Post by Deleted on Mar 17, 2012 14:35:06 GMT -5
Even hotter off the press....
mind you if you would rather talk grand slam, beer or anything but....look away now?
"TAAB2 Foreword
In 1972, I wrote and recorded the Jethro Tull Progressive Rock classic album Thick As A Brick. The lyrics were credited at the time to the fictitious child character, Gerald Bostock, whose parents supposedly lied about his age. The record instantly became a number one Billboard Chart album and enjoyed considerable success in many countries of the world.
We then, somewhat dutifully, took the quaintly theatrical show on the road in the UK, USA and a few other countries. Since 1972, the album has never been performed in its entirety although a few minutes of the material have been a regular repertoire staple in both Tull and Ian Anderson solo shows over the years.
Now, scheduled for performance again in 2012, I will take the original album and this follow-up recording, TAAB2, to a theatre near you.
So, forty years on, what would Gerald Bostock – aged fifty in 2012 – be doing today? What might have befallen him?
TAAB2: Whatever happened to Gerald Bostock?
The Concept
The theme of this anniversary follow-up album is to examine the possible different paths that the precocious young schoolboy, Gerald Bostock, might have taken later in life and to create alter-ego characters whose song-section identities illustrate the hugely varied potential twists and turns of fate and opportunity. Not just for Gerald but to echo how our own lives develop, change direction and ultimately conclude through chance encounters and interventions, however tiny and insignificant they might seem at the time.
In the development of the piece, the divergences of life’s infinitely forked roads finally give way to an almost gravitational pull which brings us back in convergence to, perhaps, a pre-ordained, karma-like conclusion.
As we baby-boomers look back on our own lives, we must often feel an occasional “what-if” moment. Might we, like Gerald, have become instead preacher, soldier, down-and-out, shopkeeper or finance tycoon?
And those of more tender years -the social media and internet generation -may choose to ponder well the myriad of chance possibilities ahead of them at every turn.....
Odd chap, life.....
Ian Anderson January 2012
TAAB2 STRUCTURE AND LYRICS
DIVERGENCE:
Interventions, parallel possibilities
Pebbles Thrown
From A Pebble Thrown Pebbles Instrumental
Might-have-beens
Gerald the Banker
Upper Sixth Loan Shark Banker Bets, Banker Wins
Gerald Goes Homeless
Swing It Far Adrift And Dumfounded
Gerald The Military Man
Old School Song Wootton Bassett Town
Gerald The Chorister
Power And Spirit. Give Till It Hurts
Gerald, A Most Ordinary Man
Cosy Corner Shunt and Shuffle
CONVERGENCE:
Destiny, fate, karma, kismet
A Change Of Horses
22 Mulberry Walk
Confessional Kismet In Suburbia
What-ifs, Maybes, Might-have-beens
PEBBLES THROWN
FROM A PEBBLE THROWN
Take me on the ghost train. 20p and there you are.
Scary in the tunnel night. White knuckle fingers on the safety bar.
Which way to blue skies? Phantoms pop from cupboard doors.
Mocking, manic laughter shrieks, dark promises of blood and gore.
Interventions at every turn. Opportunities thrown wide and far.
Journeys I might never take. TomTom thinks he knows just where we are.
Ripples from a pebble thrown make tsunami on a foreign shore.
I would slip right off this high-rise hell but the elevator stops at every floor.
Twelve, going on sixteen. Such a rush to grow old and wise.
Endless possibilities. Follow, soaring where the eagle flies.
Which way to blue skies? Mummy said don’t go out alone.
I hear bad name-calling, derisory. So, choose direction, and turn the stone.
PEBBLES INSTRUMENTAL
MIGHT-HAVE-BEENS
We all must wonder, now and then, if things had turned out - well - just plain different.
Chance path taken, page unturned or brief encounter, blossomed, splintered.
Might you have been the man of courage, brave upon life’s battlefield,
Captain Commerce, high-flown banker, hedonistic, down-at-heel?
A Puritan of moral fibre, voice raised in praise magnificent?
Or rested in assured repose, knowing your lot in quiet content?
What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens fly, soft petals on a breeze.
What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens. Why-nots, Perhaps and Wait-and-sees.
GERALD THE BANKER
UPPER SIXTH LOAN SHARK
Where did it come from, where’s it going?
Upper sixth loan shark, numbers flowing
from the pen that never forgets,
recording ledgers, each-way safe bets.
Fauntleroys and first form fags, allowances all overspent.
Pater’s guilty generosity safely deposited against rainy day.
There’s money in those goddamn hills.
Interest in sugar-coated bitter pills.
Margins made from Tompkins Minor
float aspirations, nothing finer.........
BANKER BETS, BANKER WINS
Education, micro-managed.
MBA: a doddle mastered.
City-bound, Canary Wharf.
A cushy number, fluky bastard.
Banker bets and banker wins, never missed yet, for all his sins.
Hedge funds, wraps and equities.
Lackeys, aides in fierce attendance.
Trusts and gilts, reserve currencies.
Liquid gold in safe ascendance.
Banker bets and banker wins, never missed yet, for all his sins.
Treat myself to quality time, test a porsche and snort a line, eat Hermione for lunch.
Set that glum PA a-jumping, book front-row tickets for something after we munch.
Fast-tracked futures, hard-nut traders.
Feeding frenzy, pigs a-troughing.
Fuelled by forecasts, and hot share options.
Big fat bonus in the offing.
Draconian calls for regulation
are drowned in latte with Starbucks muffin.
Mortgage melt-down: non est mea culpa.
Threatened exit, stage left, laughing....
Banker bets and banker wins, never missed yet, for all his sins.
Banker bets, cheque’s in the post: not worth the ink it’s written in.
GERALD GOES HOMELESS
SWING IT FAR
I was no good on the rugger field. Pushing and kicking, brutish boys bothered me.
Sensitive and caring seemed the lighter, brighter way to be.
Mr Jennings, good housemaster, seemed instinctively to understand.
Touched me with his gentle presence. Under bedclothes, underhand. Underhand.
Overnight, he did a runner, threatened with harsh expose.
I fell to pieces, dropped out of classes into life's endless melee. Endless melee.
Parents listened, didn’t get it. Poof and Jesse, Daddy said.
Mummy tried but fussed and fretted, skeletons best left under bed. Under the bed.
Camden Market in the winter, a cold stone’s throw from Kentish Town.
Got a minute? Just the ticket! Meet the boys and mess around. And mess around.
Independence far from suburbia. Doss down and dirty, tucked up tight.
How’s your father? Not too chipper? Serves the bugger flippin’ right. Flippin’ right.
Parents listened, didn’t get it. Poof and Jesse, Daddy said.
Mummy tried but fussed and fretted, skeletons best left under bed.
On the streets a rude survival, hot like-minded overtures.
Sad departure, sweet arrival. If you don’t like it, right up yours!
There comes a point when deep conviction bears down hard on who you are.
Pointless to don cloak of denial, get the lead out and swing it far..... swing it far..... swing it far..... swing it
far..... swing it far..... swing it.........
ADRIFT AND DUMFOUNDED....
He stands at the crossroads of New St. and Old Town.
Gerald Something from good-home-on-sea.
Thinking back to the child that he once was.
All bread and butter and jam for his tea.
Men came and went in his moments of madness.
Muttered apologies, late for a meeting.
Too much intensity too much feigned sadness.
Crestfallen, hangdog, glances too fleeting.
He was your golden boy, he’s adrift and dumfounded
with nowhere to go, no appointments to keep.
He’s our little man, he’s adrift and dumfounded.
Head on hard pillow, waiting for sleep.
Broken societies, selfish, uncaring.
Addled brains clutching at chemicals soothing.
Desperate measures, desperately tearing
at last vestige of dignity, his for the losing.
He was your golden boy, he’s adrift and dumfounded
with nowhere to go, no appointments to keep.
He’s our little man, he’s adrift and dumfounded.
Head on hard pillow, waiting for sleep.
GERALD THE MILITARY MAN
OLD SCHOOL SONG
From playing fields to killing fields: just one small step of madness.
Officer training, uniform, boys together shower together.
Rank and file can be just fine but that’s not what we’re here for.
So, sign upon the dotted line, be commissioned, Hell for leather.
How we sang that old school song, from Pirates of Penzance.
Foemen bearing steel, we slapped our chests and raised our voices.
No mad poets we, or painters twee but young men with a yearning
to flex our might for all that’s right when face with moral choices.
Wrapped in the old school song, we fly our colours high.
Bravo! The old school song! Harsh reality, by and by.
Dad delivered us from the Hun and we reflect his selfless deed
on this desert plain of conflict where special forces, choppers need.
Fly-boy coming to collect you, lift you up and then protect you.
Be this gung or be this ho, may glorious battle resurrect you.
Wrapped in the old school song, we fly our colours high.
Bravo! The old school song! Harsh reality, by and by.
WOOTTON BASSETT TOWN
Hourglass sands run through my veins like blood draining from a salty wound.
Mad Mars forgets the cost of strife, serves no longer, purpose in my life.
I lie in sweat, cry others’ tears and write a letter to my Mum,
my wife, my God unheard, unseen, Who never thinks to intervene.
Oh, what pain and oh, what lie has called to us, from heaven on high?
This cruel and harsh sweet punishment for follies acted, leaves us spent.
Long road to Baghdad, then Persian hordes? Where will we stop to sheath our swords?
IEDs lie patient, sleeping, wake when soldier boots come creeping.
Hourglass sands run through my veins like blood draining from a salty wound.
Mad Mars forgets the cost of strife, serves no longer, purpose in my life.
Down this dusty scorched wind-blast track, eyes facing forward, ne'er look back.
As rain comes down on Wootton Bassett Town, black hearses crawl and church bells sound.
Bikers, burghers line the kerbs; a politician, a Highness Royal.
Chance shoppers, tradesmen, stiffly stand and shed their tears for the military man.
GERALD THE CHORISTER
POWER AND SPIRIT
Touch down after muddy rugby in the softer evensong.
Steal through open doors to heaven in angelic sing-along.
Tinsel echoes in the rafters still the air in stained glass light.
Our voices chaste, un-broken, pure, take manly message to the fight.
I sense the power. And I sense the spirit move
in stately corridors of oak and stone, vaulted above.
Beyond the nave, beside dark transepts, candles flicker in the quire.
First the glow deep in the belly, tight grip of faith to fan the fire.
In the chapel, I am wondrous in the eyes of lesser boys.
Raptures touch me, lift me, shape me. Brotherhood, an ode to joy.
Stiff white ruffs on cassock’d ranks with hand on heart and hand on sword.
Elevated, born to service, to service of the Lord.
I sense the path. I sense the glory road.
Position, influence, my head above the earthly clod below.
Follow me to serve dark Master, He whose number might be His name.
Branded, burning, power unholy, just have to love Him all the same....
GIVE TILL IT HURTS
Let us pray: Dear Beloved Father:
We know it's tough to make ends meet through troubled times
as economic woes grow, bad to worse.
But call out to our family of treasured followers
to make a pledge today, give till it hurts.
Our coffers almost empty, but our flock stands faithful by
as we set out to shave the needy and bereft.
Together we can fleece our willing congregation
and I can live on any small change that's left.
So, give till it hurts. Give till it hurts. Make a pledge and give till it hurts.
That was today's speaker, the humble Reverend Gerald. Tune in to the National Godspend Channel next week. Praise be to Him and HALLELUJAH. Remember to keep those pledges coming in and - give till it hurts.
GERALD, A MOST ORDINARY MAN
COSY CORNER
Gerald Bostock, fresh from school with few O-levels, sets his sights.
No grand, fanciful fantasies but level headed middle ground.
The retail trade, the corner shop, at humble service of plain town-folk.
Open at nine and closed by six: enough to work, play, work around.
Regulars drop by to chat in idle gossip, repetition.
Same old words, another day while, all the time, life slips away.
But slips so slowly, stretches moments into hours and hours to years.
With characters by Harold Pinter, dark silences, slow Passion Play.
Then home to fire up model trains and shunt and shuffle wagons, locomotive breath upon his brow. Smooth clockwork running motors hum
while barren Madge prepares hot dinner. Fray Bentos pie: always a winner.
So, praise life’s routine cozy habits. And don’t forget to call your Mum.
SHUNT AND SHUFFLE
Same old words, another day while all the time life slips away.
But slips so slowly, stretches moments into slow-burn Passion Play
while barren Madge prepares hot dinner. Fray Bentos pie: always a winner.
Then home to fire up model trains and shunt and shuffle carriages.
Sweet loco breath upon his brow. Banish thoughts of clockwork marriages.
While barren Madge prepares hot dinner. Fray Bentos pie: always a winner.
A CHANGE OF HORSES
Last lights wink out on this pale and sultry night.
Stars signal long past two AM.
I feel the lateness in the hour
and I’m fifty long years from home.
A new dawn glimmers. Time for a change of horses.
It's time to chart new courses
and head for safer houses.
No more empty towers of this unholy Babylon.
Some four hundred thousand hours have come and gone.
I smell, in the air, a new meadow morning.
Fresh-flowering grasses stirring
and no pressure free-falling.
Thin mists to bring and light airs to call.
And we treasure all, all that we left behind us.
No pointed cold and dark regrets.
No nameless blame to lay.
Resolute, the optimist, I ride fresh horse and spur it on.
Four hundred thousand hours have come and gone.
22 MULBERRY WALK
CONFESSIONAL
Gerald the Banker
I made my millions, stashed the pile in Swiss bank havens, lost the lot when Inland Revenue got wise. So, I did my time, my time for what?
Gerald the Homeless
On the streets, a pretty pickle. I met a man who lifted me.
Took me home for slap and tickle, in civil partnership, pledged to me.
Gerald the Chorister
Enough of twisted overkill, Hellfire, damnation, voices shrill.
I was rumbled, de-frocked and tumbled from grace and favour, caught hand in till.
Gerald the Military Man
Invalided out of theatre. Civilian rehabilitation.
My time now given to help my brothers find cold feet, lost building nations.
Gerald: A Most Ordinary Man
Sold the shop, flicked off the power switch. In silent siding, Mallard must stay. Carriages and sleek coal tender packed in boxes, sold on eBay. Sold on eBay.
KISMET IN SUBURBIA
Gerald the Banker
Fresh start, another day, another life, a quiet cafe. Starbuck euphoria.
Count my blessings, crossword ready. Soon, pipe and slippers in the study by the telly.
I seek forgiveness, I beg your pardons at number 9 Mulberry Gardens.
Gerald the Chorister
Fresh start, another day, another life so far away from hell-raised aria. Now I lay me down to live in acquiescence, mine to give to all who listen. Deaf to dark un-heavenly host at 25 Mulberry Close.
Gerald the Military Man
Fresh start, another day, another life so far away from white heat Arabia. Comrades’ pictures on the mantle, lit by flower-scented candle, ghostly, flicker. Last man standing, bowed but alive at 33 Mulberry Drive.
Gerald: A Most Ordinary Man
Fresh start, another day, another life not so far away in slow-burn suburbia.
All routine and repetition, stamp-collecting, first editions, steam train-spotting.
Numb, the senses and numb, the brain, at 54 Mulberry Lane.
Gerald the Homeless
Fresh start, another day, my cared-for partner just slipped away from sweet utopia. Bequeathed comforts, ceramic hob, electric blanket, your uncle’s Bob: a pretty picture. Treasured moments, past and present, at 17 Mulberry Crescent.
WHAT-IFS, MAYBES, MIGHT-HAVE-BEENS
We all must wonder, now and then, if things had turned out - well - just plain different.
Chance path taken, page unturned or brief encounter, blossomed, splintered.
Might I have been the man of courage, brave upon life’s battlefield,
Captain Commerce, high-flown banker, hedonistic, down-at-heel?
A Puritan of moral fibre, voice raised in praise magnificent?
Or rested in assured repose, knowing my lot in quiet content.
What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens fly, soft petals on a breeze.
What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens. Why-nots, Perhaps and Wait-and-sees.
Suppose bold woman, quite unsuited, brave in adventure, sojourns wicked.
Velvet touch and lips soft-centred, tossing hair, teeth bared in laughing.
Imagine idyll Summers never-ending, Winter nights beside fire roaring.
Touched by madness, filled with fondness, kissed by love, love without name.
What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens fly, soft petals on a breeze.
What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens. Why-nots, Perhaps and Wait-and-sees.
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...... two
Copyright 2012 Ian Anderson - JethroTull.com
Translations in several languages also available at the official site
