Tag Archives: David Palmer

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

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 – War Child – Classic Music Review


Not their greatest effort, but not as bad as some make it out to be. Click to buy.

For an album splotched together from a failed recording project, a failed movie project, a concept involving anthropomorphism and one song from the Aqualung sessions, War Child turned out reasonably well. It would have turned out even better had they locked David Palmer in the basement during the recording process.

Palmer’s string arrangements on War Child are consistently overdone and too loud in many of the mixes. They appear in many tracks that would have been better off without them. More Martin, less David would have been nice. On the plus side, Ian Anderson’s vocals are quite energetic and the song mix displays Tull’s versatility exceptionally well. When they’re not buried by the string section, the band sounds Tull-tight.

The original War Child concept had to do with the story of a teenage girl in the afterlife meeting up with God, Lucifer and St. Peter. I’m glad they didn’t go there, as there is such a thing as spending too much time on religion. The more interesting theme—a perceptible thread that runs through “War Child” and “Queen and Country”—is the idea that all of us who live in modern society are war children who live off the fruits of conquest, whether that conquest involves shooting wars or capitalist competitiveness. While we enjoy ourselves in “the bright city mile” or while the ministers enjoy their “social whirls,” we forget that all of our fun is made possible to some extent by war and its cousins. Now that would have made for a very intriguing concept album, particularly since Al Qaeda later justified the 9/11 attacks on innocent civilians with the response, “They pay taxes, don’t they?” If we benefit from the spoils of war, are we still responsible for the war even if we don’t fire a shot?

As it is, the title track opener is an interesting and unusual piece of music. Ian was still in love with the soprano saxophone during this period, so that’s what we hear as the music fades in following the breakfast-and-battle sequence. The chord sequence is deceptive, particularly in the chorus, where a key shift takes us to A but the chorus resolves on Bb before taking us back to the incongruous E root of the verse. Ian Anderson was by this time pretty nimble with unusual chord sequences, but this one’s particularly sweet and almost Charlie Parkerish in the use of the flattened sixth. The rhythmic changes are pretty zippy, too, especially when they speed up the tempo for Ian’s sax solo. The lyrics work if you can imagine them as the start of a longer narrative; by themselves they feel like orphans. All in all, an intriguing opening if you tune out David Palmer’s string barrage.

Applying Palmerism to “Queen and Country” was a major mistake. The first verse, with just Barriemore on the drums, Martin on sharp rhythm and John Evan on accordion, makes you feel like you’ve walked into a waterside pub packed with drunken sailors and friendly wenches. What the fuck business does the string section have in a joint like that? Harrumph! Throw ‘dose bow-cradling bums off the dock! Let ’em drown in the bloody Thames, the buggers! This could have been a kick-ass song in classic Tull syncopated rhythm mode, but alas, it was not to be.

We need War Child . . . Naked.

I object less to the use of strings in “Ladies,” though I wish the final mix would have lowered the gain on that channel. “Ladies” is a very smoothly-played waltz that opens with acoustic guitar and (gasp!) flute. It’s a very pretty song with a singable melody, and I always look forward to Ian Anderson’s acoustic guitar work. The handclaps and castanets are superb touches, and though rather a surprising turn of events, the shift to a rock shuffle at the end is a nice, unexpected twist.

“Back Door Angels” comes as a blessed relief because you can actually hear the band members do what they do best: Barriemore Barlow executing hard beats and amazing rolls, John Evan filling in spaces with maximum impact and Martin getting a chance to rip, rock and roll. Ian is in fine voice, and though the lyrics are a bit challenging to interpret in their totality, they contain some fine imagery and memorable lines. “Why do the faithful have such a will to believe in something?” is something that this skeptic has never been able to answer, and I agree with other reviewers that “Think I’ll sit down and invent some fool, some grand court jester” is a representation of Ian Anderson’s role as social critic. For me the most intriguing lines are his description of the back door angels, women perceived to have powers beyond the understanding of mortal men. Some have speculated that the back door angels are nuns because of their depiction on the back cover, but nuns are too boring to have the qualities described in the song. I’m more aligned with the “women who slip in the back door” camp: women who violate convention, women of extreme erotic and sadistic power, the providers of pleasure and pain . . . but given my sexual inclinations, that could be an example of very wishful thinking. Whatever the meaning, I love these lines in particular:

`tis said they put we men to sleep with just a whisper,
And touch the heads of dying dogs — and make them linger.
They carry their candles high — and they light the dark hours.
And sweep all the country clean with pressed and scented wild-flowers.
They grow all their roses red, and paint our skies blue —
Drop one penny in every second bowl —
Make half the beggars lose

I have to say I don’t care much for the following track, “Sealion,” the first of the animal theme numbers on the album, in part because I find most songs about life in the music business a closed book open only to insiders (except for side one of Lola). I also think Ian’s trying too hard here, like a comedian who knows his material isn’t that great and tries to compensate with hyper-energy and verbalized winks.

Alternatively, when it comes to “Skating Away on the Thin Ice of a New Day,” I have nothing but endless praise and boundless admiration. I think it’s one of the finest expressions of what Jung called “the process of individuation” ever expressed in song, combining some of Ian’s most insightful lyrics with a delightfully clever arrangement. One interpretation of the meaning of life is that it is the struggle of the individual against expectations, a theme that has been present in rock music since its inception (escaping the world of square parents, the freedom of the open road, the statement of rebellion in long sideburns or long hair). Ian Anderson describes our journey out of the chrysalis with perfect clarity:

Meanwhile back in the year one
When you belonged to no one
You didn’t stand a chance son
If your pants were undone

‘Cause you were bred for humanity and sold to society
One day you’ll wake up in the present day
A million generations removed from expectations
Of being who you really want to be

The instrumentation and arrangement mirror the gentle empathy of the message while moving forward at a nice, peppy pace. The tiny bursts of accordion, glockenspiel and Martin’s cut power chords give the song a joyful liveliness that is eternally engaging. The closing lines express another important aspect of individuation that is so very, very true: as we unconsciously dash through our lives, we sometimes experience powerful, timeless moments when we become acutely aware of self and our existential separation from others:

Well, do you ever get the feeling, that the story’s too damn real
And in the present tense
Or that everybody’s on the stage and it seems like you’re the only
Person sitting in the audience

“Bungle in the Jungle” was the hit from the album, a song many consider very un-Tull with its semi-pop feel. Ian Anderson’s comments on the song during interviews have been typically contradictory: one day he says it’s about life in the heart of London’s financial centre and the next he claims it exposes American yahoos. Interestingly enough, both explanations have a ring of truth: the song is about casual human exploitation and its manifestation in mating rituals and the norms of capitalism. “Just say a word and the boys will be right there/With claws at your back to send a chill through the night air” could apply equally well to aggressive jerks accosting women in bars and the knife-in-the-back experience of competing for space at the top of the hierarchy. What makes the song work for me is Tull’s superb sense of rhythm and Ian’s engaging vocal. As for it being something of an odd duck in the Tull catalog, I’d remind people that this is a band that explored so many different genres that they’re pretty much a genre all by themselves, so almost anything goes with Tull.

“Solitaire,” Ian’s bitter response to his critics (likely Steve Peacock in particular) sort of breaks the mood established by “Skating Away” and “Bungle in the Jungle.” It feels almost like an extended aside in the context of the album, and while well-played, I think Ian should have just let the criticism bounce of his back (easier said than done, as I know all too well). “The Third Hoorah” fits better in the context of this high-energy album, but it would have been much better as part of a War Child concept album. The closing number, “Two Fingers,” is one final burst of energy, ending War Child on a note of good cheer with a witty depiction of the journey into the afterlife. I like the song, but I will be forever thankful that they chose “Wind Up” as the closer for Aqualung instead of this one: it would have ended that masterpiece on a rather jarring note.

War Child is not Tull’s greatest work, but not their worst either. You could say that David Palmer’s strings classify as one of the classic examples of the excess that marred progressive rock; then again, you could just categorize it as a very bad idea. Any album with “Back Door Angels” and “Skating Away” can’t be all that bad, and in the larger context of the Tull catalogue, I find War Child an occasionally refreshing diversion . . . but only on occasion.

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