• Voto:
Provo io a dare una recensione definitiva ad un album leggermente mimetico nella discografia Progressive....I Jethro Tull venivano da una fase in cui forse il vertice era gia stato toccato non tanto sul fronte della creativita ma dal punto di vista del successo....La band da Aqualung ,a Passion Play realizza i sogni da rock star...soldi ,concerti,tour...i tempi di This Was erano un ricordo...la critica era inaccontentabile...e secondo Ian Anderson era inutile mettere d' accordo fan e ed "esperti"...Diro' una cosa che non fara' piacere ma i Jetrho Tull almeno quelli dell epoca Progressive non sono mai stati una band di e per Ian Anderson...ascoltando i pezzi e' lampante come ogni musicista avesse un suo carisma e una sua impronta....Barriemore Barlow il piu grande batterista del giro...Jeffrey Hammond un animale da palcoscenico oltre che un gran bassista...John Evan un tastierista luminoso e di grande scuola...Martin Barre sicuramente responsabile di tutti i riff delle composizioni di Anderson...sbagliato dunque considerarela band come la creatura di un comunque grande leader...in quest' ottica va inquadrato Minstrel in the gallery...lasciamo perdere i testi,le fisse di Anderson e le noie dei critici contro il fenomeno..l album evidenzia lo stacco di un musicista che si sente incompreso e forse non piu motivato...e forse anche insofferente alla musica che la band ha realizzato finora....ne 'e la prova lo stesso War Child...album che poteva essre il piu bello della discografia ed invece 'e stato alleggerito dalle linee acustiche e dittatoriali di Anderson lasciando da parte grandi pezzi editi anni dopo..Minstrel descrive come la band ormai era dedita lavorare...Anderson in acustico e da solo da un lato e il resto della band dall altra...molti infatti i pezzi di bravura con e senza di lui....Le canzoni...Minstrel in the gallery...diviso in tre parti musicali...la prima acustica e cantautorale..e mai e poi mai folk come sempre si dice a fronte J.Tull..la seconda era un pezzo di bravura di Barre...aggressivo e strumentalmente prog era gia in concerto dal 73...questo fa capire come forse l album venne riempito per necessita...la terza parte un riff per forza sempre di Barre...molto hard ...il secondo pezzo Cold wind to Valhalla 'e un altro pezzo sicuramente acustico di Anderson al quale la band da la sua aggiunta...pezzo un po appesantito dall orchestra forse...Black Satin Dancer 'e la vetta del gruppo...anche perche strumentalmente originalissimo...anche qui la band realizza un vertiginoso assolo di gruppo...e Anderson a differenza di altri episodi piazza il flauto in assolo nel punto piu felice...Requiem apre una parte dell Anderson solista...che prosegue col duo Nothinat all ,one with Duck...tutto melodia Anderson e non della migliore...Baker St Muse 'e una nuova suite...tanto prog e tanto eccelsa dove tutto il gruppo 'e all unisono con Anderson....tanto rock tanto prog ottime leinee acustiche con sempre la band in agguato....un disco considerato brutto da molti per eccesso di tecnica...specie chi ha da sempre aprezzato i lavori piu morbidi come Stand Up o Aqualung...non il migliore ma nemmeno il peggiore del gruppo...insomma...un disco che ben poca fortuna avra tra le simpatie di Ian Anderson in quanto forse il gruppo ormai aveva una predisposizione a dominare la canzone con interludi strumentali che dal successivo lavoro verra' meno.....un disco molto rock molto prog e quindi per pochi ....
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 Egli
La title track è uno dei due capolavori principali dell'album, con un'atmosfera iniziale molto medioevale, decisamente da brividi.
Nooo, è già finito?!
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 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.
