Ode to Tull
As I was driving home through the rain this afternoon, the local "classic rock" station was playing "Aqualung" by Jethro Tull. There aren't many bands in modern music history of whom it can be said that no other ensemble could record the same material and have it seem anywhere near the same, but Tull would certainly be one.
Back in the day, I was a serious devotee of Tull, along with such other so-called "progressive" rock groups as Kansas, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Rush, and Electric Light Orchestra before they became just a more pretentious electropop band. In fact, I still have floating around somewhere a ticket for an early '80s Tull concert at the Oakland Coliseum Arena (on the Broadsword and the Beast tour...sigh) that I never got the chance to use because my car died the day before the show, leaving me without transportation.
If you ask me why I enjoyed that genre of music, the answer is simple: Progressive rock was the aural equivalent of comic books, and appealed to that part of me that craved superhero fantasies and cosmic adventuring. It wasn't all I listened to — I dug everything from Parliament-Funkadelic to the Eagles, from the Doobie Brothers to Queen, from Santana to Steely Dan to Earth, Wind and Fire, from Bill Withers to Blood, Sweat and Tears to the Blue Öyster Cult. But there was a reason why I spent my 19th birthday at a Kansas concert at San Francisco's Cow Palace (the opening act was Alvin Lee, formerly of Ten Years After, who shared the same birthday), and why, when the second of the three great loves of my life came to visit me one summer, I took her to a Genesis concert where I knew all the words to "The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway."
But I digress.
Jethro Tull — the band, not the 18th century agronomist and inventor — was more than just a quirky folk-rock ensemble with a flute player who stood on one leg. Their music, featuring obtuse and serpentine lyrics by lead vocalist and flautist Ian Anderson, represents a singular creative vision unparalleled in the annals of music. When you hear a Jethro Tull song, you immediately know who recorded it. No other band could have. Close your eyes and try to imagine any of these landmark songs being performed by other artists: "Aqualung." "Thick as a Brick." "Skating Away On the Thin Ice of the New Day." "Too Old To Rock 'n' Roll: Too Young To Die." "Something's On the Move." "Fylingdale Flyer." "Living in the Past." "Clasp." And, perhaps the group's pinnacle number, "Locomotive Breath." Not a song on that list could be covered by anyone else. Only Tull could wring not only sense, but passion out of these lyrics:
Anything, that is, except a Plymouth Gold Duster with a blown Slant Six.
Back in the day, I was a serious devotee of Tull, along with such other so-called "progressive" rock groups as Kansas, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Rush, and Electric Light Orchestra before they became just a more pretentious electropop band. In fact, I still have floating around somewhere a ticket for an early '80s Tull concert at the Oakland Coliseum Arena (on the Broadsword and the Beast tour...sigh) that I never got the chance to use because my car died the day before the show, leaving me without transportation.
If you ask me why I enjoyed that genre of music, the answer is simple: Progressive rock was the aural equivalent of comic books, and appealed to that part of me that craved superhero fantasies and cosmic adventuring. It wasn't all I listened to — I dug everything from Parliament-Funkadelic to the Eagles, from the Doobie Brothers to Queen, from Santana to Steely Dan to Earth, Wind and Fire, from Bill Withers to Blood, Sweat and Tears to the Blue Öyster Cult. But there was a reason why I spent my 19th birthday at a Kansas concert at San Francisco's Cow Palace (the opening act was Alvin Lee, formerly of Ten Years After, who shared the same birthday), and why, when the second of the three great loves of my life came to visit me one summer, I took her to a Genesis concert where I knew all the words to "The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway."
But I digress.
Jethro Tull — the band, not the 18th century agronomist and inventor — was more than just a quirky folk-rock ensemble with a flute player who stood on one leg. Their music, featuring obtuse and serpentine lyrics by lead vocalist and flautist Ian Anderson, represents a singular creative vision unparalleled in the annals of music. When you hear a Jethro Tull song, you immediately know who recorded it. No other band could have. Close your eyes and try to imagine any of these landmark songs being performed by other artists: "Aqualung." "Thick as a Brick." "Skating Away On the Thin Ice of the New Day." "Too Old To Rock 'n' Roll: Too Young To Die." "Something's On the Move." "Fylingdale Flyer." "Living in the Past." "Clasp." And, perhaps the group's pinnacle number, "Locomotive Breath." Not a song on that list could be covered by anyone else. Only Tull could wring not only sense, but passion out of these lyrics:
In the shuffling madnessIt's probably just a coincidence that KJ's oncologist's name is Ian Anderson. But it may not be. The power of Tull can cure anything.
Of locomotive breath
Runs the all-time loser
Headlong to his death
He feels the piston scraping
Steam breaking on his brow
Old Charlie stole the handle
And the train, it won't stop going
No way to slow down
Anything, that is, except a Plymouth Gold Duster with a blown Slant Six.
SwanShadow was randomly pounding the keyboard at 11:57 PM
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