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Jethro Tull: Heavy Horses

 A l b u m   D e t a i l s


Label: Chrysalis Records
Released: 1978.04.11
Time:
 42:42
Category: Progressive Rock
Producer(s): Ian Anderson
Rating:
Media type: CD
Web address: www.j-tull.com
Appears with: Ian Anderson, Martin Barre
Purchase date: 1992.07.10
Price in €: 15,99





 S o n g s ,   T r a c k s


[1] ...And the Mouse Police Never Sleeps (I.Anderson) - 3:11
[2] Acres Wild (I.Anderson) - 3:22
[3] No Lullaby (I.Anderson) - 7:54
[4] Moths (I.Anderson) - 3:24
[5] Journeyman (I.Anderson) - 3:55
[6] Rover (I.Anderson)- 4:59
[7] One Brown Mouse (I.Anderson) - 3:21
[8] Heavy Horses (I.Anderson) - 8:57
[9] Weathercock (I.Anderson) - 4:02

 A r t i s t s ,   P e r s o n n e l


IAN ANDERSON - Lead Vocals, Flute, Acoustic Guitar, Occasional Electric Guitars, Mandolin
MARTIN BARRE - Electric Guitar
JOHN EVAN - Piano, Organ
BARRIEMORE BARLOW - Drums, Percussion
JOHN GLASCOCK - Bass Guitar
DAVID PALMER - Portative Pipe Organ, Keyboards, Orchestral Arrangements

DARRYL WAY - Violin on [2],[8]

ROBIN BLACK - Engineer
JAMES COTIER - Cover Photo
SHONA ANDERSON - Photography, Back Cover

 C o m m e n t s ,   N o t e s


1978 LP Chrysalis 1175
1991 LP Chrysalis 21175
1995 CD Chrysalis F2-21175
1995 CS Chrysalis F4-21175



Recorded in London in Jan. ’78 and released in April of the same year. In practice for months of touring, Tull’s seventh line-up with David Palmer on Keyboards recorded his album rather quickly. A further development of their combination of Heavy Metal and folk influenced acoustic rock ‘n’ Roll, ‘Heavy Horses’ lacked the catchy melodies of ‘Songs From The Wood’. The album reached No.19 in the US as well as making the UK top 20. As the album was released, the band started another world tour.

J-Tull.com



The secret of Jethro Tull's longevity is that the band always plays its cards sparingly. For example, "No Lullaby," one of Heavy Horses' two epics, deploys an extensive catalog of aurally exciting effects: flanged drums, echo on the vocal, a mightily distorted guitar cadenza. But each item appears only momentarily, to nudge the slow dirge into grandeur. Another case in point is "Acres Wild," a simple love song that's wrought entirely from the differences in timbre between Ian Anderson's mandolin and guest Darryl Way's electric fiddle. Similarly, Tull restrains its tonality to basic chord changes and folk-song melodies. But the rhythms are lavish–particularly the instrumental arrangements, where no two players are allowed the same part.
Heavy Horses is merely the followup to last year's Songs from the Wood, which may well have been the group's best record ever. Anderson warns that this is the end of the folk-tinged Tull, that the band will return to boogie forthwith. That's a pity because this genre has suited Jethro Tull wonderfully.

MICHAEL BLOOM - RS 274
© Copyright 2001 RollingStone.com



...this is Tull on top form. Never has folk rocked so hard.

Q Magazine (11/99, p.163) - Included in Q Magazine's Best Folk Albums of All Time



This album is dedicated to: The Highland, Welsh Mountain, Shetland, fell, Dales, Cleveland, and the other indigenous working ponies and horses of Great Britain, who, however tiny or great in stature, can truly count themselves as being amongst our HEAVY HORSES; also Lupus, Fur, Tigger and Mistletoe - and of course Shona, and young Master James.



“Heavy Horses” ist auf jeden Fall eine der ungewöhnlichsten Jethro Tull Platten. Highlight auf ist sicherlich das zum Epos aufgebauschte Titelstück „Heavy Horses“. Im Text findet sich wohl die Geschichte der Ablösung der Ackerpferde durch Traktoren, was unter Garantie nicht jedem interessant vorkommt, aber ich finde das Ganze sehr stimmungsvoll und mehr als gelungen. Daneben ist vor allem noch „Rover“ ein Stück das sofort auffällt, wie immer mit genialer Querflöte macht dieses Album richtig Spaß und kann oder sollte absolut auf einen Satz durchgehört werden, den die Songs sind sehr abwechslungsreich hintereinander gereiht. Ich kann das Album eigentlich nur wärmstens empfehlen ...



Jethro Tull's 11th studio album is one of their prettier records, a veritable celebration of English folk music chock full of gorgeous melodies, briskly played acoustic guitars and mandolins, and Anderson's flute lilting in the background, backed by the group in top form. This record is a fairly close cousin to 1977's Songs from the Wood, except that its songs are decidedly more passionate, sung with a rough, robust energy that much of Tull's work since Thick as a Brick had been missing, and surpassing even Aqualung in its lustiness. "No Lullaby" is the signature heavy riff song, a concert version of which opened Live--Bursting Out. Anderson sings it--and everything else here--as though it might be the last lines he ever gets to voice, with tremendous intensity. The band plays hard behind him throughout, with lead guitarist Martin Barre (most notably on "Weathercock") and bassist John Glascock showing up very well throughout. Anderson's production and Robin Black's engineering catch their every nuance without sacrificing the delicacy of his acoustic guitar and mandolin playing. "Acres Wild," "Rover," "One Brown Mouse," "Weathercock," and "Moths" (which makes this listener think of a folk version of Peter Gabriel's "Solsbury Hill"), the latter featuring some of David Palmer's most tasteful orchestral arrangements, are among the loveliest songs in the group's entire repertory. Curved Air's Darryl Way plays violin solo on the title track--a tribute to England's vanishing shire horses, which doesn't really take off until Way's instrument comes in on the break, with a marked tempo change -- and on "Acres Wild."

Bruce Eder - All Music Guide
 

 L y r i c s


 ...And The Mouse Police Never Sleeps

Muscled, black with steel-green eye
swishing through the rye grass
with thoughts of mouse-and-apple pie.
Tail balancing at half-mast.
...And the mouse police never sleeps -
lying in the cherry tree.
Savage bed foot-warmer of purest feline ancestry.
Look out, little furry folk!
He's the all-night working cat.
Eats but one in every ten -
leaves the others on the mat.
...And the mouse police never sleeps -
waiting by the cellar door.
Window-box town crier;
birth and death registrar.
With claws that rake a furrow red -
licensed to multilate.
From warm milk on a lazy day
to dawn patrol on hungry hate.
...No, the mouse police never sleeps -
climbing on the ivy.
Windy roof-top weathercock.
Warm-blooded night on a cold tile.


Acres Wild

I'll make love to you
in all good places
under black mountains
in open spaces.
By deep brown rivers
that slither darkly
through far marches
where the blue hare races.
Come with me to the Winged Isle -
northern father's western child.
Where the dance of ages is playing still
through far marches of acres wild.

I'll make love to you
in narrow side streets
with shuttered windows,
crumbling chimneys.

Come with me to the weary town -
discos silent under tiles
that slide from roof-tops, scatter softly
on concrete marches of acres wild.

By red bricks pointed
with cement fingers
Flaking damply from sagging shoulders.

Come with me to the Winged Isle -
northern father's western child.
Where the dance of ages is playing still
through far marches of acres wild.


No Lullaby

Keep your eyes open and prick up your ears -
rehearse your loudest cry.
There's folk out there who would do you harm
so I'll sing you no lullaby.
There's a lock on the window; there's a chain on the door:
a big dog in the hall.
But there's dragons and beasties out there in the night
to snatch you if you fall.
So come out fighting with your rattle in hand.
Thrust and parry. Light
a match to catch the devil's eye. Bring
a cross of fire to the fight.

And let no sleep bring false relief
from the tension of the fray.
Come wake the dead with the scream of life.
Do battle with ghosts at play.

Gather your toys at the call-to-arms
and swing your big bear down.
Upon our necks when we come to set
you sleeping safe and sound.

It's as well we tell no lie
to chase the face that cries.
And little birds can't fly
so keep an open eye.
It's as well we tell no lie
so I'll sing you no lullaby.


Moths

The leaded window opened
to move the dancing candle flame
And the first Moths of summer
suicidal came.
And a new breeze chattered
in its May-bud tenderness -
Sending water-lillies sailing
as she turned to get undressed.
And the long night awakened
and we soared on powdered wings -
Circling our tomorrows
in the wary month of Spring.
Chasing shadows slipping
in a magic lantern slide -
Creatures of the candle
on a night-light-ride.
Dipping and weaving - flutter
through the golden needle's eye
in our haystack madness. Butterfly-stroking
on a Spring-tide high.
Life's too long (as the Lemming said)
as the candle burned and the Moths were wed.
And we'll all burn together as the wick grows higher -
before the candle's dead.
The leaded window opened
to move the dancing candle flame.
And the first moths of summer
suicidal came
to join in the worship
of the light that never dies
in a moment's reflection
of two moths spinning in her eyes.


Journeyman

Spine-tingling railway sleepers -
Sleepy houses lying four-square and firm
Orange beams divide the darkness
Rumbling fit to turn the waking worm.
Sliding through Victorian tunnels
where green moss oozes from the pores.
Dull echoes from the wet embankments
Battlefield allotments. Fresh open sores.
In late night commuter madness
Double-locked black briefcase on the floor
like a faithful dog with master
sleeping in the draught beside the carriage door.
To each Journeyman his own home-coming
Cold supper nearing with each station stop
Frosty flakes on empty platforms
Fireside slippers waiting. Flip. Flop.

Journeyman night-tripping on the late fantasic
Too late to stop for tea at Gerard's Cross
and hear the soft shoes on the footbridge shuffle
as the wheels turn biting on the midnight frost.
On the late commuter special
Carriage lights that flicker, fade and die
Howling into hollow blackness
Dusky diesel shudders in full cry.
Down redundant morning papers
Abandon crosswords with a cough
Stationmaster in his wisdom
told the guard to turn the heating off.


Rover

I chase your every footstep
and I follow every whim.
When you call the tune I'm ready
to strike up the battle hymn.
My lady of the meadows -
My comber of the beach -
You've thrown the stick for your dog's trick
but it's floating out of reach.
The long road is a rainbow and the pot of gold lies there.
So slip the chain and I'm off again -
You'll find me everywhere. I'm a Rover.
As the robin craves the summer
to hide his smock of red,
I need the pillow of your hair
in which to hide my head.
I'm simple in my sadness,
resourceful in remorse.
Then I'm down straining at the lead -
holding on a windward course.

Strip me from the bundle
of balloons at every fair:
colourful and carefree -
Designed to make you stare.
But I'm lost and I'm losing
the thread that holds me down.
And I'm up hot and rising
in the lights of every town.


One Brown Mouse

Smile your little smile - take some tea with me awhile.
Brush away that black cloud from your shoulder.
Twitch your whiskers. Feel that you're really real.
Another tea-time - another day older.

Puff warm breath on your tiny hands.
You wish you were a man
who every day can turn another page.
Behind your glass you sit and look
at my ever-open book -
One brown mouse sitting in a cage.

Do you wonder if I really care for you -
Am I just the company you keep -
Which one of us exercises on the old treadmill -
Who hides his head, pretending to sleep?

Smile your little smile - take some tea with me awhile.
And every day we'll turn another page.
Behind our glass we'll sit and look
at our ever-open book -
One brown mouse sitting in a cage.


Heavy Horses

Iron-clad feather-feet pounding the dust
An October's day, towards evening
Sweat embossed veins standing proud to the plough
Salt on a deep chest seasoning
Last of the line at an honest day's toil
Turning the deep sod under
Flint at the fetlock, chasing the bone
Flies at the nostrils plunder.
The Suffolk, the Clydesdale, the Percheron vie
with the Shire on his feathers floating
Hauling soft timber into the dusk
to bed on a warm straw coating.

Heavy Horses, move the land under me
Behind the plough gliding - slipping and sliding free
Now you're down to the few
And there's no work to do
The tractor's on its way.

Let me find you a filly for your proud stallion seed
to keep the old line going.
And we'll stand you abreast at the back of the wood
behind the young trees growing
To hide you from eyes that mock at your girth,
and your eighteen hands at the shoulder
And one day when the oil barons have all dripped dry
and the nights are seen to draw colder
They'll beg for your strength, your gentle power
your noble grace and your bearing
And you'll strain once again to the sound of the gulls
in the wake of the deep plough, sharing.

Standing like tanks on the brow of the hill
Up into the cold wind facing
In stiff battle harness, chained to the world
Against the low sun racing
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood
A rein of polished leather
A Heavy Horse and a tumbling sky
Brewing heavy weather.

Bring a song for the evening
Clean brass to flash the dawn
across these acres glistening
like dew on a carpet lawn
In these dark towns folk lie sleeping
as the heavy horses thunder by
to wake the dying city
with the living horseman's cry
At once the old hands quicken -
bring pick and wisp and curry comb -
thrill to the sound of all
the heavy horses coming home.


Weathercock

Good morning Weathercock: How did you fare last night?
Did the cold wind bite you, did you face up to the fright
When the leaves spin from October
and whip around your tail?
Did you shake from the blast, did you shiver through the gale?
Give us direction; the best of goodwill -
Put us in touch with fair winds.
Sing to us softly, hum evening's song -
Tell us what the blacksmith has done for you.

Do you simply reflect changes in the patterns of the sky,
Or is it true to say the weather heeds the twinkle in your eye?
Do you fight the rush of winter; do you hold snowflakes at bay?
Do you lift the dawn sun from the fields and help him on his way?

Good morning Weathercock: make this day bright.
Put us in touch with your fair winds.
Sing to us softly, hum evening's song.
Point the way to better days we can share with you.

 M P 3   S a m p l e s


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