The world being what it is, it’s hard being a lo-fi one man band with pleasantly off, Hooverville, vaudevillian, Pynchon-describing-the-West lyrics and not get a Bob Log III comparison. The Hoot Pants is slightly less horny than BLIII. Hoot Pants is sorta like using a photocopier to alter the same image again and again. Blow it up to the dots, cut it out, paste it at strange angles; grit becomes art, “mistakes” are part of the process. The familiar—guitar, bass drum, tambourine-on-a-stick—is staring back at you in a strange, floating duct tape eyeball way. My only nitpick is that I wish the vocals were up a bit more, since the lyrics really shine. But, hey, I really like the bike horn toots.
–todd (Earwig Acres)