Μια φαινομενικά περίεργη, συγκινητικά εκτός τόπου πρεμούρα με το σύνολο της δισκογραφίας των Jethro Tull έχει ενσκήψει σε διάφορα “μουσικά sites”, περιλαμβάνουσα συζητήσεις και καταρτίσεις αξιολογικών λιστών των άλμπουμ τους. Ο λόγος γι’ αυτήν είναι υποθέτω η “πολυαναμενόμενη” (7/3), νέα κυκλοφορία του γκρουπ. Τσεκάροντας κάποιες από τις αναδρομές, εξεπλάγην κυρίως με ένα πράγμα : τη σταθερή απουσία από τις πρώτες θέσεις του μεγαλειώδους Minstrel In The Gallery.
Θα μπορούσα να αναπτύξω το θέμα με χιλιάδες λέξεων, αλλά ο καιρός της “μουσικής δημοσιογραφίας” έχει παρέλθει ανεπιστρεπτί – στα μάτια μου τουλάχιστον. Αρκούμαι λοιπόν να πω, σαν κάποιος που έχει περάσει μ’ αυτό κάποιες απ’ τις πιο ένοντες στιγμές του ως ακροατής, ότι το θεωρώ τέλειο από κάθε άποψη, απ’ το πρώτο δευτερόλεπτο ως το τελευταίο. Μοναδική σημείωση, ο κάπως υπερβολικά θεατρικός τρόπος ερμηνείας του Ian Anderson στο ‘Black Satin Dancer’’ – ένα ακόμα αριστουργηματικό κατά τ’ άλλα κομμάτι του άλμπουμ.
Όσο για τη μικρή οδύσσεια του “Baker St. Muse” είναι το δεόντως υπερβατκό φινάλε του.
Και …ανατριχίλα σαν κι αυτή της στιγμής της επιστροφής του πρώτου θέματος στο τελευταίο section, δε νομίζω να έχω ξαναζήσει.

A seemingly odd, touchingly out-of-place fascination with Jethro Tull’s entire discography has occurred on various “music sites”, including discussions and album rating lists. The reason for this is, I assume, their “highly anticipated” (7/3), new release. Checking some of the reviews, I was mainly surprised by one thing : the consistent absence from the top positions of the magnificent Minstrel In The Gallery.
I could elaborate on the subject in thousands of words, but the days of “music journalism” are irrevocably gone – in my eyes at least. So suffice to say, as someone who’s had some of his most memorable moments with it as a listener, that I consider it perfect in every way, from the first second to the last. A minor downside, Ian Anderson’s somewhat overly theatrical performance on ‘Black Satin Dancer’ – otherwise another masterful piece of the album.
As for the little odyssey of ‘Baker St. Muse’, it’s the suitably transcendental finale.
And … chills like the moment of the main theme’s return in the final section, I don’t think I’ve ever experienced again.

[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.
[Pygmy And The Whore]
“Big bottled Fraulein, put your weight on me,” said the Pygmy And 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!)

Hello sun.
Hello bird.
Hello my lady.
Hello breakfast.
May I buy you again tomorrow?