A species that has a language where musical vocables (La, de, dum, da etc.) are all either swearwords or very rude.
“I d-d-d-d-don’t know what happ-p-p-ened,” complained Rabbit.
“We were going so well,” said The Spine. “It doesn’t compute… it doesn’t compute…”
“…i don’t want to be mus-ic-ians an-y-more…” sulked Hatchworth.
Pete 17, urgently directing repair teams of Walter Workers, took a deep breath. “What the heck happened? Everybody loves your music…”
“I dunno,” said Rabbit. “W-w-w-one minute, I was all, ‘Attune your ears to the g-grinding gears’, and the n-n-n-next, it was a rrrr-rrr-riot.”
“They don’t like Brass Gog-gles,” said Hatchworth, huddled in a corner.
Realisation hit like a truck. “I told you not to put that in the set list,” complained Pete 17. “I told you for a very good reason. Do any of you remember what that was?”
Hatchworth put up his hand. “I know, Mis-ter Wal-ter! Pick me!”
Sigh. “Yes, Hatchy.”
“The cul-ture and lan-guage of this plan-et puts our lyr-ics in the naugh-ty box.”
“What?” said Rabbit.
“We were sing-ing rude words.”
There was a moment of relative silence. Filled by the noise of tools and urgent repairs.
Finally, there was a single summary of realisation from The Spine. “Oops.”