‘ere, Chantelle, you seen that lot, down there? Just rocked up this morning. Well, I say morning. More like half-past ten. Depicting artistic expression in an al fresco scenario, apparently. A Frog Band, eh? Notorious for their dulcet songs and innate musicality, amphibians – am I right?

Brian, I’m a nuthatch, not an ethnomusicologist. Shouldn’t you be asking the thrushes or the blackbirds? You know, someone who can carry an actual tune?

Alright, keep yer feathers on. I was only saying. I did peer over some bloke’s shoulder as he had a look on that Wikipedia thing they’re so keen on. Well, better that than chopping down trees for paper, innit. Anyway, there’s a Colombian tree frog named after Sting for his charitable work on behalf of the rainforest.

They called a frog Gordon?

Well, as long as he only sings in Colombia, we might not have to ‘ear ‘im, eh? There’s an Indian tree frog named after Freddie Mercury. Can’t see him traipsing through here getting his hems mucky, mind. And then there’s Dendropsophus ozzyi, named after Ozzy Osbourne for its high-pitched, bat-like call.

Good lord, it’s bad enough some evenings with the real thing. Although at least they’re not Brummies. But isn’t this getting everything cloaca about visage, so to speak?

Sometimes, Chantelle, you can be very obtuse…

Do try to keep up, Brian. I mean naming frogs after musicians, rather than musicians after creatures. I can only think of two. Clarence Frogman Henry, with that ridiculous falsetto. If he was a bullfrog, he must have been sitting on a particularly sharp lily.

So that’s not him, then? On the left?

Heavens, no. He played piano. Chunkier legs too. And normally wore clothes. Although that might have been just for the cameras.

Well, one can but hope… And the second one?

I’ll give you a clue.

Go on, then.

You’re looking at one.

There was a musician called Nuthatch?

No, no, no. Not the brightest, are we, Brian? Thrushes, I mean. 

What then?

If I ruffle my feathers and flap my wings, does that help?

There’s a bird called Shirley Bassey?

Think broader.

Adele? Like, really early Adele?

Not that kind of broader. Bird.

Bird?

Bird. Charlie Parker. Only musician good enough to be named after us. Lyrical virtuoso, conjuring freeform improvised musical flights of fancy, if one might be so pretentious.

Oh, I’d forgotten him. He was good, weren’t he? Even the blackbirds thought so. Or so Mabel said. And she’s not easily pleased. I didn’t like that other one – the little French woman. Always banging on about not regretting anything, but never looked convincing.

Oh, Edith Piaf. The Little Sparrow. Always looked like someone’s cat had had a go but she’d managed to flutter off. No, not her. Parker’s our man.

So… should we offer our new friends some guidance? Show ‘em how it’s done, like?

Why not, Brian? Shall I count us in? A one – two – three – four…