The Ibanez and the Peavey are now installed in our spare bedroom in the basement, which which we recently turned into a playroom for the kids. It doesn’t have any natural light and is already crammed full of Lego models, baby dolls and soft toys. It is also home to my younger son’s guinea pigs, and therefore has a slightly nauseating aroma of hay and faeces. But this somehow makes it appropriate for my new metal paraphernalia, and several times a day I pop my head into the room to admire them.
For the first week or so I was too afraid to approach the guitar, and found excuses every day not try it out, but just looking at it sitting there as a part of my world gave me a childish surge of pleasure.
The kids are also excited about these shiny new toys that they are not allowed to touch, and due to my musical prowess they have been expecting me to pick up the guitar and launch into a searing solo. Sadly they are going to be waiting a long time.
But thinking up names for Mummy’s future band has become a popular activity within the household. Most of my husband’s suggestions are gynaecological:
Prölapse. With an umlaut.
My sons have the right idea, and have come up with all sorts of suggestions based on their encyclopedic knowledge of Tolkien, Vikings, dragon mythology, and general propensity towards the violent:
Even my four-year old daughter, permanently dressed in a pink princess costume, seems to have an innate feeling for metal:
‘Mummy, how about Blood Death’?
I wonder whether their natural ability to come up with genre-suited band names says more about the juvenility of heavy metal, or about my allowing them to watch Lord of the Rings at the age of four. Probably a bit of both.