Song, by Toad

Tim over at The Daily Growl has had a baby. Or rather, I presume the actual baby part was largely left to Mrs. Growl, but nevertheless, he’s a dad! So in a rare instance of me not being sarcastic, snide, deliberately obtuse or excessively cynical, Song, by Toad offers its most heartfelt congratulations. Fucking brilliant.

Pulp – Babies Yes, I know this isn’t appropriate, but it’s so splendidly inappropriate that I rather like it.[audio http://www.matthewjamesyoung.com/sbt/Pulp-Babies.mp3]

Back immediately to matters musical, poor old Tim, as he says in his own post on the subject, went out recently with the lovely intention of buying little Isobel Growl the single that was top of the charts when she was born as a sort of keepsake for her. Except it turned out to be shit. So he tried the top of the indie charts… which turned out to be shit as well. What’s a well meaning new dad to do? Downloading her something from the top of the eMusic charts and storing it on a USB drive for ten years just doesn’t have the same ring to it somehow. Maybe a compilation, I suggested – some decent popular stuff to mark time and place, some appropriate stuff for sentimental reasons and some of your own current favourites, for personalisation.

Whilst this isn’t a bad idea of course it is rather predicated on the assumption that wee Isobel won’t grow up to be an emo kid. Or into supermarket pop. Basically, this wonderful gesture of love and sharing might have her wrinkle her nose and say ‘Dad, that’s shit.’ Not that she’d say that I hasten to add, because she’ll be a well raised little girl of course.

How do you stop your kids going off the deep end – turning to the dark side, as it were – as far as music is concerned? I mean, drink, drugs, stealing, cheating, lying, teenage pregnancy and a taste for tinned custard are one thing, but any honest, decent upstanding citizen must surely draw the line at Fallout Boy. Or Busted. Or Westlife.

Half Man Half Biscuit – Vatican Broadside Who indeed?

Well to prevent such unmitigated disasters in the life of a youngster you need one thing first and foremost, and this Tim has: decent taste in music. This is an important starting point. You can’t keep kids away from Limp Biscuit (yeah, yeah, whatever) by trying to lure them away with the spineless dadrock of Coldplay. (Tim, I’m afraid this includes Athlete – keep them well away from the poor girl, you might lose her for good) No Aerosmith, no Kasabian, no Jamiroquai (unless you’re keen to find out what it’s like to be stabbed in the foot by a desperate six-month-old armed with a pencil), and definitely no prog. None. The Lead Zeppelin are not a band. Nor are The Pink Floyd. Nor, come to think or it, The Deaf Leopard.

Now that this is established we begin the long, meticulous process of indoctrination. My own parents had an excellent good cop-bad cop thing going. My Dad had all the more heavyweight stuff – Dylan, The Band, Tom Waits, Neil Young, Jackson Browne – where my Mum had more pop taste – Duran Duran, Bowie, The Stones, early Elton John, ABC, Tina Turner, even some Depeche Mode and Erasure. This way, if I felt I had to rebel then I had somewhere to go that was different, but never outside the confines of what is just and right. Very, very cunning. A bit like the way Tony Blair conned a nation into rebelling and voting Labour, only to realise when it was already far, far too late that they were just a bunch of Tories in sharper suits.

So, comprehensively outplayed, where do I find myself now? Exactly where my parents’ music collection put me, that’s where. So never fear, Tim, play your cards right and she’ll be putty in your hands!

The Band – Rocking Chair for the Old Git.
David Bowie – China Girl for Mother Toad.