Ian ANDERSON
Thick As A Brick 2
(2012)
1. Pebbles Thrown: From A Pebble Thrown 3'06
(Ian Anderson)
2. Pebbles Thrown: Pebbles Instrumental 3'30
(Ian Anderson)
3. Pebbles Thrown: Might-have-beens 0'50
(Ian Anderson)
4. Gerald The Banker: Upper Sixth Loan Shark 1'13
(Ian Anderson)
5. Gerald The Banker: Banker Bets, Banker Wins 4'28
(Ian Anderson)
6. Gerald Goes Homeless: Swing It Far 3'28
(Ian Anderson)
7. Gerald Goes Homeless: Adrift And Dumfounded 4'25
(Ian Anderson)
8. Gerald The Military Man: Old School Song 3'07
(Ian Anderson)
9. Gerald The Military Man: Wootton Bassett Town 3'43
(Ian Anderson)
10. Gerald The Chorister: Power And Spirit. 1'59
(Ian Anderson)
11. Gerald The Chorister: Give Till It Hurts 1'12
(Ian Anderson)
12. Gerald: A Most Ordinary Man: Cosy Corner 1'25
(Ian Anderson)
13. Gerald: A Most Ordinary Man: Shunt And Shuffle 2'12
(Ian Anderson)
14. A Change Of Horses 8'05
(Ian Anderson)
15. 22 Mulberry Walk: Confessional 3'08
(Ian Anderson)
16. 22 Mulberry Walk: Kismet In Suburbia 4'18
(Ian Anderson)
17. What-Ifs, Maybes, Might-have-beens 3'36
(Ian Anderson)
Total Time: 53:45
Ian Anderson - Vocals, Flute, Acoustic Guitar
John O'hara - Hammond Organ, Piano, Keyboards
Florian Opahle - Electric Guitar
David Goodier - Bass Guitar, Glockenspiel
Scott Hammond - Drums, Percussion
Ryan O'donnell - Additional Vocals
Pete Judge - Trumpet, Flugelhorn, Tenor Horn And E-flat Tuba
Written and Produced by Ian Anderson
Mike Downs - Recording Engineer
Florian Opahle - Digital Editor
Steven Wilson - Mixing Engineer
Peter Mew - Mastering Engineer
TAAB2
Whatever Happened To Gerald Bostock?
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?
The theme of this anniversary “part two” 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 results 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.....
If someone had suggested that I might release a Prog concept album in the year 2012, I would have thought him seriously, dangerously even, off his trolley. But that is precisely what happened. A few years ago, Mike Andrews and Royston Eldridge, two ex-Chrysalis Records gents pressed me to consider a follow-up to Thick As A Brick. I gave it some dutiful deliberation - for a couple of minutes - and politely declined. Nice idea, nice chaps but, after reflection, no-oooooo.
Then, in 2010, a re-aquaintance with seventies Prog Rock vocalist-turned-record exec Derek Shulman - yes, he of Gentle Giant fame - restarted the old refrain. Yes, but.... no, but, and finally - OK, I'll give it some more dutiful deliberation (four and a half minutes, this time) eventually produced, in February of 2011, the synopsis of the idea. Derek's enthusiasm and gauntlet-challenge plus two weeks of dedicated, fast and furious music and lyric writing combined to produce a flurry of material. And - blow me down with a Dodo's tail-feather - the whole thing was completed ready for scoring and arranging by the beginning of March. There were a couple of pieces prepared earlier which were bent into new shape and fitted into the scheme of things, so they too were popped into the bubbling saucepan.
It was a little daunting to consider the impact – or perhaps lack of – which this release might have on old and new fans alike but I eventually decided that I would embark on this for my own benefit and enjoyment rather than trying to please anyone else at all. To find the balance of interesting musicality and more accessible content too was not the main issue. The conceptual and heavily lyrical nature of the beast, however, might be out of place in the attention span-deficit world which we seem to occupy these days. But, having toured in 2010 and 2011 in Italy, Latin America, Australia and other countries where passions run high, I decided that maybe the world – or our little corners of it – was, in fact, ready for a bit of more substantial and weightier fare.
The era of professional media Prog-bashing seems to have given way to a more appreciative appraisal of the genre and newer bands such as Dream Theater, Porcupine Tree and Spock's Beard have possibly prompted a new and younger audience to re-examine the seventies originators' seminal albums too.
So, it's not such a cold and lonely place after all. The elements of Folk, Classical and Jazz Music are still to be found in today's more Rock-oriented Progressive Rock. You will certainly find them subtly present in TAAB2 but along with a rather more acoustic feel than many of our peers, past and present. Not the only flute in town but......
Actually, I played much more acoustic guitar than usual on this record having written most of the music on that instrument. But there are still sections conceived on the flute and sometimes – quite often, in fact – the lyric writing preceded all the melodies and harmonic structures. Starting with lyrics and then thinking of the music is not normally the way I work but it was here. A title, a few words or a verse or two and then the acoustic guitar was immediately to hand to conjure up a full song section out of the growing lyrics. Having a plan was important. Stories to tell made it all easier. The imagination-filled process of thinking how things might have turned out for the young and older Gerald kept me fascinated. Maybe you will be too. And maybe not.
Ah, well – you can always go and watch The X Factor and the Eurovision Song Contest.
- Ian Anderson January 2012
1. 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
2. Pebbles Thrown: Pebbles Instrumental
(Instrumental)
3. Pebbles Thrown: 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
4. 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...
5. Gerald The Banker: 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.
6. 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...
7. Gerald Goes Homeless: 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.
8. 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.
9. Ca
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.
10. 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...
11. Gerald The Chorister: 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 'til 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 'til it hurts. Give 'til it hurts. Make a pledge and give 'til 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 'til it hurts.
12. 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.
13. Gerald: A Most Ordinary Man: 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.
14. 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.
15. 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.
16. 22 Mulberry Walk: 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.
17. 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
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