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Jethro Tull: Minstrel in the Gallery

 A l b u m   D e t a i l s


Label: Chrysalis Records
Released: 1975.09.09
Time:
 39:09
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: 1989.04.24
Price in €: 7,99





 S o n g s ,   T r a c k s


[1] Minstrel In The Gallery (I.Anderson) - 8:13
[2] Cold Wind To Valhalla (I.Anderson) - 4:21
[3] Black Satin Dancer (I.Anderson) - 6:53
[4] Requiem (I.Anderson) - 3:45
[5] One White Duck (I.Anderson) / 0^10 = Nothing At All (I.Anderson) - 4:39
[6] Baker St. Muse (I.Anderson) - 16:42
      I. Pig-Me And The Whore (I.Anderson)
      II. Nice Little Tune (I.Anderson)
      III. Crash-Barrier Waltzer (I.Anderson)
      IV. Mother England Reverie (I.Anderson)
[7] Grace (I.Anderson) - 0:37

 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 Guitars
JOHN EVAN - Piano, Organ
JEFFREY HAMMOND-HAMMOND - Bass Guitar, String Bass
BARRIEMORE BARLOW - Drums, Percussion

PATRICK HALLING - Leader Violin
ELIZABETH EDWARDS - Violin
RITA EDDOWES - Violin
BRIDGET PROCTER - Violin
KATHARINE THULBORN - cello DAVID PALMER - Orchestra Arrangements, Orchestra Conductor

ROBIN BLACK - Engineer
R. KRISS - Cover Artwork (based on a print by Joseph Nash)
J. GARNETT - Cover Artwork (based on a print by Joseph Nash)

 C o m m e n t s ,   N o t e s


1975 LP Chrysalis 1082
1990 CS Chrysalis 21082
1990 CD Chrysalis 21082
1991 CS Alliance 21082
1995 CD Chrysalis F2-21082
1995 CS Chrysalis F4-21082
1996 CD Alliance 21082

Recorded and mixed somewhere in Europe by the Maison Rouge mobile studio.



Recorded eleven months after the last album, ‘Minstrel In The Gallery’ was released in September 1975. This was the last recorded effort of the fifth and so far most durable of the band’s line-up. Anderson, Barre, Evans, Barlow and Hammond-Hammond had spent four years on the road – with occasional breaks for recording sessions – before making this album in Monte Carlo with their new mobile studio. Ian later said that the party atmosphere of the sessions distracted from the group effort, and, in retrospect, this album became too introspective for his taste. Without the benefit of another massive tour (the band opted for a short vacation), ‘Minstrel In The Gallery’ still hit No.7 in the US and No.20 in the UK.

In December, Jeffery Hammond-Hammond left Tull to concentrate on his artwork.

J-Tull.com



Chances are, most of you have long since forgotten the notion of Elizabethan boogie as an art form. Well, it's revived here on Minstrel in the Gallery, Jethro Tull's latest concept-as-after-thought entry in the fall record sweepstakes. The fact that Ian Anderson and the lads have once again plundered the British secular music tradition signifies little and delivers less.

Anderson, still holding to a self-consciously bizarre musical stance, has difficulty maintaining the center of attention with his mannered vocals, irrepressible flute and acoustic guitar. And although, accompanied only by his guitar, he introduces each hauntingly familiar refrain as a ballad—aided by intimate spoken intros and incidental studio background noises—the tunes are soon deluged by a wash of lugubrious string passages and the anachronisms of Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond's mechanical bass lines and Martin Barre's hysterical electric guitar montages. In addition, contrary to the LP's basic concept, the lyrics are instantly forgettable.

In keeping with the times, Tull does get points for technical competence. Still, despite the diligence with which these gents execute the often clichéd arrangements, the most soulful moment on the album is a line from "Baker St. Muse," sung in passing by Anderson as he leaves the studio. Finding the door locked, he screams: "I can't get out!" That's roughly the same feeling that this listener got about midway through side one.

JEAN-CHARLES COSTA - RS 199
© Copyright 2001 RollingStone.com



...A private affair...managing a sparks-flying title-track riff and musters a marvelous, thoughtful coda on 'Mother England Reverie'...

Q Magazine (12/00, p.144) - 3 stars out of 5



Minstrel in the Gallery was Tull's most artistically successful and elaborately produced album since Thick as a Brick, and harkened back to that album with the inclusion of a 17-minute extended piece ("Baker Street Muse"). Although English folk elements abound, this is really a hard rock showcase on a par with -- and perhaps even more aggressive -- than anything on Aqualung. The title track is a superb showcase for the group, freely mixing folk melodies, lilting flute passages, and archaic, pre-Elizabethan feel, and the fiercest electric rock in the group's history -- parts of it do recall phrases from A Passion Play, but all of it is more successful than anything on War Child. Martin Barre's attack on the guitar is as ferocious as anything in the band's history, and John Evan's organ matches him amp-for-amp, while Barriemore Barlow and Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond hold things together in a furious performance. Anderson's flair for drama and melody come to the fore in "Cold Wind to Valhalla," and "Requiem" is the loveliest acoustic number in Tull's repertory, featuring nothing but Anderson's singing and acoustic guitar, Glascock's bass, and a small string orchestra backing them. "Nothing at All" isn't far behind for sheer, unabashed beauty, but "Black Satin Dancer" is a little too cacophonous for its own good. "Baker Street Muse" recalls Thick as a Brick and A Passion Play, not only in its structure but a few passages--at slightly under 17 minutes, it's a tad more manageable than either of its conceptual predecessors, and it has all of their virtues, freely overlapping hard-rock and folk material, classical arrangements (some of the most tasteful string playing on a Tull recording), surprising tempo shifts, and complex stream-of-consciousness lyrics (some of which clearly veer into self-parody) into a compelling whole.

Bruce Eder - All Music Guide


Songtitel wie "One White Duck / Nothing At All" oder "Pig-Me And The Whore" sagen eigentlich schon alles: Diese Scheibe ist von leichtverdaulichen Mainstream-Klängen ungefähr so weit entfernt wie Oslo von Melbourne. Jethro Tull führen mit Minstrel In The Gallery (´75) kompromißlos jenen Weg fort, den sie in den Jahren zuvor mit teils recht obskuren (Konzept-)Alben wie Thick As A Brick, A Passion Play und War Child eingeschlagen haben. Kaum ein Part wird wiederholt, Abwechslung ist genauso Trumpf wie unzählige Breaks, abgedrehte Lyrics und der stets leicht größenwahnsinnige Balanceakt zwischen angenehmem Folk-Prog und völlig entrückten Experimentalparts. Ian Anderson versucht die Grenzen der Rockmusik zum wiederholten Male neu abzustecken, stolpert dabei allerdings auch schon mal über seine eigenen Ansprüche und die Tatsache, daß weniger manchmal einfach mehr ist. Nichtsdestotrotz bleibt Minstrel In The Gallery dank des hitverdächtigen Titelsongs und der Simon & Garfunkel-mäßigen Ruhepole "Requiem" und "One White Duck..." ein Album, das unterm Strich bei aller Vertracktheit etwas zugänglicher und harmonischer als o.g. Scheiben ist.

Michael Rensen - Amazon.de
 

 L y r i c s


Minstrel In The Gallery

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 - T.V. 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 - saw his face in everyone.


Cold Wind to Valhalla

And ride with us young bonny lass -
with the angels of the night.
Crack wind clatter - flesh rein bite on an out-size
unicorn.
Rough-shod winging sky blue flight on a cold wind
to Valhalla.
And join with us please - Valkyrie maidens cry
above the cold wind to Valhalla.
Break fast with the gods. Night angels serve
with ice-bound majesty.
Frozen flaking fish raw nerve -
in a cup of silver liquid fire.
Moon jet brave beam split ceiling swerve and light
the old Valhalla.
Come join with us please - Valkyrie maidens cry
above the cold wind to Valhalla.
The heroes rest upon the sighs of Thor's trusty
hand maidens.
Midnight lonely whisper cries,
``We're getting a bit short on heroes lately.''
Sword snap fright white pale goodbyes in the
desolation of Valhalla.
And join with us please - Valkyrie maidens ride
empty-handed on the cold wind to Valhalla.


Black Satin Dancer

Come, let me play with you, black satin dancer.
In all your giving, given is the answer.
Tearing life from limb and looking sweeter than the
brightest flower in my garden.
Begging your pardon - shedding right unreason.
Over sensation fly the fleeting seasons.
Thin wind whispering on broken mandolin.
Bending the minutes - the hours ever turning on that
old gold story of mercy.
Desperate breathing. Tongue nipple-teasing.
Your fast river flowing - your northern fire fed.
Come, black satin dancer, come softly to bed.


Requiem

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.


One White Duck / 0^{10} = Nothing At All

There's a haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way.
And there's a note on the telephone - some roses on a
tray.
And the motorway's stretching right out to us all,
as I pull on my old wings - one white duck
on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
I'll catch a ride on your violin - strung upon your bow.
And I'll float on your melody - sing your chorus soft
and low.
There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called.
You can see from the fireplace, one white duck
on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
So fly away Peter and fly away Paul - from the
finger-tip ledge of contentment.
The long restless rustle of high-heeled boots calls.
And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all.

Something must be wrong with me and my brain -
if I'm so patently unrewarding.
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that
way - and my zero to your power of ten equals
nothing at all.

There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door.
I'm available for consultation,
But remember your way in is also my way out, and
love's four-letter word is no compensation.

Well, I'm the Black Ace dog-handler: I'm a waiter on
skates - so don't you jump to your foreskin conclusion.
Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays -
to be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday
lunch confusion.


Baker Street Muse

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!)


Grace

Hello sun.
Hello bird.
Hello my lady.
Hello breakfast. May I
buy you again tomorrow?

 M P 3   S a m p l e s


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