Rancocas Valley’s Battle of the Bands wasn’t just a school concert—it was a full-blown eruption of talent, heart, and raw energy. Nine acts brought the crowd to its feet with everything from acoustic duets to improvised chaos, from tearjerkers to mosh-ready riffs. These weren’t just students performing—they were artists arriving.

Bob Log III doesn’t play shows. He commits musical arson. One man, one guitar, one boot, one helmet, and a phone receiver duct-taped to his face like a CB radio from hell, barking transmissions from the last real dive bar in the universe. He is the bastard child of a juke joint and a demolition derby. You don’t discover him—you survive him.

It sounds like a dare. Like a prank pulled on Epic Records’ A&R department in 1994—“Let’s sign these D.C. freaks who sound like Queen on dissociatives and see what happens.” What happened was Pony Express Record, a twisted, glittered monolith of broken pop and math-punk dementia that sounds less like a collection of songs and more like a sonic skin condition. You don’t listen to it, you wear it. And it itches.

There’s a kind of confidence you can’t fake. The kind that doesn’t beg to be liked, doesn’t audition for your playlist. It walks into the bar, steals your drink, and tells a better story than you ever could—all while tuning a busted guitar. That’s Jersey Girls. Not a statement, not a breakthrough. A flex.

There were never any flowers for Failure. But with Fantastic Planet, they made the kind of record that haunts the air long after the transmission ends. Like Ken Andrews and Greg Edwards didn’t craft these songs—they found them buried under reactor ash and starlight, humming faintly through lead walls.