Jethro Tull
In Concert (BBC) Hammersmith 1991

THE REVIEW

Among the strings of the electrics (which are really just one and trusty, but it sounds like a whole chorus) the dust evaporates. Yes, her, always her. She visited Kansas, danced with Bandini some time ago, and now she's engaging in a Scottish jig with the Mephistophelian one-leg standing pied piper from that old Celtic legend originated by an agronomist with a name that, after all, sounded good. Really good.

1991. The Jethro Tull of the Catfish Rising tour are hoarse, faded, and metropolitan, yet in the histrionic live dimension, they still powerfully kick the ass of sparrows. It starts with a nod to different times, those of the Minstrel. I am still here to tell you stories, to move you and make fun of you. Come and get me and you will have me, he seems to say. And the sordid elf calls in Mary the Strabismic, the little girl-whore who in '71 stole from the rich to give it to Aqualung. We imagine her now with cellulite, two black circles around her eyes, puffing concentrated cigars in a corner of a nasty bar. But damn, it still works, and damn if it works, and damn, how it works. Well, oh my, Ian turns a verse into an instrumental. Well, oh my, many things have changed. Like the voice. But—can you hear them? They're Jethro Tull. It's Ian Scott Anderson. It's Martin Lancelot Barre, the world's shyest guitar hero. Yet the lightning riff of "This Is Not Love"—which might be a pleasant little hard-flute-rock ditty of little depth or whatever you think—removes any possible doubt for those who don't know it. Same old talk about the sparrows.

Then we change dimension. "Rocks On The Road" is the typical hidden gem. And live, it's a gem that comes out. A long song that exudes dust, rarefaction, sweat, and atmosphere, and where this hoarse, slightly Dire Straits-like Ian of the '90s works splendidly. And the interlude with a jazzy undertone. And the convolutions of the flute, the famous and paradoxical flute with its thousand shades. Yes, really, everything works. And here come the Heavy Horses of the ironic English countryside, almost transmigrating to America with half a hoof. And yet it moves!

Following are two minor episodes, but well-written. "Like A Tall Thin Girl", driven by the obsessive mandolin of the multi-instrumentalist Ian, is a varied folk brushed with wide patches of electricity. Of "Still Loving You Tonight" it is known for its near-plagiarism of Santana (go figure why instead of taking revenge directly on the Eagles they have to go after that, who, aside from always playing on half the neck of the guitar, didn't do much harm), but the piece has a groove and is enjoyable.

Surprisingly, and heart-stoppingly, comes the attack of "Thick As A Brick". And there must have been a tear for sure. However, this is a version truly covered in dust, weary. Beautiful, yes, but that makes you shed a second tear for opposite reasons. Because you can't help but recall the stages of the '70s and the things a long-haired, brilliant, twisted, sardonic, sarcastic, extraordinary, moving, colorful, even photogenic Anderson did back then. (Am I exaggerating?) Anyway, it's them, let's accept them even this dusty.

There's another jolt with the never-forgotten riff of "A New Day Yesterday". A dirty blues, made different by the overlapping arrangements, becoming over time even dirtier. Definitely exhilarating. Continuous peaks toward the sky, and between flute and guitar, there's a risk of orgasmic swoon. (Am I exaggerating? Nah. Well, I love them and make no secret of it. Accept me too, and let's dust ourselves off.) Surprisingly, in the middle and then back, there's the inevitable "Bourée". Grunts, grimaces, little screams, spectacle, and beautiful, beautiful music. (Indeed, I love them.)

A curious "Blues Jam", a moment of rare instrumental delight that glances at already known and heard themes (maybe even in some past life), serves to introduce the final act. Which is "Jump Start", an obscure smoky tableau from "Crest Of A Knave". An unusual finale for a live. Already beautiful from the origins, it gains considerably. And the adjectives remain the same. Rockishness, dustiness, a peripheral bar where in the overall decor, a few voluptuous twin sisters of the aged Maria the Strabismic evoked above wouldn't look out of place—a twilight atmosphere terrifically fascinating. And a coda that inevitably urges one to insist wholeheartedly on that concept of sparrows and their asses.

The impression remains the same. You try to wash the dust from your eyes, but it settles at the corners, teasing the tear ducts ever so slightly. It brings back flashes of the already lived. Which doesn't return, no. Never. But there's beauty also in the scratched voices, in the decay of beautiful things, in the dust that, in the end, is something that moves with the wind.