Tsunami Bomb

I noticed that there is a band playing at my place of work soon called Tsunami Bomb.

Tsunami Bomb? Is this representative of some kind of bad taste epidemic in modern rock music? Perhaps they have been a functioning band for many years, operating under a shroud of obscurity and cried out in relief on Boxing Day. The singer/ukulele player (Steve) probably watched Indonesia disappear into the ocean on ITN and quietly said the significant words “this is our time” before jumping around his room to the Manic Street Preacher’s eighty fifth best song, 'Tsunami'.

On New Year’s Eve, while the rest of the world feverishly organised fundraising events to help in the only way understandable, Tsunami Bomb (or TB, as I affectionately refer to them, from now on) held crisis meetings after the drummer/banjo player, Martin, thought the name might now be deemed offensive by almost everyone.

“It’s not offensive!” cried out Steve before repeating those same words through an affected, drawn-out warble. He let the ‘fen’ part of ‘offensive’ really hang there, and through the medium of song Martin, for one blissful moment, almost forgot how annoyed he nearly was that he was in a band with a generically crap and now rather inappropriate name.

“It is offensive,” he said, by way of argument.
“But it isn’t though.” Steve again.

A long pause ensued. A few hits from the bong.
Martin rubbed his eyes, looked over to Sheila, the organ/trombone player (recently drafted in to give them the ‘X Factor’) who said
“I read recently that scuzz-chunk bum rockers, I Am The World Trade Centre, have gone from strength to strength since that fateful day in…umm…whenever. Thingy.”
“But I’ve never heard of them,” said Martin.

This sent the band into a reverie again.
Another big pause while nothing of note happened other than lots of looking, open-mouthed nodding and some scratching.

Finally Martin finished doing the sums in his head and said,
“Earthquake Gun.”
Sheila and Steve exchanged knowing glances.
They weren’t thinking the same thing, but were sure they were. But they weren’t. I’m telling you. Just drop it, ok.
“Volcano Grenade.” Again Martin.
“Floody Knife.” Martin just wouldn’t let go. He couldn’t bear to be in a band called Tsunami Bomb, a name that associated itself with a tragedy so recent and with so little significance to their music. As a name it doesn’t even make sense. Why not just call themselves Hurricane Bazooka and to hell with the consequences?

I for one, wait with baited burps for the Tsunami Bomb to crash down in Newcastle and start raising some musical bedlam. And if I’m working behind the bar, I’ll personally check that their rider doesn’t request an abnormal amount of bottled water. Two crates, I’m calling the police. They’re up to something.