• Voto:
Ai Jethro mi ci sono avvicinato più tardi che ad altri gruppi prog, forse perché avevo ascoltato soltanto Aqualung, capolavoro, sì, ma non molto prog, e, dato che fino ad un po' di tempo fa ascoltavo soltanto il suddetto genere...
Poi mi è capitato fra le mani questo Minstrel in The Gallery. Poco convinto, lo inizio ad ascoltare... La title track è uno dei due capolavori principali dell'album, con un'atmosfera iniziale molto medioevale, decisamente da brividi (soprattutto per il sottoscritto, che ama il medioevale) con due successivi cambi di tempo, il primo che porta allo strumentale a chitarra elettrica, con Barre che si diverte moltissimo, ed un secondo, che ci riporta al cantato con un pezzo simil hard rock. "WOW! Questa mi piace!" "Cold Wind To Valhalla" è una canzone praticamente epica, con una vena di malinconia di sottofondo, assieme a delle belle comparse di violino, con un riff orecchiablie anche se non scontato. Bello il cambio fra chitarra acustica ed elettrica. "Beeeeeeellooo..." Un inizio a flauto ci introduce alla successiva "Black Satin Dancer", a mio parere il secondo capolavoro fra i capolavori dell'album, una canzone sospesa fra il triste e lo spensierato. I violini qui si fanno sentire moltissimo, aumentando il pathos già dato dal cantato e dal pianoforte, mentre Barre, nello strumentale, crea un assolo a dir poco perfetto. Attaverso vari passaggi torniamo poi alla parte iniziale. "HHHH!""Requiem" e "One White Duck/0 (alla decima) = Nothing at All" sono due stupende ballate acustiche, la prima più triste, in opposizione alla semi spensieratezza della seconda. Inutile commentarle, sono semplicemente stupende. "(orgasmo (o orgasma? non lo so... ))"
"Baker St.Muse" è una suite, secondo me la peggiore canzone dell'album, ma un peggiore assolutamente relativo (che è un po' come dire bassamente alto), rimane sempre un capolavoro (magari tutti gli album avessero una canzone peggiore dello stampo della suddetta!). Attraverso quattro diverse parti passiamo fra pezzi abbastanza inquietanti ed altri che calmano molto (come l'inizio), fra schitarrate e "flautate" gigantesche (con violini et similia quasi onnipresenti nelle parti più calme", per creare, alla fine, una canzone decisamente bella. "Mi piace un po' meno ma è stupenda". "Grace" è decisamente la canzone più corta dell'album, con uno stile sulla scia di "Requiem", ma abbastanza originale, una piccola perla che chiude degnamente un album meraviglioso. "Nooo, è già finito?!"
"Minstrel In The Gallery" non sarà il capolavoro assoluto del gruppo (che è probabilmente "A Passion Play", la cui recensione arriverà a breve: -)), ma, aibò, è meraviglioso. Poi vado su scaruffi. it e vedo soltanto un 6 (che per lo scaruffi è come dire 1)... E lì decido di diventare hacker!
Elenco tracce testi samples e video
01 Minstrel in the Gallery (08:13)
The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes observed the spaces
Between the old men's cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred,
Oblique suggestions and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters,
Static-humming panel-beaters,
Freshly day-glow'd factory cheaters
(salaried and collar-scrubbing.)
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.)
Sunday paper backgammon players
Family-scarred and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage
And he looked at all the friends he'd made.
The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes observed the spaces
In between the old men's cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred,
Oblique suggestions and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters,
Static-humming panel-beaters,
The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down on the rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass -
Saw his face in everyone.
He titillated men-of-action
Belly warming, hands still rubbing
On the parts they never mention.
(salaried and collar-scrubbing.)
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating,
One-line jokers, TV documentary makers
(overfed and undertakers.)
Sunday paper backgammon players
Family-scarred and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage
And he looked at all the friends he'd made.
The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down on the rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass -
And saw his face in everyone.
The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes...
The minstrel in the gallery
04 Requiem (03:45)
Well, I saw a bird today --- flying from a bush and the
wind blew it away.
And the black-eyed mother sun scorched the butterfly
at play --- velvet veined.
I saw it burn.
With a wintry storm-blown sigh, a silver cloud blew
right on by.
And, taking in the morning, I sang --- O Requiem.
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 time-table blurred
close behind the taxi stand.
Saw her face in the tear-drop black cab window.
Fading in the traffic; watched her go.
And taking in the morning, heard myself singing ---
O Requiem.
Here I go again.
It's the same old story.
Well, I saw a bird today --- I looked aside and walked
away along the Strand.
06 Baker St. Muse (16:42)
'''Baker Street Muse'''
Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands.
With cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, breath out of time.
You can call me on another line.
Indian restaurants that curry my brain.
Newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise from the station stand.
With cold print hands.
Symphony word-player, I'll be your headline.
If you catch me another time.
Didn't make her
with my Baker Street Ruse.
Couldn't shake her
with my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to take her
but I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
Ale-spew, puddle-brew
boys, throw it up clean.
Coke and Bacardi colours them green.
From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted princess with great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is fifty feet down in the Baker Street underground. (What the hell!)
Walking down the gutter thinking,
``How the hell am I today?''
Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.
'''Pig-Me And The Whore'''
``Big bottled Fraulein, put your weight on me,'' said the pig-me 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. Flying 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.
International assistance flowing generous and full to his never-ready tool.
Pulls his eyes over her wool.
And he shudders as he comes.
And my rudder slowly turns me into the Marylebone Road.
'''Crash-Barrier Waltzer'''
And here slip I
dragging one foot in the gutter
in the midnight echo of the shop that sells cheap radios.
And there sits she
no bed, no bread, no butter
on a double yellow line
where she can park anytime.
Old Lady Grey; crash-barrier waltzer
some only son's mother. Baker Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman
blue shirt ballet master.
Feet in sticking plaster
move the old lady on.
Strange pas-de-deux
his Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping draught, his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, let me send her to a cheap hotel
I'll pay the bill and make her well - like hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must teach them to be still more independent.
'''Mother England Reverie'''
I have no time for Time Magazine or Rolling Stone.
I have no wish for wishing wells or wishing bones.
I have no house in the country I have no motor car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a one-line joker in a public bar.
And it seems there's no-body left for tennis; and I'm a one-band-man.
And I want no Top Twenty funeral or a hundred grand.
There was a little boy stood on a burning log,
rubbing his hands with glee. He said, "Oh Mother England,
did you light my smile; or did you light this fire under me?
One day I'll be a minstrel in the gallery.
And paint you a picture of the queen.
And if sometimes I sing to a cynical degree
it's just the nonsense that it seems."
So I drift down through the Baker Street valley,
in my steep-sided un-reality.
And when all is said and all is done
I couldn't wish for a better one.
It's a real-life ripe dead certainty
that I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
Talking to the gutter-stinking, winking in the same old way.
I tried to catch my eye but I looked the other way.
Indian restaurants that curry my brain
newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise from the station stand.
Circumcised with cold print hands.
Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands.
With cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, breath out of time
you can call me on another line.
Didn't make her
with my Baker Street Ruse.
Couldn't shake her
with my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to take her
but I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
(I can't get out!)
Carico i commenti... con calma
Altre recensioni
Di STIPE
Un album orrendo, da evitare e mai ascoltare!!
Tutti i brani sembrano uguali fra loro, un monologo senza fine, senza un minimo di ispirazione!
Di v8interceptor
I Jethro Tull almeno quelli dell’epoca Progressive non sono mai stati una band di e per Ian Anderson.
Minstrel descrive come la band ormai era dedita a lavorare... molti infatti i pezzi di bravura con e senza di lui.
Di ReTarkus
Essere Progressive è sostanzialmente un modo di vivere e, diciamolo, queste cose ci mancano nel 2019 !
Nella tessitura di queste chitarre, si cela la grande maestria di questo indimenticabile gruppo Rock progressive.
