Jeffrey goes to Leicester Square

This is another thing I like about having a blog—I get to insert insidious rants about things I dislike, and sententious vaunts about bits of esoterica I enjoy. (The only reason I didn't call this blog "the Insidious Ranter" was because that seemed excessively negative.)

One of those bits of esoterica is Jethro Tull. Most of you probably know who (or rather, what) J-Tull is. It's a band, an English prog rock group out of Blackpool, formed by Ian Anderson.

This Ian Anderson, dummy:


Categorizing Tull is like trying to tell what color a chameleon originally was, or describe the size of a bread box. These guys wore a lot of hats during their career, which has now spanned 40 years (and counting). They started out in blues and jazz, moving into folk, acoustical rock and heavy rock, dabbling in progressive rock and concept albums, classical or Renaissance rock, breaking into synthesizers and electronics, even throwing in a little Asian influence later on. Though J-Tull's heavy stuff (like their 1971 album Aqualung) gets the most radio play, the band's best remembered for their medieval compositions. If you've ever wondered what would've happened if six or seven Elizabethan minstrels had fallen through a time warp and onto the rock 'n' roll scene in the 1960s and '70s, Jethro Tull's the best band for the job. Flutes, hand drums, mandolins and fiddles trade places with heavy electric guitar riffs and bashing drum kits. Ian Anderson, indeed, was a consummate flautist, and a great many Tull songs feature one of Ian's incredibly nimble flute solos. It was a sound—a symphony of aural sensation—never witnessed before or since.

One of the most underrated albums by this underrated band is 1969's Stand Up. (That tune I played at the end of this post is off that very same record.) Still firmly entrenched in Tull's blues and folk period, Stand Up has the feel of a country picnic or a barn-raising—with a good dash of the medieval pastoral. The minstrels are coming and a hootenanny is going down. There is romance, reminiscence, even a ribald ballad or two. "Fat Man" is a tongue-in-cheek philippic against obesity. Nourished by tambourines, hand drums, mandolins, and Anderson's lively, omniscient flute, we are given the idea that a court jester or fool may be playing this tune in the king's hall before honored guests. Try listening to the record in the dark with a glass of mulled wine or a mug of ale in your hand, maybe with a strategic candle burning here and there, and see if the effect isn't lost on you.

Classical influences are easy to detect on Stand Up: one track, "Bouree," is actually a jazzy adaptation of J.S. Bach's Bourrée in E Minor. The track's jazz compositions, like the cavalier, commiserating "Nothing is Easy," give way to the loveliest of love songs, like the acoustic- and piano-based "Look Into the Sun." It's a quiet, ethereal tune, so simple in arrangement but so evocative in actuality—one can see, in one's mind, two lovers meeting in the soft light of evening. "We Used to Know" is a shoulder-shrugging glimpse down one man's Memory Lane. Sustained by descending acoustic chords in 4/4 time, it's an emotional and thoughtful tune, somber but soothing. And then, of course, there's "Jeffrey Goes to Leicester Square," such a genre-bending cavalcade of flutes, bongos, triangles, bass, and guitar, assembled so jauntily and so lusciously, with such rhythm and grace and ease of listening, that I'm not going to tell you about it here. Suffice it to say that I heard the opening bars and knew I had to buy the whole album.

Such is Tull's versatility. Anderson's songwriting abilities are staggering. He could turn his mind to side-splitting ballads in one moment, heartrending love songs the next, jazzy grooves in another. His hard rock compositions, like "Aqualung," "Locomotive Breath," and "Minstrel in the Gallery" (which starts out medieval and then retraces its steps with electric guitars and heavy bass) are rhythmic and harmonious. They're more than enough to induce a bit of reflexive head-banging or foot-stomping, and are certainly able to compete with anything laid down by Tull's contemporaries. And yet, for all his musical brilliance, Ian did not neglect his lyrics. He writes with a witty, often satirical air, but not vitriolic nor antagonistic. A keen observer, he often sent up other band's works. His 45-minute magnum opus, a concept album made up of one single long song, Thick as a Brick, was intended to be a spoof of J-Tull's contemporary prog-rock groups. And yet, thanks to mellifluous lyrics and Tull's one-of-a-kind sound, as infectious as it was unique, it became a brilliant success in its own right.

That's what made Ian Anderson so great, though. He put his heart and mind into his music. He was soulful, but intelligent. He wasn't some angst-filled teenager or an insufferable, disenfranchised punk rocker. He was a musician, plain and simple: a satirical, fun-loving bard with a penchant for the rhapsodic. His vision put him far ahead of his time. Perhaps too far: Tull's critical success ebbed and flowed like an ocean tide. Sometimes Anderson was hailed; others, lambasted. The fan base, though substantial, was never comparable to commercial groups such as KISS. Even Ian's band-mates often couldn't identify with his ideas; J-Tull's membership has changed so often and so completely that the band has something like 30 former members. Only Ian Anderson and lead guitarist Martin Barre still remain from the 1969 lineup.

None of this really matters. Jethro Tull's winning combination of poetic lyrics, symphonic musical arrangements, anachronistic instrumentation, melodic music and flamboyant performance has endeared them to generations of fans, and earned them a place in the heart of any music lover who still prizes talent over mass appeal. Not least among those fans and music-lovers is yours truly. This is easily my favorite band. Anderson's obvious wit and intelligence, his boldness to go where no critic thought he should, and the sheer beauty of his music has cemented his primacy in my mind. I mean, come on, how could you not like this guy?


This concludes my review. And now for a few important announcements: I have now managed to obtain a copy of Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five from the library, so I shall start in upon it once I finish The Epic of Gilgamesh. This means, then, that you shall be hearing another book review soon, and that the folk with whom I've agreed to read Slaughterhouse-Five (you know who you are) should begin reading it as well. I'm trying mightily to stick to this three-posts-per-week regimen that I've set for myself, but the universe is conspiring against me, the old rascal. I've just been nominated for an award by the most gracious gentleman, talented writer, helicopter pilot, and serviceman, Jon Paul. (Thanks a million, pal.) I will host my acceptance ceremony tomorrow morning. Stay tuned for ten manly facts about yours truly, too, as per the regulations of the award.

There are some things which I have not told you about which I probably should tell you about when I get the time. Like my Mom's new dog, Dash, a purebred German Shepherd. Or the fact that I'm painting the eaves. Or that a garbage truck got stuck up the block the other day and I went to help dig it out. Or the weather: it's been in the 70s and sunny for the last three days. We've actually got the windows open today. In February.

Well, shucks...looks like I just told you. Postie out.