I just returned from a rousing and refreshing vacation to various parts of Utah. One stop took us to a Trappist Monastery in Huntsville, where we had the chance to catch the resident monks chant their songs of praise. As we walked up to the chapel, my 7-year-old son, who apparently misheard us, said, “I don’t want to listen to the chimps sing.” Silly kid: monks sound nothing like chimps, and chimps sound nothing like monks. And Part Chimp sound nothing like monks or chimps (unless they’d developed an affinity for Sonic Youth and Mogwai) — but what they do is rock hard. For the record, my son likes Part Chimp’s music better than the monks’ chanting but prefers the monks’ artisan honey to, well, just about anything.