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Rating:
I will attempt to provide a definitive review of an album slightly camouflaged in the Progressive discography... The Jethro Tull were coming from a phase where perhaps the peak had already been reached, not so much in terms of creativity but in terms of success... The band, from Aqualung to Passion Play, achieved rock star dreams... money, concerts, tours... the times of This Was were a distant memory... the critics were impossible to satisfy... and according to Ian Anderson, it was pointless to please both fans and "experts"... I will say something that might not be well-received, but the Jethro Tull, at least those from the Progressive era, have never been a band of and for Ian Anderson alone... listening to the pieces, it's evident how each musician had his charisma and his own imprint... Barriemore Barlow, the greatest drummer of the circle... Jeffrey Hammond, a stage animal as well as a great bassist... John Evan, a brilliant and classically trained keyboardist... Martin Barre, certainly responsible for all the riffs in Anderson's compositions... hence it is wrong to consider the band as the creation of a nevertheless great leader... in this light, Minstrel in the Gallery must be viewed... let's forget about the lyrics, Anderson's obsessions, and critics' annoyances over the phenomenon... the album highlights the detachment of a musician who feels misunderstood and perhaps no longer motivated... and maybe even weary of the music the band has created so far... War Child itself is proof of this... an album that could have been the best of the discography and instead was lightened by Anderson's acoustic and dictatorial lines, leaving aside great pieces released years later... Minstrel describes how the band was now dedicated to work... Anderson with acoustic and alone on one side and the rest of the band on the other... many indeed are the showpieces with and without him... The songs... Minstrel in the Gallery... divided into three musical parts... the first acoustic and singer-songwriter-like... and never ever folk as is always said of J. Tull... the second part was a Barre showpiece... aggressive and instrumentally prog; it was already in concert since '73... this suggests how perhaps the album was filled out of necessity... the third part is a riff, undoubtedly by Barre, very hard... the second track, Cold Wind to Valhalla, is another certainly acoustic piece by Anderson to which the band adds its contribution... perhaps a bit weighed down by the orchestra... Black Satin Dancer is the group's peak... also because, instrumentally, it's very original... here too, the band delivers a dizzying group solo... and unlike other episodes, Anderson places the flute solo in the happiest spot... Requiem opens a part of solo Anderson... which continues with the duo Nothinat all, one with Duck... all Anderson's melody and not the best... Baker St Muse is a new suite... so much prog and so sublime where the whole group is in unison with Anderson... lots of rock, lots of prog, excellent acoustic lines with the band always lurking... a record considered bad by many for the excess of technique... especially those who have always appreciated softer works like Stand Up or Aqualung... not the best but not the worst of the group either... in short... a record which will find very little favor with Ian Anderson as perhaps the group by then had a tendency to dominate the song with instrumental interludes which will be missing from the next work... a very rock, very prog album and therefore for the few...
Tracklist Lyrics Samples and Videos
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!)
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Other reviews
By Egli
The title track is one of the two main masterpieces of the album, with a very medieval initial atmosphere, decidedly chilling.
"Black Satin Dancer" is a song suspended between the sad and the carefree with a perfect guitar solo.
By STIPE
One of these moments for the band came in 1975 when they released "Minstrel in The Gallery". An album that is nothing short of poor.
A horrendous album, to be avoided and never listened to!!
By ReTarkus
I absolutely have to defend this Jethro Tull album!
Within the fabric of these guitars lies the great mastery of this unforgettable progressive rock group.
