Tra le corde delle elettriche (che sono poi una e fidata, ma sembra un intero coro) svapora la polvere. Proprio lei, sempre lei. Ha fatto una visitina ai Kansas, ha danzato con Bandini, tempo fa, e adesso impegna in una giga scozzese il mefistofelico one-leg standing pied piper di quella vecchia leggenda celtica partita da un agronomo col nome che in fondo suonava bene. Proprio bene.
1991. I Jethro Tull del tour di Catfish Rising sono arrochiti, sbiaditi e metropolitani, ma nell'istrionica dimensione live spaccano tuttora potentemente il culo ai passeri. Si parte con un accenno a tempi diversi, quelli del Menestrello. Sono ancora qui per raccontarvi storie, per commuovervi e prendervi per il culo. Venite a prendermi e mi avrete, sembra dire. E il sordido follettone chiama in suo soccorso Mary la Strabica, la ragazzina-puttanella che nel '71 rubava ai ricchi per darla agli Aqualung. Ce la immaginiamo adesso cellulitica, due cerchi neri intorno agli occhi, sfumacchiante sigari concentrati in un angolo di un brutto bar. Ma cazzo, la cosa funziona ancora, e cazzo se funziona, e cazzo, come funziona. Be', oddio, lo Ian trasforma una strofa in uno strumentale. Be', oddio, molte cose sono cambiate. Tipo la voce. Ma - ma li sentite? Sono i Jethro Tull. E' Ian Scott Anderson. E' Martin Lancelot Barre, l'eroe della chitarra più timido del mondo. E però il riff fulminante di "This Is Not Love" - che sarà pure una gradevole canzoncina hard-flute-rock di poco spessore e quel che volete - toglie qualsiasi possibile dubbio a chi non lo conoscesse. Solito discorso dei passeri.
Poi cambiamo dimensione. "Rocks On The Road" è la tipica gemma nascosta. E dal vivo è una gemma che viene fuori. Una lunga canzone che trasuda polvere, rarefazione, sudore e atmosfera, e dove questo Ian roco e vagamente direstraitsiano degli anni '90 funziona benissimo. E l'intermezzo dal retrogusto jazzato. E le circonvoluzioni del flauto, il flauto famoso e paradossale dalle mille sfumature. Sì, davvero, tutto funziona. Ed ecco che anche gli Heavy Horses dell'ironica campagna inglese trasmigrano quasi in America con mezzo zoccolo. Eppur si muove!
Seguono due episodi minori, ma ben scritti. "Like A Tall Thin Girl", incalzata dal mandolino ossessivo del multistrumentista Ian, è un folk variegato spennellato di elettricità a larghe chiazze. Di "Still Loving You Tonight" è noto il quasi-plagio da Santana (vai a sapere perché invece di vendicarsi direttamente sugli Eagles devono andare a prendersela con quello, che a parte suonare sempre su metà manico della chitarra non gli ha fatto poi niente di male), ma il pezzo ha tiro e si lascia apprezzare.
A sorpresa, e al cardiopalma, parte l'attacco di "Thick As A Brick". E la lacrima dev'esserci stata per forza. E' però una versione, questa, davvero coperta di polvere, affaticata. Bella, sì, ma che fa spendere una seconda lacrima per motivi opposti. Perché non possono non venire in mente i palchi dei '70, e le cose che lì faceva un Anderson capelluto, brillante, contorto, sardonico, sarcastico, straordinario, commovente, colorato, addirittura fotogenico. (Starò esagerando?) Comunque sono loro, accettiamoli anche così impolverati.
E' un altro sobbalzo quello del riff mai dimenticato di "A New Day Yesterday". Un bluesaccio sporco, reso diverso dal sovrapporsi di arrangiamenti e diventato, col tempo, ancora più sporco. Decisamente esaltante. Continui picchi verso l'alto, e tra flauto e chitarra si rischia il deliquio orgasmico. (Starò esagerando? Naaa. Be', li amo e non ne faccio mistero. Accettatemi anche voi, e leviamoci questa polvere di dosso.) A sorpresa, in mezzo e poi ritorno, ecco l'immancabile "Bourèe". Grugniti, smorfie, urletti, spettacolo e bella, bellissima musica. (Appunto, li amo.)
Una curiosa "Blues Jam", momento di rara delizia strumentale che accenna con la coda dell'occhio temi già conosciuti e sentiti (forse anche in qualche vita precedente), serve a introdurre l'ultimo atto. Che è "Jump Start", misconosciuto quadretto fumoso da "Crest Of A Knave". Finale inconsueto per un live. Già bella alle origini, guadagna parecchio. E l'aggettivazione rimane quella. Rocume, polverosità, bar di periferia nel cui arredamento complessivo non starebbe male qualche procace sorella gemella della Maria la Strabica invecchiata evocata righe sopra - atmosfera crepuscolare e terribilmente affascinante. E una coda che non può non spingere ad insistere di cuore su quel concetto dei passeri e i loro culi.
L'impressione rimane quella lei pure. Cerchi di lavarti via la polvere dagli occhi, ma agli angoli degli occhi si deposita, stuzzica le sacche lacrimali appena appena. Riporta lampi di già vissuto. Che non torna, no. Mai. Ma c'è del bello anche nelle voci raschiate, nella decadenza delle cose belle, nella polvere che alla fin fine è una cosa che, col vento, si muove.
Elenco tracce e testi
04 Heavy Horses (09:19)
Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust
An October's day, towards evening
Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough
Salt on a deep chest seasoning
Last of the line at an honest day's toil
Turning the deep sod under
Flint at the fetlock, chasing the bone
Flies at the nostrils plunder.
The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron vie
with the Shire on his feathers floating
Hauling soft timber into the dusk
to bed on a warm straw coating.
Heavy Horses, move the land under me
Behind the plough gliding --- slipping and sliding free
Now you're down to the few
And there's no work to do
The tractor's on its way.
Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed
to keep the old line going.
And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the wood
behind the young trees growing
To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,
and your eighteen hands at the shoulder
And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry
and the nights are seen to draw colder
They'll beg for your strength, your gentle power
your noble grace and your bearing
And you'll strain once again to the sound of the gulls
in the wake of the deep plough, sharing.
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.
07 Thick as a Brick (07:48)
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
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.
LATER.
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.
LATER.
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.
QUOTE
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.
LATER
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.
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 are 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.
OF COURSE
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.
08 A New Day Yesterday (05:49)
My first and last time with you
And we had some fun.
Went walking through the trees, yeah!
And then I kissed you once.
Oh I want to see you soon
But I wonder how.
It was a new day yesterday
But it's an old day now.
Spent a long time looking
For a game to play.
My luck should be so bad now
To turn out this way.
Oh I had to leave today
Just when I thought I'd found you.
It was a new day yesterday
But it's an old day now.
10 Jump Start (06:56)
In the dark of the city backwoods, something stirs then slips away.
Law and order in darkest Knightsbridge. Crime and punishment at play.
Hey, Mr. Policeman won't you come on over. Hook me up to the power lines
of your love.
Jump start, or tow me away.
And through the bruised machinery, the smoking haze of industry.
Another day with ball and chain. I do my time, then home again.
Hey, Mrs. Maggie won't you come on over. Hook me up to the power lines
of your love.
Jump start, or tow me away.
Well, should I blame the officers? Or maybe, I should blame the priest?
Or should I blame the poor foot soldier
who's left to make the most from least?
Hey, Jack Ripper won't you come on over. Hook me up to the power lines
of your love.
Jump start, or tow me away.
You can blame the newsman talking at you on the satellite T.V.
And if you're fighting for your shipyards, you might as well just blame the sea.
Hey, Mr. Weatherman come on over. Hook me up to the power lines
of your love.
Jump start, or tow me away.
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