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Jethro Tull – Stormwatch – Classic Music Review

My parents, who saw all the shows in Tull’s heyday, claim that the Stormwatch concert was one of their favorites, ranking it third on the list, right after the Thick as a Brick and A Passion Play. 

I have to admit that I responded to that claim with more than a little skepticism, and may have included an “oh, for fuck’s sake” in my response. I had no doubt that Tull put on a great show—by all accounts, they were an excellent live band. I just had a hard time believing that a concert filled with comparatively weak material could have been a more satisfying experience than one where the pre-encore setlist was filled with great songs (like Aqualung or Songs from the Wood). While the album has its moments—some great moments—I don’t think Stormwatch is one of Tull’s best works.

The news that a 40th Anniversary Edition of Stormwatch (The Force 10 Deluxe Edition, no less) is on its way reminded me that I hadn’t done a Tull album in quite a while and still had plenty of holes to fill in the Tull narrative. Since I prefer to review original presentations, I decided to get off my beautiful ass and get on with it before the (hopefully) “new and improved” version hits the shelves.

The critical response to Stormwatch at the time of its release was both unfavorable and unfair. What was unfair was that nearly every review I read lumped Stormwatch into Tull’s “folk period” along with Songs from the Wood and Heavy Horses, a view still prevalent to this day. This massive display of groupthink begs the question, “Did any of those critics actually listen to the fucking record?” I count one folk song on the entire album, with two others somewhere in the ballpark. You could make a much better case placing Stormwatch in the genre of progressive rock, but really, the music is all over the map. I would define Stormwatch as a transitional album between the folk-rock lean that preceded it and the more electronic sound that followed it. The evidence supporting the transitional label is strengthed by the many changes in the band lineup after its release—mainstays John Evan and Barriemore Barlow decided to split, and sadly, bassist John Glascock died of heart problems during the tour. Combine all those personnel changes with the irrepressible restlessness of Ian Anderson and it’s hard to see how Stormwatch could have been anything but a transitional album.

I’ve always felt that the variability in the quality of Tull albums was driven more by the quality of Ian Anderson’s songwriting than style, instrumentation or vibes in the studio. What weakens Stormwatch more than any other factor is the lack of clear thematic intent. He had a strong metaphor to work with; there were plenty of signs in the ’70s that potentially destructive “storms” were gathering on the horizon and exerting a destabilizing effect on societies across the globe. Unfortunately, through a combination of incredibly poor track placement and the tendency of the creative mind to chase butterflies, he allowed the theme to dissipate almost to the point of irrelevance. While the new edition may clean up the inconsistent quality of the production, some of the songs are simply unsalvageable because they weren’t very good songs in the first place and don’t fit particularly well with the other songs on the album.

Stormwatch is also the album where Ian Anderson began dabbling in current events, with seriously mixed results. “North Sea Oil” is one of the weaklings in the litter, and its placement in the pole position immediately lowers listener anticipation. The problem isn’t with the musicians—Ian’s flute fills are spot-on and Martin Barre gets in a few good licks—the problem is with the blah lyrics, very awkward melody and curious chord progression. The odd shifts in tempo add nothing to the piece and the spoken word passage interferes with a relatively high-quality Anderson-Barre duet. And what’s that “Before we all are nuclear—the better way!” crap all about? Rule #142: Never open an album with a song that sounds like the third page of the Business section.

I rather like “Orion,” especially once Ian stops channeling Milton (“Let’s sip the heavens’ heady wine” is particularly annoying) and plants his feet on terra firma:

And young girls shiver as they wait by lonely bus-stops
After sad parties: no-one to take them home
To greasy bed-sitters and make a late-night play
For lost virginity a thousand miles away.

The melody in the verses flows very nicely, and the mix of acoustic guitar, strings and piano blends exceptionally well. I would have preferred more clarity on Martin Barre’s rough guitar in the choruses, but that loss is offset by the excellence of Barriemore Barlow’s responsive drum patterns. This is one song that could benefit from remastering, and I hope the deluxe version cleans up the mix.

“Home” is a relatively pedestrian love song where Ian expresses garden-variety rock star guilt about leaving the main squeeze behind while he traverses the planet on a jumbo jet. This time David Palmer overdoes it on the strings, and Martin’s electric guitar fills feel quite out of place with the tender mood expressed in the lyrics. The slight lift in energy from “Orion” vanishes pretty quickly, a phenomenon that usually points to a problem with track placement, but trying to resolve that issue uncovers another problem. “Home” is one of those wistful, reflective songs that belongs near or at the end of an album, but unfortunately, there’s already a wistful, reflective number in the closing spot, the uninspired instrumental “Elegy.” The problem isn’t track placement but a shortage of sufficiently diverse, quality material.

“Dark Ages” can be dispensed with in short order: nine minutes and fourteen seconds of poorly-arranged, generally uninspiring music supporting a set of thoroughly incomprehensible lyrics. There’s a brief moment two-and-a-half minutes in where Martin Barre launches a machine-gun attack from the fretboard and Barriemore Barlow sounds like he’s getting ready to let it rip, but the anticipation dies a horrible death when Ian cuts off the power to give us another dull verse.

Side one wraps up with the sprightly instrumental “Warm Sporran,” where Ian shines on both flute and bass (filling in for the ailing Glascock). This is one of the tightest band performances on the album, with Evan displaying superb touch and Barlow masterfully handling the diverse drumming demands. It’s also one of the best-engineered tracks on the album, so I hope the remastering doesn’t mess with it too much.

If you’re hoping that side two is any better, guess what? It is! I’ll never understand why an album titled Stormwatch didn’t open with a song charting the path of a fierce storm gathering in the near-distance. . . especially WHEN ONE OF THE SONGS ON THE ALBUM DOES EXACTLY THAT. “Something on the Move” would have made a far more compelling opener with its ripping guitar, energetic flute and . . . it resonates with the title of the fucking album! And goddamn if Ian didn’t nail the poetic imagery:

She wore a black tiara
Rare gems upon her fingers
And she came from distant waters
Where northern lights explode
To celebrate the dawning
Of the new wastes of winter
Gathering royal momentum
On the icy road
With chill mists swirling
Like petticoats in motion
Sighted on horizons
For ten thousand years
The lady of the ice sounds
A deathly distant rumble
To Titanic-breaking children lost
In melting crystal tears.

Let me just say that I deeply resent the decision to shift to gender-neutral names for hurricanes and tropical storms. Only a woman could make such a dramatic, dominating and icily mesmerizing entrance, paralyzing men in their tracks as they struggle to understand how they could possibly sport an erection in a sub-zero environment. Because cold bitches are hot, dummies! I love the rhythmic differences between verses and chorus, the former marked by almost funk-like syncopation and the latter more kick-ass rock. I’m almost always happy when Martin Barre is prominent on a Tull song, as he seems to feed off the energy of the others while returning the energy in full.

As for the follow-up, “Old Ghosts” is a nothingburger of a track, a reminder that even excellent musicianship can’t save a song if the song fucking sucks. Cut it out entirely and you wind up with “Dun Ringill” next in line, the perfect complement to “Something on the Move,” a song that presents a different form of intensity while strengthening the storm metaphor. Dun Ringill is the site of an Iron Age fort on the Isle of Skye, a place within walking distance of Ian Anderson’s digs at the time of the recording. The soundscape is hauntingly beautiful, integrating the sounds of storm and sea with precisely strummed and arpeggiated acoustic guitar. The windswept nature of this ancient place on a far northern isle is captured in the brief bursts of vocal echoes, like human sounds carried on the wind bouncing between the rockfaces. It’s a song that evokes images of shadowy pagans gathered amidst a stone circle (a la Stonehenge), united in ritual as they contemplate the destructive power of nature:

We’ll wait in stone circles
‘Till the force comes through
Lines joint in faint discord
And the storm watch brews
A concert of kings
As the white sea snaps
At the heels of a soft prayer
Whispered

Ian’s voice is particularly fine on this track, his tone alternating between matter-of-fact acceptance of fate and soaring when offering his companion a stroll to this magical, darkly romantic place. It will forever befuddle me (no blonde jokes, please) that Stormwatch did not open with the pairing of “Something on the Move” and “Dun Ringill,” as those two songs back-to-back make for an intensely compelling introduction while clearly establishing a strong central theme.

At this point, the dual irritations of incomplete ideas and jumbled track order are really starting to annoy me, but Ian Anderson manages to save the day with what I think is one of his greatest and most impactful compositions, “Flying Dutchman.” Written during the period when the exodus of the “boat people” escaping Vietnam was at its peak, the song is unfortunately a timeless reminder of human resistance to providing haven for people fleeing violence and repression in search of a new life—resistance that is often tightly linked to racism and xenophobia. The symbol of the ghost ship of legend doomed to sail the seas for all eternity serves as a metaphor for the fear of outsiders. As the story morphed over time, the phantom ship came to be seen as a portent of impending doom, making the threat of the horrible consequences of allowing “foreigners” into one’s country a sick form of common wisdom. In truth, the Flying Dutchman is a creation of our own fears, a projection of our shadows.

The first verse describes an old woman standing at a harbor, sending warm wishes to the children who have set sail for distant shores. Their journey is doomed before it begins, as barriers to entry have sprung up in a multitude of countries, ensuring they will “come empty home again.” The music supporting the verse alternates between quiet moments and sudden thrusts, oscillating between quietly expressed hope and the natural fear that would accompany any journey into the unknown. The contrast between the gentle piano-flute duet and Martin Barre’s distorted, trebly guitar is quite dramatic, expressing in music the gap between innocence and hard experience. John Evan gives us a marvelous farewell performance in this piece, forming a compassionate counterpoint to Ian’s gentle, sadness-tinged vocal. As the verse ends, we hear Barriemore Barlow in the distance, executing a snare roll with military precision that cues a shift in style and tone for the chorus. Evan now switches to rhythmic support by adopting a style close to barrel roll, allowing Ian to deliver his first message to the first-worlders in the audience:

So come all you lovers of the good life
On your supermarket run
Set a sail of your own devising
And be there when the Dutchman comes.

The second verse describes some of the horrors faced by the boat people during their perilous journey in search of a home:

Wee girl in a straw hat: from far east warring
Sad cargo of an old ship: young bodies whoring
Slow ocean hobo ports closed to her crew
No hope of immigration, keep on passing through.

Ian’s second message is directed at parents with children, asking them to make the empathic leap: there but for fortune, those could be your kids:

So come all you lovers of the good life
Your children playing in the sun
Set a sympathetic flag a-flying
And be there when the Dutchman comes.

You may have heard of the boat disasters occurring in my neck of the woods: stories of thousands of immigrants crammed into barely seaworthy vessels drowning in the Mediterranean with appalling regularity. The horrors of such a death were also familiar to the boat people:

Death grinning like a scarecrow Flying Dutchman
Seagull pilots flown from nowhere try and touch one
As she slips in on the full tide
And the harbour-master yells
All hands vanished with the captain
No one left, the tale to tell.

Ian’s final message to the smug and comfortable attempts to remind them that the same fate awaits them unless they open minds and hearts to the fundamental truth that we are all human and our survival is dependent on mutual assistance:

So come all you lovers of the good life
Look around you, can you see?
Staring ghostly in the mirror
It’s the Dutchman you will be
Floating slowly out to sea
In a misty misery.

All it would take to put first-worlders in the same boat is one crazy bastard doing something to ignite a war, and given the recent ascendance of several crazy authoritarian bastards who are fully committed to fostering hatred between human beings, any of us could find ourselves taking a sail on the Dutchman in pretty short order. Ian Anderson has rarely written a song of such power and undeniable truth, and I hope with every fiber of my being that we learn to embrace that truth before it’s too late.

Mentioned previously, “Elegy” isn’t worth another word. I will now move on to the denouement.

Though I think it’s somewhat of a mess as an album, I definitely intend to purchase the deluxe edition when it comes out. All the Tull deluxe editions released so far have been of the highest quality, and I’ve always learned something new from the listening experience. In this case, I’m hoping that some of the excluded songs, demos or outtakes will provide substitute material for some of the weaker tracks so I can imagine a more perfect version of Stormwatch.

No, it’s not their best, but those few keepers make Stormwatch worth an edited spin.

Jethro Tull – Minstrel in the Gallery – Classic Music Reviews

Note to my readers: This is one of several albums I reviewed in my first year as a blogger that I’ve been dying to rewrite. When I first started the blog, I listened to expert advice to keep my posts short and sweet, and that was a mistake. After a while, I felt that I was cheating both artists and readers with presentations of superficial mediocrity. In preparation for my upcoming collection of reviews, I have rewritten nearly all the reviews from that first year, including the bulk of The Beatles’ catalog and several iconic albums. These reviews will appear here and on 50thirdand3rd over the next few months. 

Minstrel in the Gallery is what came after the crash. Jethro Tull had achieved the much sought-after status of musical darlings with the back-to-back releases of Aqualung and Thick as a Brick, only to discover that musical darlingship was as ephemeral as a one-night stand with a hooker who steals your wallet on her way out the door. The critics of the era sadistically skewered them for A Passion Play, and the follow-up album, War Child, was a failed movie project slapped together from the Chateau d’Isaster remnants and Aqualung outtakes—a bowl of mush unlikely to please anyone. Though the album featured a hit single (“Bungle in the Jungle”) and a Tull classic (“Skating Away”), the consensus among the musical cognoscenti was that Jethro Tull was yesterday’s news.

Unsurprisingly, the critics hated Minstrel in the Gallery. The wise men at Rolling Stone wrote, “The fact that Ian Anderson and the lads have once again plundered the British secular music tradition signifies little and delivers less.”

My readers know the agony I endure when I am forced to disagree with Rolling Stone, so please, feel my pain when I tell you I think Minstrel in the Gallery is one of Tull’s better albums—and if hadn’t been for the unfortunate detour called Too Old to Rock and Roll, Too Young to Die, Tull’s musical progression to the superb Songs from the Wood would have been obvious to even the most tone-deaf critic. Minstrel in the Gallery features outstanding compositions, original arrangements and Martin Barre and Barriemore Barlow at full power. At the center is a wounded Ian Anderson, recovering from critical dismissal and divorce, delivering some of his finest lyrics and revealing himself as vulnerable and exquisitely human.

The title track is a joint composition by Ian Anderson and Martin Barre, presented in three segments. The first is the “minstrel” version of the song, introduced by a royal toady, whose voice is obscured by the minstrels whispering to each other, “I don’t think they’re going to like this, though.” We hear a single acoustic guitar chord, followed immediately by Ian Anderson singing the opening line. His vocal is supported by acoustic guitar, flute, rough hand-held percussion and background singers whose voices are in deep echo designed to reproduce the sound of a great hall. The lyrics are written in the form of “oblique suggestions” reminiscent of the Elizabethans, with puns and asides packed together like sardines in a can:

He titillated men of action
Belly warming, hands still rubbing
On the parts they never mention
He pacified the nappy-suffering
Infant-bleating, one-line jokers
TV documentary makers, overfed and undertakers

The segment ends on a quickly strummed chord supported by a pattern of rising notes, a perfect anticipatory introduction to the second part. Martin Barre rips off his jerkin, exposes his bare chest and flames shoot out of his Les Paul with stunning effect. A series of declining dissonant notes is the signal to the rest of the band to get with it, and Barriemore Barlow and Jeffrey are right on cue. The segment is full of bash, shifting rhythms, screaming guitar, sudden starts and stops and memorable scraps of melody—often I’ll hum along with Martin’s lead, accompanying my vocal with hip shaking and arm movements that would make for a very erotic music video.

At first, I’m disappointed when part two becomes part three, but my disappointment is quickly shattered when Martin returns and plays the delightfully crunchy and clever riff that serves as the motif for the final segment. The verses are identical to those in the opening segment, but here the accompaniment is distorted guitar chords played in stop time bursts supported by Barlow’s fabulous drums. The repetition of the lyrics emphasizes that the minstrel’s lot is one of perpetual vulnerability, whether you’re talking about the troubadours of the Middle Ages or the griots who traverse the African continent to this day. Given his difficulties with the critics, it made perfect sense for Ian Anderson to link himself to his historical companions.

And I just love it when Tull kicks ass, and they seriously kick ass on “Minstrel in the Gallery.”

Next up is playful ode to the Norse gods, “Cold Wind to Valhalla,” with an opening that demonstrates that Ian Anderson was one hell of an acoustic guitar picker. The dense lyrics are similar in structure to “Minstrel in the Gallery,” and like the opener, the song moves from light to heavy over the course of the performance. It’s nowhere near as satisfying as its predecessor, but still a fascinating piece of music.

Classic Tull flute opens “Black Satin Dancer,” but what I really notice in the opening passage are John Evan’s marvelous piano runs, which are played with a very deft touch. I’ll also compliment David Palmer on the string arrangements after having blasted the crap out of his work on War Child: here he uses a string quartet rather than hiring every unemployed symphony musician in London. Although the dynamics in this song are even more varied than the first two tracks, I’ve always imagined this piece played on a very dark stage—minimal lighting, the spots slightly off the performers, the stage bare except for players and instruments—allowing listeners to close their eyes and focus on the sensuous lyrics:

Come, let me play with you, black satin dancer
In all your giving, given is the answer
Tearing life from limb and looking sweeter than the brightest flower in my garden
Begging your pardon — shedding right unreason
Over sensation fly the fleeting seasons
Thin wind whispering on broken mandolin
Bending the minutes — the hours ever turning on that old gold story of mercy
Desperate breathing, tongue nipple-teasing.
Your fast river flowing—your northern fire fed.
Come, black satin dancer, come softly to bed.

“Requiem” ends what used to be called Side One in the days of LP’s, a nice, if somewhat derivative melody saved by the melancholy description of the end of a relationship:

Well, my lady told me, “Stay”
I looked aside and walked away along the strand
But I didn’t say a word, as the train timetable blurred
Close behind the taxi stand
Saw her face in the teardrop black cab window
Fading in the traffic watched her go

“Side Two” opens with the remarkable expression of emotional turmoil, “One White Duck / 010 = Nothing at All.” Again, the topic is relationship failure, presented in the form of a one-sided argument. The dramatic monologue standard of excellence is Robert Browning, but Ian Anderson makes a more than credible contribution to the poetic genre in this piece, a sort of modern version of Browning’s “My Last Duchess.” While Ian Anderson’s “character” is not the smug, arrogant and completely oblivious prick revealed in that poem, his attempt at self-and-other deception and simmering self-pity are exposed in a similar manner.

So fly away Peter and fly away Paul
From the finger-tip ledge of contentment.
The long restless rustle of high heel boots calls.
And I’m probably bound to deceive you after all.

Something must be wrong with me and my brain
If I’m so patently unrewarding
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that way
And my zero to your power of ten equals nothing at all.

Palmer’s string arrangement is exquisite, never overwhelming the fundamental acoustic sound and allowing the piece to end with the sound of an acoustic guitar trying to erase the diary entry we’ve just heard. A tour de force performance by Ian Anderson.

The suite that follows, “Baker Street Muse,” is a far more coherent, flowing contribution to the form than the slapdash cut-and-paste job The Beatles gave us on Side Two of Abbey Road. The narrative is a stroll through the London streets of 1975 where we find the neurotic minstrel discovering his fellow citizens craving sex while struggling with performance anxiety, demanding self-sufficiency from those who spend the nights on our streets, and kicking the artists (anyone we know) to the gutter along with the bums. The sexual escapade piece, “The Pygmy and the Whore” features some of Ian Anderson’s wittiest lyrics:

“Big bottled Fräulein, put your weight on me,”
Said the Pygmy to The Whore,
Desperate for more in his assault upon the mountain.
Little man, his youth a fountain.
Overdrafted and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose: an attempt at getting close to where he came from.

In the doorway of the stars, between Blandford Street and Mars,
Proposition, deal. Fly button feel.
Testicle testing.
Wallet ever-bulging.
Dressed to the left, divulging the wrinkles of his years.
Wedding-bell induced fears.
Shedding bell-end tears in the pocket of her resistance.

The musical flow throughout the suite is strong, and the reverse narrative in the final phases, similar to the ending of Thick as a Brick, is very well-executed. The suite ends with Ian Anderson trapped in the recording studio, shouting, “I can’t get out!” I’ve always taken this as his final capitulation to his destiny—dude, you’re a minstrel, and minstrels are going to get kicked in the nuts from time to time. Get the fuck over it and move on!

The album ends unremarkably with “Grace,” a curiously silly little piece that robs “Baker Street Muse” of its rightful place as the true close of Ian Anderson’s journey through the self. Minor flaws aside, I’ve always considered Minstrel in the Gallery one of the essential expression of Tull-ness, and a sadly neglected masterpiece.

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