One of the things you have to accept about parenthood is that for several years, you’ll be listening to a lot of bloody awful music. Or perhaps not, because it seems that Baby Bigmouth has decent taste.
We’ve got a CD, which is called something along the lines of “Songs to sing with your baby”. The subtitle is “in a homely style”, which should set off alarm bells in the head of any right-thinking parent because after all, “homely” is a euphemism for “shite”. But, hey! It’s the classics! Baa Baa Black Sheep! Frere Jacques! What could possibly go wrong?
Er, this: within seconds of Baa Baa Black Sheep starting, Baby Bigmouth gives us an expression we’ve never seen before. Misery. Our cheery wee soul’s face crinkles up in dismay, the mouth turns down, and real tears begin before we can get to the CD player and turn it off. And no bloody wonder, because whoever’s doing the singing makesÂ Joy Division sound positively joyous by comparison. Maybe the CD is part of a rehabilitation project for the suicidal. Or perhaps not, because I reckon the suicidal would be a damn sight cheerier.
Fair enough, I know that most nursery rhymes make Saw IV seem positively tame, but Baa Baa Black Sheep? How bloody depressed do you need to be to find the secret seam of despair in a song where someone asks a sheep if it’s got any wool and the sheep says “Have I got wool? I’ve got tons of the bloody stuff! I’m a sheep!”
I may be paraphrasing somewhat.
It’s not all bad, though. Turns out BB likes appalling renditions of Wipeout played on dusty guitars by her rusty-fingered dad, is rather partial to the odd bit of blues and likes nothing better than a bounce about to Beyonce with her mum. I’ll have her making rock shapes to Faith No More before the week is out.