Right. Now the necessary context here is that I have quite an eclectic taste in music. This varies all the way from baroque organ music to death metal. It is the latter of these that concerns us today, for it was one such CD that had cycled its way into the car stereo when I inadvertently turned it one while the children were in the car. For those who don’t know what death-metal is, it basically consists of playing the same very loud note over and over again really fast and barking out unintelligible lyrics in a very deep and constipated growling sort of way. I’m sure the attraction is instantly clear…

Naturally I apologied profusely to the (I assumed) horrified small people behind me, who I imagined to be on the verge of instant tears. But no, I was informed that death metal (Boltthrower to be precise) was quite acceptable. They listened in an open-minded sort of way for a minute or so before reaching a unanimous opinion that death metal wasn’t for them (and you have no idea of the look of relief on my other half’s face when I reached that part of the story – having hooked them on The Swans and Fields of the Nephilim has been quite bad enough…), and proceeded into a short but bitter argument as to whether Ennio Morricone or Hawkwind would be a more suitable palate-cleanser. As I, still somewhat mortified as though I had somehow done something akin to accidentally letting my five-year-old play Manhunt, changed over the music, I was presented with one final critical question from my audience:

“Papa? Was that Jabba the Hutt?”

I had to say yes, yes it was. I have listened to that CD several times since then. And it is. The secret of death-metal singing is to sound like Jabba the Hutt.

Almost trivial aside: Proof-reading for The Adamantine Palace finsihed this morning. That’s it folks. No more fiddling, no more chances to change anything, no more opportunities to add in 20000 words of mysteriously deleted background material. And breath in… and out. And in… and out.

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