JETHRO TULL

Come with me to the Winged Isle....

• A very old band
• Songs form the Wood
• More Tull to come

JETRO TULL.....A very old band indeed. To me and many other TULL fans, the living breathing heart and soul of the band, is the man called Ian Anderson. Starting out in 1963 with a band called The Blades, then onto The John Evan Band in 1965, John Evan's Smash 1966, and finally the original JETRO TULL in 1967.
The sound he uses, and that of the people he keeps around him, is that of mystic mediveval minstrels. With an acid rock edge. Drawing strongly on anceint traditional styles, he breaths green leaves, and damp forest smells into the music. Makes U feel as if U missed out on the era U should have been born. Full of swords and sorcery, there tunes take U back to a time that may have never really existed, but make U feel as if U were retuning to a place U have been, long befor.
1977, saw the release of SONGS FROM THE WOOD. The follow up studio album HEAVY HORSES in 78 formed a set of "bookend's", if you will. Between the two,( 9 songs on each,) 18 songs that can be looked at as unchanged for centuries. Played the way they would have been by a group of wandering musicians, they paint a rich, green, winding countryside. Wisperings of magic's, and secrets. Wild carnal romps in the forests, hill's, and dells, with unearthly maidens, and wayward rouges. Festivals of song, with plenty of drink and dancing, full of word of mouth tradition, passed down again and again. Most people will push AQUALUNG, as the end all of TULL music. I think that was there most like every body else back then album. The SONGS FROM THE WOOD, HEAVY HORSES, combo represents a much purer form of what the band was. So without further ado, here R some of my favorite bits-and-pieces of the 2.

SONGS FROM THE WOOD

Let me bring you songs from the wood:
to make you feel much better than you could know.
Dust you down from tip to toe.
Show you how The Garden grows.
Hold you steady as you go.
A singer of these ageless times.
With kitchen prose and gutter rhymes.

by: Ian Anderson


JACK-IN-THE-GREEN

Have you seen Jack-In-The-Green?
With his long tail hanging down.
He sits quietly under every tree ---
in the folds of his velvet gown.
He drinks from the empty acorn cup
the dew that dawn sweetly bestows.
And taps his cane upon the ground ---
signals the snowdrops it's time to grow.

Jack, do you never sleep ---
does the green still run deep in your heart?
Or will these changing times,
motorways, powerlines,
keep us apart?
Well, I don't think so ---
I saw some grass growing through the pavements today.

by: Ian Anderson


CUP OF WONDER

For the May Day is the great day, sung along the old straight track.
And those who ancient lines did lay
will heed the song that calls them back.

Ask the green man where he comes from, ask the cup that fills with red.
Ask the old grey standing stones that show the sun its way to bed.
Question all as to their ways,
and learn the secrets that they hold.
Walk the lines of nature's palm
crossed with silver and with gold.

by: Ian Anderson


HUNTING GIRL

One day I walked the road and crossed a field
to go by where the hounds ran hard.
And on the master raced: behind the hunters chased
to where the path was barred.
One fine young lady's horse refused the fence to clear.
I unlocked the gate but she did wait until the pack had disappeared.

Crop handle carved in bone;
sat high upon a throne of finest English leather.
The queen of all the pack,
this joker raised his hat and talked about the weather.
All should be warned about this high born Hunting Girl.
She took this simple man's downfall in hand;
I raised the flag that she unfurled.

by: Ian Anderson


VELVET GREEN

Won't you have my company, yes, take it in your hands.
Go down on velvet green, with a country man.
Who's a young girls fancy and an old maid's dream.
Tell your mother that you walked all night on velvet green.
One dusky half-hour's ride up to the north.
There lies your reputation and all that you're worth.
Where the scent of wild roses turns the milk to cream.
Tell your mother that you walked all night on velvet green.
And the long grass blows in the evening cool.
And August's rare delight may be April's fool.
But think not of that, my love,
I'm tight against the seam.
And I'm growing up to meet you down on velvet green.
Now I may tell you that it's love and not just lust.
And if we live the lie, let's lie in trust.
On golden daffodils, to catch the silver stream
that washes out the wild oat seed on velvet green.
We'll dream as lovers under the stars ---
of civilizations raging afar.
And the ragged dawn breaks on your battle scars.
As you walk home cold and alone upon velvet green.

by: Ian Anderson


PIBROCH ( CAP IN HAND )

There's a light in the house in the wood in the valley.
There's a thought in the head of the man.
Who carries his dreams like the coat slung on his shoulder,
Bringing you love in the cap in his hand.
And each step he takes is one half of a lifetime:
no word he would say could you understand.
So he bundles his regrets into a gesture of sorrow,
Bringing you love cap in hand.
Catching breath as he looks through the dining-room window:
candle lit table for two has been laid.
Strange slippers by the fire.
Strange boots in the hallway.
Put my cap on my head.
I turn and walk away.

by: Ian Anderson


FIRE AT MIDNIGHT

I believe in fires at midnight ---
when the dogs have all been fed.
A golden toddy on the mantle ---
a broken gun beneath the bed.
Silken mist outside the window.
Frogs and newts slip in the dark ---
too much hurry ruins the body.
I'll sit easy ... fan the spark
Kindled by the dying embers of another working day.
Go upstairs ... take off your makeup ---
fold your clothes neatly away.
Me, I'll sit and write this love song
as I all too seldom do ---
build a little fire this midnight.
It's good to be back home with you.

by: Ian Anderson

---

HEAVY HOURSES

THE MOUSE POLICE

Muscled, black with steel-green eye
swishing through the rye grass
with thoughts of mouse-and-apple pie.
Tail balancing at half-mast.
...And the mouse police never sleeps ---
lying in the cherry tree.
Savage bed foot-warmer of purest feline ancestry.
Look out, little furry folk!
He's the all-night working cat.
Eats but one in every ten ---
leaves the others on the mat.
...And the mouse police never sleeps ---
waiting by the cellar door.
Window-box town crier;
birth and death registrar.
With claws that rake a furrow red ---
licensed to multilate.
From warm milk on a lazy day
to dawn patrol on hungry hate.
...No, the mouse police never sleeps ---
climbing on the ivy.
Windy roof-top weathercock.
Warm-blooded night on a cold tile.

by: Ian Anderson


MOTHS

The leaded window opened
to move the dancing candle flame
And the first Moths of summer
suicidal came.
And a new breeze chattered
in its May-bud tenderness ---
Sending water-lillies sailing
as she turned to get undressed.
And the long night awakened
and we soared on powdered wings ---
Circling our tomorrows
in the wary month of Spring.
Chasing shadows slipping
in a magic lantern slide ---
Creatures of the candle
on a night-light-ride.

by: Ian Anderson


ONE BROWN MOUSE

Smile your little smile --- take some tea with me awhile.
Brush away that black cloud from your shoulder.
Twitch your whiskers. Feel, that you're really real.
Another tea-time --- another day older.

Puff warm breath on your tiny hands.
You wish you were a man
who every day can turn another page.
Behind your glass you sit and look
at my ever-open book ---
One brown mouse sitting in a cage.

Do you wonder if I really care for you ---
Am I just the company you keep ---
Which one of us exercises on the old treadmill ---
Who hides his head, pretending to sleep?


HEAVY HORSES

Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill
Up into the cold wind facing
In stiff battle harness, chained to the world
Against the low sun racing
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood
A rein of polished leather
A Heavy Horse and a tumbling sky
Brewing heavy weather.

Bring a song for the evening
Clean brass to flash the dawn
across these acres glistening
like dew on a carpet lawn
In these dark towns folk lie sleeping
as the heavy horses thunder by
to wake the dying city
with the living horseman's cry
At once the old hands quicken ---
bring pick and wisp and curry comb ---
thrill to the sound of all
the heavy horses coming home.

by: Ian Anderson


WEATHERCOCK

Good morning Weathercock: How did you fare last night?
Did the cold wind bite you, did you face up to the fright
When the leaves spin from October
and whip around your tail?
Did you shake from the blast, did you shiver through the gale?

Give us direction; the best of goodwill ---
Put us in touch with fair winds.
Sing to us softly, hum evening's song ---
Tell us what the blacksmith has done for you.

Do you simply reflect changes in the patterns of the sky,
Or is it true to say the weather heeds the twinkle in your eye?
Do you fight the rush of winter; do you hold snowflakes at bay?
Do you lift the dawn sun from the fields and help him on his way?

by: Ian Anderson









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Email: aladdinsane@angelfire.com