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Jethro Tull: Broadsworth and the Beast

 A l b u m   D e t a i l s


Label: Chrysalis Records
Released: 1982.04.13
Time:
 38:17
Category: Progressive Rock
Producer(s): Paul Samwell-Smith
Rating:
Media type: CD
Web address: www.j-tull.com
Appears with: Ian Anderson, Martin Barre
Purchase date: 2000.07.20
Price in €: 10,99





 S o n g s ,   T r a c k s


[1] Beastie (I.Anderson) - 3:57
[2] Clasp (I.Anderson) - 4:12
[3] Fallen on Hard Times (I.Anderson) - 3:13
[4] Flying Colours (I.Anderson) - 4:40
[5] Slow Marching Band (I.Anderson) - 3:39
[6] Broadsword (I.Anderson) - 4:51
[7] Pussy Willow (I.Anderson) - 3:53
[8] Watching Me Watching You (I.Anderson) - 3:40
[9] Seal Driver (I.Anderson) - 5:11
[10] Cherrio (I.Anderson) - 1:01

 A r t i s t s ,   P e r s o n n e l


IAN ANDERSON - Lead Vocals, Flute, Acoustic Guitar
MARTIN BARRE - Electric Guitar, Acoustic Guitar
DAVID PEGG - Bass Guitar, Mandolins, Vocals
PETER-JOHN VETTESE - Piano, Synthesizer, Vocals, Additional Musical Material
GERRY CONWAY - Drums, Percussion

ROBIN BLACK - Engineer
LEIGH MANTLE - Assistant Engineer
IAN MCCAIG - Cover Illustration, Artwork
JIM GIBSON - Calligraphy, Artwork

 C o m m e n t s ,   N o t e s


1982 LP Chrysalis 1380
1990 CS Capitol 21380
1990 CD Capitol 21380
1991 CS Alliance 21380
1991 CD Mobile Fidelity Mfsl-1-092
1995 CS Chrysalis F4-21380
1995 CD Chrysalis F2-21380
1995 CD Chrysalis CHR-21380
1996 CD Alliance 21380
1998 CD Capitol 21380



Released April, 1982. Except for the sound and feel of the music, this album was a real departure for Jethro Tull. With the production job being handed to Paul Samwell-Smith (an original member of the Yardbirds), this marked the first and last time that Ian Anderson didn't cover Tull's production. The band changed once again, adding Peter-John Vettese on keyboards, Gerry Conway on drums, and retaining guitarist Martin Barre and bassist David Pegg to complete Tull's tenth line-up. Barre has said that this was the first Tull album he truly enjoyed recording - his increased familiarity with his own home studio enabled him to approach this project in a different light.
Mixing heavy synthesizers with Tull's trademark flute, mandolin and heavy metal guitars worked very well, and the band recorded enough material for a double album. Several of the extra tracks were released on British EPs, and later included on the 1988 "Compilation: 20 Years of Jethro Tull".
"The Broadsword And The Beast" reached No. 19 in the US charts and No. 27 in the UK.

J-Tull.com



Leave it to Ian Anderson and Jethro Tull to anoint the Eighties with a concept album about the erosion of old values in today's rapidly devolving world. Anderson observes the entropy of spirit that's got individuals and nations in its icy grip, and, with a noble tilt to his head, he unsheathes his excalibur and stalks off to slay the beast that visits this plague upon the motherland.
Though it's hard to believe this is happening in 1982, there is something comfortingly antiquarian about The Broadsword and the Beast. Anderson often embellishes his morality plays with entrancingly lyrical, flawlessly executed ensemble passages, and "Clasp" and "Flying Colours," in particular, have a restless, brooding grace about them. At the same time, there's something disarming going on. The alienation and foreboding of Peter-John Vettese's synthesizer, combined with the heavy-handedness of many of Anderson's lyrics, seem at odds with Jethro Tull's more lissome English folk leanings. Vettese plays very much in the style of his predecessor, Eddie Jobson, sketching a frenetic desolation that mirrors the coldness with which Anderson apparently views the modern world.
There's nothing wrong with living in the past, perhaps. Indeed, Ian Anderson can make the wisdom of the ages seem preferable to the rootless philandering of the present day. But on The Broadsword and the Beast, the real beast may be Anderson's penchant for ponderous sermonizing.

PARKE PUTERBAUGH - RS 371



The cover of this first actual Jethro Tull album since 1979's Stormwatch depicts Ian Anderson as an elf-warrior, with wings and a sword, and a ship with a stylized Norse dragon's head. Anyone expecting a fantasy or heavy metal album was due for a disappointment, however, for most of the song that have any identifiable references are about topical politics, more than anything else. Martin Barre's electric guitars share the spotlight for the first time with Peter-John Vettesse's synthesizers, and Anderson is still playing lilting tunes on his flute and acoustic guitar. The band's electric sound, this time in the hands of ex-Yardbird Paul Samwell-Smith, is smoother, less heavy, and thinner textured than their past work, and there are times—most especially on "Flying Colours"—where Tull could almost pass for the latter day Moody Blues, something they never would have permitted in earlier days (though if the Moodies could rock this hard and fast, it would be an achievement-for them!). "Broadsword" and "Pussywillow" are easily the two best songs here, and, not coincidentally, the two that owe the most to traditional folk music in their structure. Most of the rest is little better than tuneless drivel.

Bruce Eder - All Music Guide



Nach dem '80er Longplayer A, der sehr Elektronik-lastig ausgefallen war und deshalb einiges an Kritik hatte einstecken müssen, besann sich Ian Anderson wieder auf seine Wurzeln und kehrte mit seinen Mannen zurück zum typischen Jethro-Tull-Sound.
Auf Broadsword And The Beast ('82) regierte wieder jene einzigartige Mischung aus Blues, Hardrock, britischem Folk und Klassik, die die Tull-Fans von 70er-Scheiben wie Heavy Horses oder Stormwatch kannten. Das Album verströmt verträumte Mittelalter-Magie bis zum Abwinken, hat aber auch für Freunde härterer Klänge einiges zu bieten. Die Mischung stimmt bis ins Detail und macht Broadsword And The Beast zum besten Jethro-Tull-Album der 80er. Anspieltipps: "Pussy Willow", "Beastie" und "Broadsword".

Michael Rensen - Amazon.de

 

 L y r i c s


Beastie

From early days of infancy, through trembling years
of youth, long murky middle-age and final hours
long in the tooth, he is the hundred names of terror -
creature you love the least. Picture his name before
you and exorcise the beast.
He roved up and down through history - spectre
with tales to tell. In the darkness when the
campfire's dead - to each his private hell. If you look
behind your shoulder as you feel his eyes to feast, you
can witness now the everchanging nature of the beast.

Beastie

If you wear a warmer sporran, you can keep the foe at
bay. You can pop those pills and visit some
psychiatrist who'll say - There's nothing I can do
for you, everywhere's a danger zone. I'd love to help
get rid of it, but I've got one of my own.

There's a beast upon my shoulder and a fiend upon
my back. Feel his burning breath a heaving, smoke
oozing from his stack. And he moves beneath the
covers or he lies below the bed. He's the beast upon
your shoulder. He's the price upon your head. He's
the lonely fear of dying, and for some, of living too.
He's your private nightmare pricking. He'd just love
to turn the screw. So stand as one defiant - yes, and
let your voices swell. Stare that beastie in the face
and really give him hell.


The Clasp

We travellers on the endless wastes in single orbits,
gliding cold-eyed march towards the dawn behind
hard-weather hoods a-hiding.
Meeting as the tall ships do, passing in the channel
afraid to chance a gentle touch -
afraid to make the clasp.
In high-rise city canyons dwells the discontent of ages.
On ring roads, nose to bumper crawl
commuters in their cages. Cryptic signals flash
across from pilots in the fast lane. Double-locked
and belted in - too late to make the clasp.

Let's break the journey now on some lonely road.
Sit down as strangers will, let the stress unload.
Talk in confidential terms, share a dark unspoken fear.
Refill the cup and drink it up. Say goodnight and
wish good luck.

Synthetic chiefs with frozen smiles holding unsteady courses.
Grip the reins of history, high on their battle horses.
And meeting as good statesmen do before the T.V.
eyes of millions, hand to hand exchange the lie -
pretend to make the clasp.


Fallen On Hard Times

Fallen on hard times - but it feels good to know
that milk and honey's just around the bend.
Running on bad lines - we'd better run as we go,
Tear up, tear up the overdraft again.
Oh, dear Prime Minister - it's all such a mess.
Go right ahead and pull the rotten tooth.
Oh, Mr. President - you've been put to the test.
Come clean, for once, and hit us with the truth.

Looking for sunshine - oh but it's black and it's cold
Yet, you say that milk and honey's just round the bend.
Giving us a hard time, my friends
handing us the same line again.

Fallen on hard times - and there's nowhere to hide
Now they've re-possessed the Rolls Royce and the mink.

Turning on the peace sign - and it's back to the wood.
Soon there will be raised a holy stink.

Somebody wake me. I've been sleeping too long.
Oh, I don't have to take this lying down.
You can keep your promises. Shove `em where they belong.
Don't ask me to the party - won't be around.


Flying Colours

Shout if you will, but that just won't do.
I, for one, would rather follow softer options.
I'll take the easy line; another sip of wine,
and if I ignore the face you wore it's just a way of
mine to keep from flying colours.
Don't lay your bait while the whole world waits
around to see me shoot you down - It's all so second-rate.
When we can last for days on a loving night;
or for hours at least on a warm whisper given.
You always pick the best time to rise to the fight.
To break the hard bargain that we've driven.
Once again we're flying colours.

I thought we had it out the night before,
and settled old scores, but not the hard way.
Was it a glass too much? Or a smile too few?
Did our friends all catch the needle match - did we want them to?
In a fancy restaurant we were all aglow
keeping cool by mutual permission.
How did the conversation get to where we came to blows?
We were set up in a red condition
and again we're flying colours.

Shout - but you see it still won't do.
With my colours on I can be just as bad as you.
Have I had a glass too much? Did I give a smile too few?
Did our friends all catch the needle match - did we want them to?
We act our parts so well, like we wrote the play.
All so predictable and we know it.

We'll settle old scores now, and settle the hard way.
You may not even live to outgrow it!
Once again we're flying colours.


Slow Marching Band

Would you join a slow marching band?
And take pleasure in your leaving
as the ferry sails and tears are dried
and cows come home at evening.
Could you get behind a slow marching band?
And join together in the passing
of all we shared through yesterdays
in sorrows neverlasting.

Take a hand and take a bow.
You played for me; that's all for now, oh, and never
mind the words just hum along and keep on going.
Walk on slowly - don't look behind you.
Don't say goodbye, love. I won't remind you.

Dream of me as the nights draw cold
still marking time through Winter.
You paid the piper and called the tune
and you marched the band away.

Take a hand and take a bow.
You played for me; that's all for now, oh, and never
mind the words just hum along and keep on going.
Walk on slowly - don't look behind you.
Don't say goodbye, love. I won't remind you.


Broadsword

I see a dark sail on the horizon set under a black
cloud that hides the sun.
Bring me my broadsword and clear understanding.
Bring me my cross of gold as a talisman.
Get up to the roundhouse on the cliff-top standing.
Take women and children and bed them down.

Bring me my broadsword and clear understanding.
Bring me my cross of gold as a talisman.
Bless with a hard heart those who surround me.
Bless the women and children who firm our hands.
Put our backs to the north wind. Hold fast by the river.
Sweet memories to drive us on for the motherland.


Pussy Willow

In the half-tone light of a young morning
she sighs and shifts on the pillow.
And across her face dancing, the first shadows fly
to kiss the Pussy Willow.
In her fairy-tale world she's a lost soul singing
in a sad voice nobody hears.
She waits in her castle of make-believing
for her white knight to appear.

Pusy Willow - down fur-lined avenue
brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs for the train - see, eight o'clock's coming
cutting dreams down to size again.

Pussy Willow - down fur-lined avenue
brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs from the train. Hear her typewriter humming
cutting dreams down to size again.

She longs for the East and a pale dress flowing
an apartment in old Mayfair.
Or to fish the Spey, spinning the first run of Spring
or to die for a cause somewhere.

Pussy Willow - down fur-lined avenue
brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs from the train. Hear her typewriter humming
cutting dreams down to size again.


Watching Me Watching You

I sit by the cutting on the Beaconsfield line.
He's watching me watching the trains go by.
And they move so fast - boy, they really fly.
He's still watching me watching you watching the
trains go by.
And the way he stares - feel like locking my door
and pulling my phone from the wall.
His eyes, like lights from a laser, burn
making my hair stand - making the goose-bumps crawl.

He's watching me watching you watching him watching me
I'm watching you watching him watching me watching Stares.

At the cocktail party with a Bucks Fizz in my hand
I feel him watching me watching the girls go by.
And they move so smooth without even trying.
He's still watching me watching you watching the trains go by.

And the crowd thins and he moves up close but he doesn't speak.
I have to look the other way.
But curiosity gets the better part of me and I peek:
Got two drinks in his hand - see his lips move -
what the hell's he trying to say.

He's watching me watching you watching him watching me.
I'm watching you watching him watching me watching Stares.
He's watching me watching you watching him watching me.
He's watching me watching you watching the trains go by.
He's watching me watching you watching him watching me.
He's watching me watching you watching him watching me.
He's watching me watching you watching him watching me watching him watching.


Seal Driver

Take you away for my magic ship.
I have two hundred deisel horses thundering loud.
Sea birds call your name and the mountain's on fire
as the summer lightening cuts the sky like a hot wire.
And you ride on the swell and your heart is alive,
think I'll make you my seal driver.
I'm no great looker, I'm no fast shakes.
I'll give you a steady push on a six knot simmering high tide.
I can hold us down - keep our head to the wind,
or let us roll on the broadside, cold spray flying in,
and we'll ride on the swell and our hearts are alive.
Let me make you my seal driver.

I could captain you if you'd crew for me
follow white flecked spindrift - float on a moonkissed sea.

Could you fancy me as a pirate bold,
or a longship Viking warrior with the old gods on his side?
Well I'm an inshore man and I'm nobody's hero,
but I'll make you tight for a windy night and a dark ride.
Let me take you in hand and bring you alive.
Going to make you my seal driver.


Cheerio

Along the coast road, by the headland
the early lights of winter glow.
I'll pour a cup to you my darling.
Raise it up - say Cheerio.

 M P 3   S a m p l e s


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