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Jethro Tull: J-Tull dot com

 A l b u m   D e t a i l s


Label: Papillion Records
Released: 1999.08.24
Time:
 60:28
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: 1999.10.01
Price in €: 14,99





 S o n g s ,   T r a c k s


[1] Spiral (I.Anderson) - 3:50
[2] Dot Com (I.Anderson) - 4:25
[3] Awol (I.Anderson) - 5:19
[4] Nothing @ All (I.Anderson/A.Giddings) - 0:56
[5] Wicked Windows (I.Anderson) - 4:40
[6] Hunt by Numbers (I.Anderson) - 4:00
[7] Hot Mango Flush (I.Anderson/M.Barre) - 3:49
[8] El Niño (I.Anderson) - 4:40
[9] Black Mamba (I.Anderson) - 5:00
[10] Mango Surprise (I.Anderson) - 1:14
[11] Bends Like a Willow (I.Anderson) - 4:53
[12] Far Alaska (I.Anderson) - 4:06
[13] Dog-Ear Years (I.Anderson) - 3:34
[14] Gift of Roses (I.Anderson) - 3:54

 A r t i s t s ,   P e r s o n n e l


IAN ANDERSON - Vocals, Concert Flute, Bamboo Flute, Bouzouki & Acoustic Guitar, Engineer, Cover Painting (based on a sculpture by Michael Cooper)
MARTIN BARRE - Electric & Acoustic Guitars, Assistant Engineer
ANDREW GIDDINGS - Hammond Organ, Piano, Accordion, chromatic & Qwerty Keyboards, Assistant Engineer
DOANE PERRY - Drums & Percussion, Assistant Engineer
JONATHAN NOYCE - Bass Guitar, Assistant Engineer

NAJMA AKHTAR - Additional Vocals on [2]

TIM MATYEAR - Assistant Engineer
BOGDAN ZARKOWSKI - Design, Layout Design
MARTYN GODDARD - Photography

 C o m m e n t s ,   N o t e s


1999 Varese 1043



The cyber-centric title of Jethro Tull's 25th collection of new music is cause for pause. Ye olde art-rock band dropping au courant lingo into their songs from the wood? Ian Anderson intoning with characteristic gravity: "Punch my name and in case you wonder / I'll be yours / Yours dot com"? Hmmm. What would that poor old sod Aqualung think? Get past the notion that these fixtures of prog-rock have hit upon the dubious notion of using an album title as a billboard for their Web site, however, and you've got a collection that will leave Tull true believers contented. The group's inimitable hard rock and otherworldly folk brew makes no less--or more--sense now than it did when the group emerged with such unlikely hits as the aforementioned Aqualung and 1972's Thick as a Brick, which consisted of one 43-minute song spread over two sides of a record. If they could pull that off, these durable graybeards can find love on the Internet.

Steven Stolder - Amazon.com



Dem Titel ihres fünfundzwanzigsten Albums nach zu urteilen sind auch Jethro Tull im Zeitalter des Cyberspace angelangt. Die altehrwürdigen Kunstrocker streuen moderne Brocken in ihre Songs und Ian Anderson intoniert mit gewohnter Schwere "Punch my name and in case you wonder / I'll be yours / Yours dot com"? Hmmm. Das gibt einem doch zu denken. Was würde der gute alte Aqualung dazu bloß sagen? Kommt bloß nicht auf die Idee, daß die Fossilien des Prog-Rock das dubiose Ziel verfolgen, mit dem Titel ihrer CD Werbung für ihre Web-Site zu machen. Trotz allem ist J-Tull Dot Com eine Sammlung von Stücken, die die treuen Anhänger der Band zufriedenstellen wird. Das unnachahmliche Gebräu aus Rock und transzendentalem Folk macht heute genau so viel -- oder wenig -- Sinn wie damals, als die Band sich mit Stücken wie dem bereits erwähnten "Aqualung" einen Namen machte. Alben wie Thick as a Brick, das aus einem einzigen 43-minütigen Stück besteht, das sich über beide Seiten der LP zieht, waren auch nicht gerade der Stoff, aus dem Chart-Erfolge gemacht werden. Und wenn die ausdauernden Graubärte damit durchkamen, dann wird´s auch mit der Liebe im Internet klappen.

Steven Stolder - Amazon.de



Living In The Past" - ihren Klassikers nehmen Jethro Tull wortwörtlich. Denn wäh-rend die Band bei Live-Konzerten von frühem Song-Material profitiert, verkauften sich ihre Alben in den 90ern so schlecht, daß die Mannen um Ian Anderson nun ohne Vertrag bei einer großen Firma dastehen. Eine Niederlage, die Kräfte freigesetzt hat, denn ihr neues Werk knüpft an das alte Erfolgsrezept an: zwei Eßlöffel Rock und Folk, ein Teelöffel Klassik und eine Prise Jazz - und Tull-Anhängern ist ein wohlklingendes Menü bereitet.

©Stereo, Andreas Kunz



Auf drei Dinge konnte man sich in England schon immer felsenfest verlassen: die Skandale der Monarchen, das miese Essen und die nicht totzukriegenden Folk-Proggies JETHRO TULL. Während jedes andere große Seventies-Artrock-Ensemble irgendwann den Verlockungen des Pop-Marktes erlag, sind sich Ian Anderson, Martin Barre und ihre wechselnden Helfershelfer immer hundertprozentig treu geblieben und zelebrieren ihre einzigartige, zeitlose Mixtur aus Progrock, Hardrock-Riffs, angelsächsischem Folk, Jazz, Weltmusik und tiefsinnigen, poetischen Texten auch nach 32 Jahren noch mit einer knackigen Frische, die den meisten Newcomer-Bands - insbesondere britischen - für gewöhnlich völlig abgeht. Statt zentnerschwerem Prog-Ballast gibt´s hier federleichte Grooves, unwiderstehliche Melodiemagneten, einen noch transparenteren Sound als auf dem ´95er Album "Roots To Branches" und trotzdem noch genügend instrumentale Welt- und Zeitreisen, um den Anspruch auf ohrale Langzeitwirkung nicht aufgeben zu müssen. Wer noch zögert, sollte es mal mit dem fernöstlich eingefärbten ´Dot Com´, dem von einem Rage Against The Machine-Riff (!) getragenen ´Hunt By Numbers´ oder dem Gehörgangschmeichler ´A Gift Of Roses´ versuchen. Mehr zu JETHRO TULL findet ihr im Interview auf Seite 135.

© RockHard (148) Michael Rensen - mehr unter www.rockhard.de



With 1995's Roots to Branches , Jethro Tull signed a sixth lease on life by absorbing the ethnic sounds of India and the Middle and Far East. Ian Anderson was camouflaging his failing voice with fluting that was better than ever and with songs which suited his singing range. Jethro Tull follows up Roots to Branches with j-tull Dot Com, a title which advertises both the band's new Web site and Anderson's newfound Internet prowess.

The band has made a career of blending rock with jazz, blues, classical, and folk, and it would seem that the globe-trotting Roots to Branches , along with Anderson's solo album from the same year (Divinities: Twelve Dances with God), would point to a full-time obsession with world music. But now the band abandons some of the world sounds in favor of songs that are more straight-forward and lacking in variety, and unlike Roots to Branches , j-tull Dot Com fails to excite with the first listening. While not as memorable as the previous effort, the album still delivers standard Jethro Tull: Anderson's flute, Martin Barre's crunchy guitar, and the wide-reaching keys of Andrew Giddings support Anderson's ever-weakening voice, which he imposes onto every song. Once again Tull's capable hard rock is alternately ornamented, twiddly and heavy handed, so after repeated listenings Tull fans should be satisfied.

Patrick Little - All Music Guide



"J-tull dot com" ist eine respektable Leistung von einer Band, deren kreatives Potenzial beileibe noch nicht erschöpft ist!"

M. Inhoffen in stereoplay 9/99



From the opening notes of J-Tull Dot Com, you know that this is Jethro Tull - and not just down to Ian Anderson's trilling flute. That heavy sound that is uniquely Tull (and Tull clones) burst through from the opening track, "Spiral." I was going to postulate that there were at least two themes running through this album, but in thinking about those two themes, and in formulating the paragraphs that would express those thoughts to you, I came across a variety of alternate interpretations. And such is the magic of Jethro Tull...nothing is so cut and dried that you can definitively say, "this song is about this, this is about that." Perhaps the best one can do is give generalities and leave it up to other listeners to form their own conclusions.

So, I won't attempt a lyrical breakdown, won't go song by song and say "this is about that." However, like many artists of late, including Rush (on Test For Echo and Shadow Gallery (Tyranny), our online world has become a topic for a song - here it's "Dot Com" It's not surprising that the view taken is often cynical, certainly Shadow Gallery's was, seeing the whole nature of the Internet being suspect. But here, the beautiful melody and Anderson's understated vocals underlie his cynical view of how we will conduct our interpersonal relations in the (all too near) future. Already those of us who have personal websites are quicker to give that than our names (I myself was once guilty of that). The internet and the World Wide Web have become pervasive in our society - but for the web, this site might not exist.

Nevertheless, in expressing this idea, Anderson and the rest of Tull, have given the track a very romantic feel, as if this could be a tender song about love, about romance found online: the chorus concludes with the line "I'll be yours -- yours, dot com."

In way, as I think, too, about Marillion's own recent "Answering Machine" (Radiation), the whole concept of being even more distant from each other while technology brings is so many more ways to communicate, and communicate more quickly and cheaply, is becoming equally pervasive. Commericals and adds are promoting the idea that person to person realtime communicate still has, and has better, value. So many companies are enabling person to person service calls even through their websites. Perhaps this balance will keep Anderson's (and others') "prophecies" from coming to be.

Okay, that said, what about the song itself? Even if it is thought provoking, is it any good? Yes, because the whole irony of soft, warm tones, romantic imagery against a idealogical backdrop of glass and plastic works.

Anderson does spend some time looking back, without rehashing past glories. This is perhaps most evident on "The Dog-Ear Years," but also appearant on "Wicked Windows." How much of either one is autobiographical is hard to say...I suspect more so in "Dog-Ear" but I'm not going to speculate.

Most of this album is low key, though it does rock in places, not with the same metal-like crunch of say "Brass Monkey" nor as hard rock as on their classic tracks. "Hunt By Numbers" comes close, and is the most like past Tull releases of the last decade or so (I've not given their previous release Roots To Branches enough spins to include that in my assessment).

Perhaps the track that stands out the most sonically is "Hot Mango Flush," one of the two tracks not written by Anderson; here it's Barre, in this almost totally acoustic, sassy little number. Guitar, of course, takes the lead. It seems to me to be so uncharaistic of Jethro Tull...actually, there are times where this made me think of Lou Reed, down to Anderson's mostly spoken delivery. Where most of the album is painted in warm colours, some wet, some dry, this is painted in bright fruit colors...you can almost see Carmen Miranda (is that an archaic reference?).

"El Niño" is a tangoistic, Spanish-styled tune, with a driving, rocking, searing guitar dominated chorus. This is "El Nino" as metaphor for the very thing El Niño represents...that change in weather that we have come to know so well...and maybe also the overhype that things are given...oh, I don't know. I could make a case here I'm sure for many things that Anderson might or might not mean...and even then I might be off the mark.

Jethro Tull this time out is, of course, Ian Anderson, whose flute seems much more up front than I recall, trilling beautfully, resonately; Martin Barre, guitars; Andrew Giddings, a variety of keys; Doane Perry, drums and percussion; and Jonathan Noyce, bass. One of the many, many highlights of this album is Andrew Giddings' with beautiful solo piano piece called "Nothing @ all" (the only other non-Anderson penned tune).

This may not be the best Tull release ever, and only when they've stopped recording can we truly make that assessment, but it is damn good. This is seasoned, measured rock from a band who is way beyond needing filler to flesh out a release...(though I wonder at the short reprise of "Hot Mango Flush" halfway through...well played and playful though it is). The Tull magic is still there and this is a strong contender for my favourite of the year.

This edition of the new album contains a bonus track, that I won't spoil for those who happen upon this same edition, except to say it previews Anderson's new solo release, due to be released next February, and it sounds great]

Reviewed by: Stephanie Sollow, August 1999
www.progressiveworld.net - Your Ultimate Guide To Progressive Music


Never mind the cringe-inducing title; the new Tull album is easily the best release by an old prog-rock band in the past half-decade. If that sounds like faint praise, rest assured that Ian Anderson & Co. still have a firm grasp on the classic Tull sound, and longtime fans are sure to revel in another round of Anderson's omnipresent flute outbursts and Martin Barre's grumpily acrobatic guitar riffs.

J-Tull Dot Com is no Aqualung(or even a "Cyberlung," for that matter), but most of the material here is quite strong, especially "Spiral," "Wicked Windows," and the apocalyptic "El Niño." Even when Anderson goes a little too far off the deep end -- as with the stream-of-consciousness spoken word segments of "Hot Mango Flush," or the cheesy isn't-the-internet-great musings of "Dot Com" -- his gift for memorable melodies invariably saves the day.

In short, an impressive return to form.

Dan Epstein
Copyright © 1994-1999 CDNow, Inc. All rights reserved.



Yet another dot com album, but the fact is that Jethro Tull was a month or so earlier than Marillion. But why bother when the result of them both is two great albums. Musically it haven't changed must since their latest 1995 album Roots To Branches except for a little eastern flavour over-all. They also have a new bass player named Jonathan Noyce as well as a new record label. But the biggest difference is the freshness of Ian's voice, on it's precursor and on the tour that followed his voice wasn't in the greatest condition. So the absence seems to have done him good. Otherwise everything is as usual and just as I and loads of others want's it to be. The only bad I can say is that the track Hot Mango Flush doesn't come in the same standard as the other twelve songs. I'm really looking forward to see them live again soon. Oh yeah right, we also get a bonus track in form of the title track from Ian's forthcoming solo album The Secret Language of Birds as well as a spoken word from the man himself.
 

 L y r i c s


Spiral

Kilometers from nowhere on a scented avenue -
Lined with poppy girls.
I didn't stop, stop to say hello.
Curious vendors - waving bric-a-brac -
Looked me over -
Thought it best, best that I should go.
Don't wake me: I'm falling.
Slow spiral into morning.
Who's out there? Can't hear you.
Ears covered - early warning.
Alarm bells ringing.
Time to make my peace with the dreary day.

I waited atbles - I was tipped in roubles.
Wine to water
Was the best that I could do.
Wild office parties split the silence.
Loaves and fishes at an empty table laid for two.

Down the spiral, spinning madly.
Gathering momentum
On a disneyesque adventure ride.
I fly in colours from richer palettes.
Famous artists running scared as worlds collide.


Dot Com

It's a wide world out there
So much wider than imagined
I can't quite put my finger on the pulse
Of your heart softly beating
Just beneath the raw silk sheen
That reflects the tints of autumn from the hills.
So punch my name.
And in case you wonder -
I'll be yours - yours, dot com.

Executive accommodation
Bland but nonetheless appealing
Waiters discretely at your beck and call
Place the tall sun-down potion
Lightly by your velvet elbow
While you compose a message on the wall.

So punch my name.
And in case you wonder -
I'll be yours - yours, dot com.

With your handmade leather valise
Packed and ready, ready waiting
Showered and dressed down lightly for the heat
Gice a clue; leave a kind word
Hint as to a destination
A domain where our cyber-souls might meet.

So punch my name.
And in case you wonder -
I'll be yours - yours, dot com.


Awol

Stormy-eyed on the edge of dawn:
nose pressed against the triple glaze.
Floor to ceiling, wall to wall,
silent traffic streams both ways.
Along the fussy freeway drivers
dream of sunday barbecues.
Of a sudden, seems I can barely
face my self: no face to lose.
Call the bosses. Call supervisors.
Won't be in today to work for you.
E-mail that girl who's working nights.
She can dress down for this wind and rain.
Leave her new korean compact:
let some cabbie take the strain.
Take a shower. Take big espresso.
Take to the hills, and take a view.
Little black dress stretching over
hard crystal peaks: soft valleys too.
Call the bosses. Call for nurses.
Unfit today to work for you.

No wet excuses. Absent without leave.
I'll be her dayshift driver: exotic engineer.

Stormy-eyed on the edge of night:
(December, eastern time: late afternoon.)
Atlantic City tight behind.
Trump Casina calls pontoon.
Gristle-burger, frazzled fries
end this romantic interlude.
Tomorrow morning's sweet awakening
could hardly prove to be as rude.
Make the journey. Make amends.
Work some hasty overtime in lieu.

No wet excuses. Absent without leave.
I'll be her dayshift driver: exotic engineer.


Wicked Windows

I review my past through wicked windows framed in silver
and hung in toughened glass, upon my face, around and over.
Now and then: memories of men who loved me.
No stolen kiss - could match their march on hot coals for me.
I have walked a line both faint and narrow, hard to follow.
Caught up in circumstance. Harsh truth for history to mellow.
Through my eyes: loyalties and obligation
magnified. Obedience: the better fellow.

Better not remember me. Don't mis my passing.
Fierce winter fails to ruffle my icy sleep.
We never quite vanish. No wet soft surrender.
Still waiting: bad blood running in close families.
I laughed like any child - although you might find that strange
and christmas was my favourite holiday.

Christmas was my favourite holiday.

I am not alone in seeing the world through wicked windows
while others hide likewiese behind this vulnerable squinting.
It's in the stare: it's in the silent scrutinizing.
Strip you bare: I ofer you no more disguising.

Better not remember me. Don't miss my passing.
Fierce winter fails to ruffle my icy sleep.
We never quite vanish. No wet soft surrender.
Same bad blood running in new families.


Hunt By Numbers

Hey little buddies:
soft and silky night walkers.
Dangerous species -
Tiptoe menace long grass stalkers
on my bed:
no butter melting in your jaws.
Bonding monster -
Lethal weapon wearing claws.
Let's go out to hunt by numbers.

Tabby, spotted, black as coal -
Serval, Margy, Caracal.
Moggie in the moonlight listens:
whiskered sensory miracle.
Felis, befriend us -
Egyptian Mau - Freya's familiar.
Long in the future -
Cloned disciples, the castle guard.

Now, let's go out and hunt by numbers.


Hot Mango Flush

Hot mango flush.
Ladies with ice cream hair -
Gyroscopic pink neon beams -
Everybody's happy about something.
The crowd moves like a flock of startings: they
switch direction as one.
Jive on the jukebox - Jack and Joker
split the night air with whoop and holler.
Faint aroma - wood smoke, old fish,
diesel harbour, roadside mongrel,
painted man with buttons barely
holding, bursting belly bulging.
Doe-eyed ragamuffin mumbling -
Scolded for some vague infraction.
Stole a penny candy-coloured
sweetheart kiss down at the market.
Down at the market all the world
seems to simmer:
Hot mango flush.


El Nino

As one, wet merchants turn their eyes towards the west.
Trade winds falter as if in dire consequence.
Freezing fish to fry, fail to materialise.
Christ-child, blood-warm current sends to touch the skies.
El nino.

Bathing in uncertainty, another age
seems to wing from T.V. screens in weather rage.
Savage retribution makes for a headline feats.
Planet-warming, opinion-forming headless beast.

El nino.

Cold thrust tongue extends its dark and watery touch.
Forces gather, martial stand against the rush.
Wily child in mischief here to make his play.
Leaves toys for little sister on another day

El nino.


Black Mamba

Hand in the snake pit - black mamba chase.
Head through the lion's cage - head on a plate.
Two feet on the hot coals - last dance at the ball.
Blindfold on the tightrope - whenever you call.
Be my slippery slider, Black Mamba crawl over me.
Dark thoughts of the sleepless - hung out to dry.
Slip through the bedclothes - unblinking eye.
Long tongue flickering - fixed stare grip.
Sweet venomous potion, held to my lip.
Be my slippery slider, Black Mamba crwal over me.

A tropical whisper. A sibilant kiss.
Soft strike teasing. Dangerous bliss.


Mango Surprise

Hot Mango Flush
Hot Mango Flush
Hot Mango Flush
Hot Mango Flush
Hot Mango Flush
....


Bends Like A Willow

She's catching the wind: the gentlest of breezes.
It's a sensitive passage she's sailing -
Through stormy straits, navigates my unfathomable failings.
She rises before me, reading me clearly.
Empty nest left pressed in the pillow.
She can shift, she can sway
and bend like a willow.

I'm swept in the riptide, caught in a fish trap.
Gift-wrapped in my soft self centre.
Summer sun leaves me as one who can only taste winter.
She's a good, a good God-send: she can bend like a willow.

With a fully armed angel to cover me quickly.
I'm cool under enemy fire.
If I fall, she can crawl right under the wire.

When I'm caustic and cold, she might dare to be bold -
ease me round to her warm way of thinking:
fill me up from the cup of love that she's drinking.
And I find, given time. I can bend like a willow.
She bends like a willow.


Far Alaska

Placing people in their dreamscape
with fantasies of foreign fields
Lofty spires all well appointed
In off-season special deals.
To far Alaska: down to Ria in the Carnival
Norwegian fjords in the ever-light of Solstice call

A part of me might travel with you
in a freebie bucket seat for one
Business First - at last, forever
Hopeless thoughts of flying fun

Now get me out of here I cry in air rage psycho-doom
I'm only dream-arranging from the safety of my room

Pick a place or stcik a pin in
any corner of the sphere
Post me cards and tell me nicely
Say you wish that I was here

To far Alaska: down to Rio in the Carnival
Norwegian fjords in the ever-light of Solstice call


The Dog-Ear Years

Rusted and ropy.
Dog-eared old copy.
Vintage and classic,
or just plain Jurassic:
all words to describe me.
Relaxed in the knowledge
that happily present
are all things to sustain me,
nurture and claim me:
roll back the mileage.

You have settled beside me.
To the far and the wide of me.
A matter of choosing,
of finding and losing
on the rough ride with me.

Take whisky with water,
kick stones down the gutter.
Think back to long days with
stale breath recycled in my face.
Rattling through airways -
plastic on cold trays.
Watching through windows,
deep landscapes below
await another time and space.

There must come some time
to walk through the night line.
Hands tight: heads high.
These are the dog-ear years.
Don't turn back. Don't linger.
For God's sake keep moving.
Primitive shadows sidle beside.


A Gift Of Roses

I count the hours: you count the days.
Together, we count the minutes in this Passion Play.
Walk dusty miles. And I ride that train
on a first class ticket, just to be with you again.
Picking up tired feet. Back from a far horizon.
Cleaned up and brushed down. Dressed to look the part.
Fresh from God's garden, I bring a gift of roses:
To stand in sweet spring water and press them to your heart.

Like the Kipling cat, I walk alone -
Never inviting trouble, never casting the stone.
But this badge of honour is of tarnished tin.
Lightyour guiding beacon to bring this fisher in.

 M P 3   S a m p l e s


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