I had a break through the other day.
My 10-year old step-daughter, for whom great music is defined by Fergie and TI, caught me listening to Black Sabbath's "War Pigs."
Here initial reaction was horror and fear - just what I'd hope for. But then I told her about how Tommy Iommi lost the tip of his finger in an industrial accident just before Sabbath (then known as Earth) was about to leave Birmingham behind for rock 'n' roll immortality. After fashioning a leather prostheis, Iommi was forced to tune down, thus creating Sabbath's signature creepy sound.
Then I blasted "War Pigs," "Iron Man" and "Sabbath, Bloody Sabbath." Nearly deaf and grinning ear to ear, she could muster only one word ... "Cool."
My work here is done.
