One of my early concerts was to see Jethro Tull in concert. This was part of the “busting out” time of their existence (they’ve been a band for what, 35 years now?) and they had a guest keyboardist who simply blew me away. The musicians that make up Tull have changed and evolved over the years and they are not afraid of trying new things – part of what is fun about the band to me.

My favorite album is Aqualung, partly because it was one of their first albums I was exposed to and partly for the lyrics / music. I don’t claim to be a Tull expert (far from it) but I don’t really not like anything I’ve heard from them.

Aqualung, of course, was released in 1971, back before the Compact Disc was invented and actually consisted of two mini-albums: Aqualung (side 1) and My God (side 2). I often revisit the lyrics of My God since I just love them.

For example:

If Jesus saves — well, He’d better save Himself
from the gory glory seekers who use His name in death.

yeah, heady stuff like that. Now imagine hearing this for the first time while you’re drunk or stoned. Whoa, dude.

Two songs, I especially like, and it really helps to hear the music to go with them, but the lyrics get the point across. I put them under the fold so as to not waste as much real estate on screen:

My God
People — what have you done —
locked Him in His golden cage.
Made Him bend to your religion —
Him resurrected from the grave.
He is the god of nothing —
if that’s all that you can see.
You are the god of everything —
He’s inside you and me.
So lean upon Him gently
and don’t call on Him to save you
from your social graces
and the sins you used to waive.
The bloody Church of England —
in chains of history —
requests your earthly presence at
the vicarage for tea.
And the graven image you-know-who —
with His plastic crucifix —
he’s got him fixed —
confuses me as to who and where and why —
as to how he gets his kicks.
Confessing to the endless sin —
the endless whining sounds.
You’ll be praying till next Thursday to
all the gods that you can count.

Wind-up
When I was young and they packed me off to school
and taught me how not to play the game,
I didn’t mind if they groomed me for success,
or if they said that I was a fool.
So I left there in the morning
with their God tucked underneath my arm —
their half-assed smiles and the book of rules.
So I asked this God a question
and by way of firm reply,
He said — I’m not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.
So to my old headmaster (and to anyone who cares):
before I’m through I’d like to say my prayers —

I don’t believe you:
you had the whole damn thing all wrong —
He’s not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.
Well you can excomunicate me on my way to Sunday school
and have all the bishops harmonize these lines —

how do you dare tell me that I’m my Father’s son
when that was just an accident of Birth.
I’d rather look around me — compose a better song
‘cos that’s the honest measure of my worth.

In your pomp and all your glory you’re a poorer man than me,
as you lick the boots of death born out of fear.

I don’t believe you:
you had the whole damn thing all wrong —
He’s not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.

I’m just living in the past… Carry on.