Bob Wayne is Seattle's reigning king of unadulterated, lumpen-proletariat, faux-bluegrass, hellbilly-trucker shtick, not that the competition is especially fierce. Even his heroes and friends in the Supersuckers can't match his tattoos, shaggy-dog stories and laserlike focus on the deep, dark heart of white trashdom. He knows all the tricks of the alt-country storyteller trade, from the Johnny Cash quaver in his so-earnest-it's-ironic voice to the lonesome fiddle and dobro of his backing band the Outlaw Carnies to his obsession with drunken waltz time. And then there's desiderata like "Mack" (about a meth-snorting trucker with an itchy trigger finger, natch) and "Fuck the Law," which Wayne wrote on his iPhone while riding a freight train out of Canada. Good times, in other words, until the PBR runs out.