Post by Mark Lavallee on Sept 1, 2012 22:19:32 GMT -5
Now we're in full on prog rock territory for we have come upon 1972's album long suite Thick As A Brick.
Released on March 10, 1972 the album rocketed to #1 here in the US and reached #5 in the UK.
How to review an album that consists of one 45 minute song? It's definitely a daunting task, but well worth the effort.
First off, let's talk about the packaging. Has there ever been anything better? (Maybe, but I sure haven't seen anything better.) There were hints of Ian Anderson's sense of humor before but could anyone suspect that he was capable of this level of satire? First off there was the whole story about the lyrics of the album being written by a fictitious 10 year old boy (Gerald Bostock) who had been disqualified from a poetry contest due to a nonexistent swear word in the poem (which surely left fans desperately trying to find the offending word.)
The entire album folds down and opens up to reveal a full English newspaper with various stories relating to Bostock and his scandals (Cross-Eyed Mary!) and various parodies of the kind of banal crap that was deemed fit to print back in the day. It's all capped off by an unsolvable crossword puzzle. Classic!
Musically, this is one of the most dynamic pieces in the Tull catalog. Acoustic, electric, beautiful, angry, bombastic - this is Jethro Tull in top form. It simply must be heard to be appreciated. It may be one long 43 minute song, but it never, ever gets boring or overly repetitious.
The lyrics themselves deal further with themes visited on Aqualung, how society stifles creativity and pigeonholes people to solve it's own needs. Pretty heavy stuff for a rock band. This is one album that required intense concentration and determination to fully understand. Background music this is not.
Roughly divided into 11 separate acts based around a central theme, the music is the main combining factor here. Thick As A Brick is one of those albums really requires you to sit and pay attention. It's difficult to grasp the, "Story," without really analyzing the lyrics. Condemning politicians, noting how those who fight the system become a part of it - false heroes, more or less. Very deep stuff.
The band added Ian's childhood aquaintance Barriemore Barlow (best drummer ever) to replace the ousted Clive Bunker, his performance is extraordinary, just check out his little solo that opens side two of the album.
David Palmer's orchestration on the album is a thing of beauty as well but the album is most definitely the baby of Ian Anderson who's perfect vocals, flute and acoustic guitar are nothing short of phenomenal.
But don't take my word for it, read the lyrics for yourself. It may actually make following the, "Story," easier when you next listen to the album (or, listen to it for the first time). Reading the entire thing may be a bit daunting, but Thick As A Brick is an amazing piece of art, both as music and as the written word.
THICK AS A BRICK
Really don't mind if you sit this one out.
My words but a whisper your deafness a SHOUT.
I may make you feel but I can't make you think.
Your sperm's in the gutter your love's in the sink.
So you ride yourselves over the fields and
you make all your animal deals and
your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.
And the sand-castle virtues are all swept away
in the tidal destruction the moral melee.
The elastic retreat rings the close of play
as the last wave uncovers the newfangled way.
But your new shoes are worn at the heels
and your suntan does rapidly peel
and your wise men don't know how it feels
to be thick as a brick.
And the love that I feel is so far away:
I'm a bad dream that I just had today
and you shake your head and say it's a shame.
Spin me back down the years and the days of my youth.
Draw the lace and black curtains and shut out the whole truth.
Spin me down the long ages: let them sing the song.
See there! A son is born and we pronounce him fit to fight.
There are black-heads on his shoulders, and he pees himself in the night.
We'll make a man of him, put him to trade
teach him to play Monopoly and how to sing in the rain.
The Poet and the Painter casting shadows on the water
as the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea.
The do-er and the thinker: no allowance for the other
as the failing light illuminates the mercenary's creed.
The home fire burning: the kettle almost boiling
but the master of the house is far away.
The horses stamping, their warm breath clouding
in the sharp and frosty morning of the day.
And the poet lifts his pen while the soldier sheaths his sword.
And the youngest of the family is moving with authority.
Building castles by the sea, he dares the tardy tide to wash them all aside.
The cattle quietly grazing at the grass down by the river
where the swelling mountain water moves onward to the sea:
the builder of the castles renews the age-old purpose
and contemplates the milking girl whose offer is his need.
The young men of the household have all gone into service
and are not to be expected for a year.
The innocent young master - thoughts moving ever faster -
has formed the plan to change the man he seems.
And the poet sheaths his pen while the soldier lifts his sword.
And the oldest of the family is moving with authority.
Coming from across the sea, he challenges the son who puts him to the run.
What do you do when the old man's gone - do you want to be him?
And your real self sings the song. Do you want to free him?
No one to help you get up steam
and the whirlpool turns you `way off-beam.
I've come down from the upper class to mend your rotten ways.
My father was a man-of-power whom everyone obeyed.
So come on all you criminals! I've got to put you straight
just like I did with my old man twenty years too late.
Your bread and water's going cold.
Your hair is too short and neat.
I'll judge you all and make damn sure that no-one judges me.
You curl your toes in fun as you smile at everyone,
you meet the stares, you're unaware that your doings aren't done.
And you laugh most ruthlessly as you tell us what not to be.
But how are we supposed to see where we should run?
I see you shuffle in the courtroom with
your rings upon your fingers
and your downy little sidies
and your silver-buckle shoes.
Playing at the hard case,
you follow the example of the comic-paper idol
who lets you bend the rules.
So!
Come on ye childhood heroes!
Won't you rise up from the pages of your comic-books
your super crooks
and show us all the way.
Well! Make your will and testament.
Won't you? Join your local government.
We'll have Superman for president
let Robin save the day.
You put your bet on number one and it comes up every time.
The other kids have all backed down and they put you first in line.
And so you finally ask yourself just how big you are
and take your place in a wiser world of bigger motor cars.
And you wonder who to call on.
So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you though?
They're all resting down in Cornwall
writing up their memoirs for a paper-back edition
of the Boy Scout Manual.
See there! A man born and we pronounce him fit for peace.
There's a load lifted from his shoulders with the discovery of his disease.
We'll take the child from him
put it to the test
teach it to be a wise man
how to fool the rest.
We will be geared to the average rather than the exceptional
God is an overwhelming responsibility
we walked through the maternity ward and saw 218 babies wearing nylons
cats are on the upgrade
upgrade? Hipgrave. Oh, Mac.
In the clear white circles of morning wonder,
I take my place with the lord of the hills.
And the blue-eyed soldiers stand slightly discoloured
(in neat little rows) sporting canvas frills.
With their jock-straps pinching, they slouch to attention,
while queueing for sarnies at the office canteen.
Saying: "How's your granny?" and good old Ernie:
he coughed up a tenner on a premium bond win.
The legends (worded in
the ancient tribal hymn)
lie cradled in the seagull's call.
And all the promises they made are ground beneath the sadist's fall.
The poet and the wise man stand behind the gun,
and signal for the crack of dawn.
Light the sun. Light the sun.
Do you believe in the day?
Do you? Believe in the day!
The Dawn Creation of the Kings has begun.
Soft Venus (lonely maiden) brings the ageless one.
Do you believe in the day?
The fading hero has returned to the night
and fully pregnant with the day,
wise men endorse the poet's sight.
Do you believe in the day?
Do you? Believe in the day!
Let me tell you the tales of your life
of your love and the cut of the knife
the tireless oppression, the wisdom instilled
the desire to kill or be killed.
Let me sing of the losers who lie
in the street as the last bus goes by.
The pavements ar empty: the gutters run red
while the fool toasts his god in the sky.
So come all ye young men who are building castles!
Kindly state the time of the year
and join your voices in a hellish chorus.
Mark the precise nature of your fear.
Let me help you pick up your dead
as the sins of the father are fed
with the blood of the fools
and the thoughts of the wise and
from the pan under your bed.
Let me make you a present of song
as the wise man breaks wind and is gone
while the fool with the hour-glass is cooking his goose
and the nursery rhyme winds along.
So! Come all ye young men who are building castles!
Kindly state the time of the year
and join your voices in a hellish chorus.
Mark the precise nature of your fear.
See! The summer lightning casts its bolts upon you
and the hour of judgement draweth near.
Would you be the fool stood in his suit of armour
or the wiser man who rushes clear.
So! Come on ye childhood heroes!
Won't your rise up from the pages of your comic-books
your super-crooks
and show us all the way.
Well! Make your will and testament.
Won't you? Join your local government.
We'll have Superman for president
let Robin save the day.
So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you through?
They're all resting down in Cornwall writing up their memoirs
for a paper-back edition of the Boy Scout Manual.
So you ride yourselves over the fields
and you make all your animal deals
and your wise men don't know how it feels
to be thick as a brick.
Final rating - 4.75 out of 5 stars, it's very nearly perfect.
Released on March 10, 1972 the album rocketed to #1 here in the US and reached #5 in the UK.
How to review an album that consists of one 45 minute song? It's definitely a daunting task, but well worth the effort.
First off, let's talk about the packaging. Has there ever been anything better? (Maybe, but I sure haven't seen anything better.) There were hints of Ian Anderson's sense of humor before but could anyone suspect that he was capable of this level of satire? First off there was the whole story about the lyrics of the album being written by a fictitious 10 year old boy (Gerald Bostock) who had been disqualified from a poetry contest due to a nonexistent swear word in the poem (which surely left fans desperately trying to find the offending word.)
The entire album folds down and opens up to reveal a full English newspaper with various stories relating to Bostock and his scandals (Cross-Eyed Mary!) and various parodies of the kind of banal crap that was deemed fit to print back in the day. It's all capped off by an unsolvable crossword puzzle. Classic!
Musically, this is one of the most dynamic pieces in the Tull catalog. Acoustic, electric, beautiful, angry, bombastic - this is Jethro Tull in top form. It simply must be heard to be appreciated. It may be one long 43 minute song, but it never, ever gets boring or overly repetitious.
The lyrics themselves deal further with themes visited on Aqualung, how society stifles creativity and pigeonholes people to solve it's own needs. Pretty heavy stuff for a rock band. This is one album that required intense concentration and determination to fully understand. Background music this is not.
Roughly divided into 11 separate acts based around a central theme, the music is the main combining factor here. Thick As A Brick is one of those albums really requires you to sit and pay attention. It's difficult to grasp the, "Story," without really analyzing the lyrics. Condemning politicians, noting how those who fight the system become a part of it - false heroes, more or less. Very deep stuff.
The band added Ian's childhood aquaintance Barriemore Barlow (best drummer ever) to replace the ousted Clive Bunker, his performance is extraordinary, just check out his little solo that opens side two of the album.
David Palmer's orchestration on the album is a thing of beauty as well but the album is most definitely the baby of Ian Anderson who's perfect vocals, flute and acoustic guitar are nothing short of phenomenal.
But don't take my word for it, read the lyrics for yourself. It may actually make following the, "Story," easier when you next listen to the album (or, listen to it for the first time). Reading the entire thing may be a bit daunting, but Thick As A Brick is an amazing piece of art, both as music and as the written word.
THICK AS A BRICK
Really don't mind if you sit this one out.
My words but a whisper your deafness a SHOUT.
I may make you feel but I can't make you think.
Your sperm's in the gutter your love's in the sink.
So you ride yourselves over the fields and
you make all your animal deals and
your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.
And the sand-castle virtues are all swept away
in the tidal destruction the moral melee.
The elastic retreat rings the close of play
as the last wave uncovers the newfangled way.
But your new shoes are worn at the heels
and your suntan does rapidly peel
and your wise men don't know how it feels
to be thick as a brick.
And the love that I feel is so far away:
I'm a bad dream that I just had today
and you shake your head and say it's a shame.
Spin me back down the years and the days of my youth.
Draw the lace and black curtains and shut out the whole truth.
Spin me down the long ages: let them sing the song.
See there! A son is born and we pronounce him fit to fight.
There are black-heads on his shoulders, and he pees himself in the night.
We'll make a man of him, put him to trade
teach him to play Monopoly and how to sing in the rain.
The Poet and the Painter casting shadows on the water
as the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea.
The do-er and the thinker: no allowance for the other
as the failing light illuminates the mercenary's creed.
The home fire burning: the kettle almost boiling
but the master of the house is far away.
The horses stamping, their warm breath clouding
in the sharp and frosty morning of the day.
And the poet lifts his pen while the soldier sheaths his sword.
And the youngest of the family is moving with authority.
Building castles by the sea, he dares the tardy tide to wash them all aside.
The cattle quietly grazing at the grass down by the river
where the swelling mountain water moves onward to the sea:
the builder of the castles renews the age-old purpose
and contemplates the milking girl whose offer is his need.
The young men of the household have all gone into service
and are not to be expected for a year.
The innocent young master - thoughts moving ever faster -
has formed the plan to change the man he seems.
And the poet sheaths his pen while the soldier lifts his sword.
And the oldest of the family is moving with authority.
Coming from across the sea, he challenges the son who puts him to the run.
What do you do when the old man's gone - do you want to be him?
And your real self sings the song. Do you want to free him?
No one to help you get up steam
and the whirlpool turns you `way off-beam.
I've come down from the upper class to mend your rotten ways.
My father was a man-of-power whom everyone obeyed.
So come on all you criminals! I've got to put you straight
just like I did with my old man twenty years too late.
Your bread and water's going cold.
Your hair is too short and neat.
I'll judge you all and make damn sure that no-one judges me.
You curl your toes in fun as you smile at everyone,
you meet the stares, you're unaware that your doings aren't done.
And you laugh most ruthlessly as you tell us what not to be.
But how are we supposed to see where we should run?
I see you shuffle in the courtroom with
your rings upon your fingers
and your downy little sidies
and your silver-buckle shoes.
Playing at the hard case,
you follow the example of the comic-paper idol
who lets you bend the rules.
So!
Come on ye childhood heroes!
Won't you rise up from the pages of your comic-books
your super crooks
and show us all the way.
Well! Make your will and testament.
Won't you? Join your local government.
We'll have Superman for president
let Robin save the day.
You put your bet on number one and it comes up every time.
The other kids have all backed down and they put you first in line.
And so you finally ask yourself just how big you are
and take your place in a wiser world of bigger motor cars.
And you wonder who to call on.
So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you though?
They're all resting down in Cornwall
writing up their memoirs for a paper-back edition
of the Boy Scout Manual.
See there! A man born and we pronounce him fit for peace.
There's a load lifted from his shoulders with the discovery of his disease.
We'll take the child from him
put it to the test
teach it to be a wise man
how to fool the rest.
We will be geared to the average rather than the exceptional
God is an overwhelming responsibility
we walked through the maternity ward and saw 218 babies wearing nylons
cats are on the upgrade
upgrade? Hipgrave. Oh, Mac.
In the clear white circles of morning wonder,
I take my place with the lord of the hills.
And the blue-eyed soldiers stand slightly discoloured
(in neat little rows) sporting canvas frills.
With their jock-straps pinching, they slouch to attention,
while queueing for sarnies at the office canteen.
Saying: "How's your granny?" and good old Ernie:
he coughed up a tenner on a premium bond win.
The legends (worded in
the ancient tribal hymn)
lie cradled in the seagull's call.
And all the promises they made are ground beneath the sadist's fall.
The poet and the wise man stand behind the gun,
and signal for the crack of dawn.
Light the sun. Light the sun.
Do you believe in the day?
Do you? Believe in the day!
The Dawn Creation of the Kings has begun.
Soft Venus (lonely maiden) brings the ageless one.
Do you believe in the day?
The fading hero has returned to the night
and fully pregnant with the day,
wise men endorse the poet's sight.
Do you believe in the day?
Do you? Believe in the day!
Let me tell you the tales of your life
of your love and the cut of the knife
the tireless oppression, the wisdom instilled
the desire to kill or be killed.
Let me sing of the losers who lie
in the street as the last bus goes by.
The pavements ar empty: the gutters run red
while the fool toasts his god in the sky.
So come all ye young men who are building castles!
Kindly state the time of the year
and join your voices in a hellish chorus.
Mark the precise nature of your fear.
Let me help you pick up your dead
as the sins of the father are fed
with the blood of the fools
and the thoughts of the wise and
from the pan under your bed.
Let me make you a present of song
as the wise man breaks wind and is gone
while the fool with the hour-glass is cooking his goose
and the nursery rhyme winds along.
So! Come all ye young men who are building castles!
Kindly state the time of the year
and join your voices in a hellish chorus.
Mark the precise nature of your fear.
See! The summer lightning casts its bolts upon you
and the hour of judgement draweth near.
Would you be the fool stood in his suit of armour
or the wiser man who rushes clear.
So! Come on ye childhood heroes!
Won't your rise up from the pages of your comic-books
your super-crooks
and show us all the way.
Well! Make your will and testament.
Won't you? Join your local government.
We'll have Superman for president
let Robin save the day.
So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you through?
They're all resting down in Cornwall writing up their memoirs
for a paper-back edition of the Boy Scout Manual.
So you ride yourselves over the fields
and you make all your animal deals
and your wise men don't know how it feels
to be thick as a brick.
Final rating - 4.75 out of 5 stars, it's very nearly perfect.