All year when friends have asked me what new thing I'm listening to, I search my mind for that one Wolf Parade song that goes "Sons and daughters something gawd damn something," which bounces along with me down Fifth Avenue. I love that song. But just as Wolf Parade travels to the narrow front of my tasting and sound-shaping organ connected by tissue to the back of my throat, I swallow the name and instead say Fiery Furnaces. Why I'm not quite sure. I don't even know who the Fiery Furnaces are. (Perhaps I'm thinking Arcade Fire.)
You see, Fiery Furnaces is alliterative, it jumps off the tongue (a mobile mass of muscular tissue covered with mucous membrane and located in the oral cavity). Plus the name makes sense. What's in a furnace? Something on fire. Unless you're creating your thermal convection from electric coils or a donkeycart-waterwheel method, or perhaps you live in Iceland where they've tapped into the earth's molten core, (tempting the ire of the swine-eyed lava monsters), then you have something burning in your furnace.
Wolf Parade, as a name, is confusing. What kind of sick sub-arctic municipality closes main street, and sticks teenage pageant winners on glitter covered floats with a bunch of wolves? And what about the vintage car clubs, and the Jaycees tossing hard candy? Wolves would not like any of that.