Inicio Revisiones A-Z J Jethro Tull- "Minstrel in the gallery" (1975)
Jueves, 04 de Noviembre de 2010 17:26

Jethro Tull- "Minstrel in the gallery" (1975)

por  Mountain
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MINSTREL IN THE GALLERY

LOS TEMAS

1.   MINSTREL IN THE GALLERY
2.   COLD WIND TO VALHALLA
3.   BLACK SATIN DANCER
4.   REQUIEM
5.   ONE WHITE DUCK/ 0=NOTHING AT ALL
6.   BAKER ST. MUSE
Including:
PIG-ME AND THE WHORE
NICE LITTLE TUNE
CRASH BARRIER WALTZER
MOTHER ENGLAND REVERIE
7.      GRACE


PERSONAL

IAN ANDERSON. VOZ, FLAUTA, GUITARRA ACUSTICA
MARTIN BARRE. GUITARRA ELECTRICA
BARRIEMORE BARLOW. BATERIA, PERCUSION
JOHN EVANS. ORGANO, PIANO
JEFFREY HAMMOND HAMMOND. BAJO

Todas las canciones compuestas por IAN ANDERSON
Todas las canciones publicadas por THE IAN ANDERSON GROUP OF COMPANIES /CHRYSALIS MUSIC LTD.
Producido por IAN ANDERSON
Los arreglos orquestales fueron escritos por DAVID PALMER
Violines: Solista PATRICK HOLLING
ELIZABETH EDWARDS
RITA EDDOWES
BRIDGER PROCTOR
Violonchelo: KATHERINE THULBORN
Director: DAVID PALMER
Ingeniero: ROBIN BLACK
Grabado y mezclado en un lugar de Europa por el estudio móvil de la Maison Rouge
Fotos: BRIAN WARD
Diseño de portada de R.KRISS y J. GARNETT basado en un dibujo de JOSEPH NASH

UN POCO DE HISTORIA

Minstrell in the gallery o Trovador en la galería es el octavo disco de la banda, el titulo del disco hace referencia a las galerías que había en los castillos y en las que los músicos tocaban ocultos de los invitados. La portada del disco es muy significativa, se ve a los músicos en una especie de balcón y la fiesta que hay abajo es de órdago. El disco tiene un sonido medieval evidente, marca de la casa desde luego. Llegó al puesto número 7 en las listas de éxito de Estados Unidos y al número 20 en el Reino Unido.

LAS CANCIONES


MINSTRELL IN THE GALLERY. Comienza muy tulliana, una preciosa guitarra acústica, la flauta y la voz maravillosa de Ian Anderson, hacia el minuto dos y medio la cosa se vuelve más poderosa, con una sensacional guitarra eléctrica arropada con contundencia por el bajo y la omnipresente flauta. Muchos cambios de ritmo para una canción realmente sensacional.

COLD WIND TO VALHALLA. Nuevamente un comienzo muy suave, guitarra, flauta y la emocionante voz de Anderson. En esta canción aparece un quinteto de cuerda que acompaña excelentemente y dándole mas personalidad a la canción.

BLACK SATIN DANCER. Bellísima canción, sin duda de lo mejorcito del álbum, suave y poderosa a partes iguales, brillantes todos los instrumentos.

REQUIEM. Una verdadera preciosidad, la delicadeza con la que canta Ian Anderson en esta pequeña joya es realmente estremecedora y emocionante. Los instrumentos de cuerda hacen de esta canción algo realmente bello.

ONE WHITE DUCK/0=NOTHING AT ALL. Dividida en dos partes esta es una preciosidad acústica, suave, relajada, emocionante y realmente bella. En la primera parte vuelven a sonar las cuerdas y en la segunda la acústica arropa a la siempre excelente voz de Ian Anderson, un hombre con una voz única y verdaderamente expresiva.
BAKER ST. MUSE. Es la suite del disco con una duración de 16:39 y dividida en cuatro partes tituladas PIG-ME AND THE WHORE, NICE LITTLE TUNE, CRASH BARRIER WALTZER y MOTHER ENGLAND REVERIE. Es compleja, repleta de continuos cambios de ritmo, mezclados con momentos tranquilitos muy bellos, una canción muy completa.
GRACE. Acústica, violín y voz, una despedida perfecta para un disco excepcional, lleno de sentimiento y buenas vibraciones.

LAS LETRAS


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


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?

1 comentario

  • Enlace comentario Ultravox Domingo, 20 de Enero de 2013 18:52 Publicado por Ultravox

    Una de las obras cumbres en la historia del rock progresivo. Me faltan adjetivos para poder definir este disco. Genial. Jethro Tull siguió haciendo grandes discos, pero después de "Minstrel in the Gallery" nada fué igual

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