Monday, January 11, 2010
My brother has a preference for thunderous, jangling, growl-enriched rock music, and of late has been particularly drawn to the orchestrations of a group that titles itself Them Crooked Vultures.
Mater, who shares with her son a remarkable predilection for electrifying tunes, surprised my sibling recently with a gift of the Vultures' new album.
I have no doubt that his estimation of Mater's artistic taste was greatly elevated, as was Mater's pride with regard to the same. It turned out, therefore, to be a dreadful shame that Mater telephoned the next day to seek feedback on the album.
"How did you like those Crooked Penguins?"
My brother was, naturally enough, perplexed; at first hearing he did not know at all what they were like, or why his mother thought he might be in the least bit knowledgeable about the little arctic fellows, or in what way they might be considered crooked.
Nonetheless it must be emphasised that Mater reveled in her moment of glory, albeit brief, when she stepped forth with the album- and despite her grim reduction of the band's name to something that might delight a reading child, my brother would recall it with fondness, and with no small measure of admiration.
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 6:21 PM