Harry Smith were alive, heâd probably give this raucous, rude guitarist/drummer/vocalist a hearty high five. You, live person with good taste, will probably give Bob Log III five pounds of sweat. (Crocodile, 2200 Second Ave, thecrocodile.com, 8 pm, $15 adv, 21+)