My friend’s son Tom has joined a band. They’re called Mutilated Monkey Wrench – or something like that.
Mutilated Monkey Wrench has so far had two gigs. One was in the back room of a pub which was attended by four band members, a couple of girlfriends, three classmates and two women who had mistaken the room for the ladies’ loo. The women hung about for a while, thinking the line of jiggling youngsters watching the stage was the queue for the lavatories. They left in a hurry when their own jiggling became unbearable. The other gig was in a village hall on Bonfire Night. They played to the accompaniment of loud fireworks and caused much bemusement to elderly village ladies taking refuge from the cold to eat their hotdogs indoors.
The band is heavy metal with a nod towards death metal. Does this mean anything to you? It is, as far as I can make out from the monosyllabic grunts that pass for conversation in my friend’s house, a nihilistic look at life, with violence, death and darkness featuring heavily. Usual teenage fare.
My friend was worried that Tom was going to grow up to be, if not a serial killer, then one of those weird loners who parents warn you will come and get you if you don’t behave. I told her I was sure it was just a phase. Weren’t our parents petrified that 70s music would turn us all into Janis Joplin or Alice Cooper? But most of us ended up more Olivia Newton John than Ozzy Osbourne.
Mutilated Monkey Wrench have made a CD. You can listen to a few songs on one of those sites where 50-year-old men pretend to be 20-year-old uber-cool students in a vain attempt to engage uber-cool 19-year-old girls in naughty conversation - not realising they are talking to 50-year-old women pretending to be ..... you get my drift.
I have been honoured with an original CD which I have put onto my iPOD. I made the mistake of switching it on before adjusting the volume.
I’ll let you know what it’s like as soon as my perforated eardrums have healed.
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