The Surrey riders and heavy horses bode too the Isle of Wight Fest, in 1970 – THE WELCOME RETURN OF OUR SURREALIST WRITER, ERIC LASTICK
(LANCASHIRE)
The historical figure named Jethro Tull–set proper on an old English Pub wall, as rightfully the god-lander figure of all agriculture…and whom transforms this new day as Ian Anderson and his Surrey chaps—tossing down of the suds and stories–while bringing a unique form of folk rock and blues–with mixes of jazz fusion…and added touches of classical piano steps—out of ancient round tables. Draped and robed as minstrels and court jesters for their lords to see and hear.
(SCOTLAND NINETEEN SEVENTY)
THE MAKING OF A LOCOMOTIVE BREATH OF A RECORD ALBUM: Aqualung leans almost clear off of his park bench–as the linger of dust and crud mix with his hair follicles which grow so heavy on his ear. A dirty beard and Armour cloche of rag-clothed hides…as he raises slow and half cocked on his hunched space and bashful smile; and condescendingly salutes to a blue tinged-like unicorn, next to this dirty sots empty bottle of Scotch, dropping the bottle beside him; and grins over at Ms. Cross-eyed-Mary, all saggy armed….and faceful to greet him. And right next to them is a rather patriotic looking bloke…and seeming a man of world travels. He scoffs at the looks of them…as he bows in honor to a Scot’s flag Stave to St Andrew’s whited satire—as all eyes, including the cross eyed one, take refuse of the magnificent willows… and a whole river wide, in which to long for. “Good evening mate…and may i ask who you are?” Says Aqualung. The man does not look over, other than to say: ”I am your road manager and organizer for the Jethro Tull band. Now please, you two, get a bloody shower!” ”COME AGAIN?” says Aqualung…with a wince, as cross-eyed-Mary releases a half smile! ” I mean for you to dunk yourselves in a steam barrel of hot suds…and be ready to ride. We have a festival…and i only ask once, says the man. All of a sudden, great cackles…and the smell of displeasing air. ”Wilkerson is my name” says the man…and quickly strides to the roadside of carriages…pets and hoofs of Arabian ride of heavy horses.
RIGHT OUT OF A RIGHTFUL AVENUE: The tersely drawn sets of new songs…as to behold of a premiere flutist named Ian Anderson—with Scot’s like whistles. High held boots…and a oblong server sized set of players…bag pipes and charcoal grins. Tobacco-me-Arnie’s…and the rides of Ian and his Surrey chaps. Heavy horses to the October finds of Autumn notes…covered bridges…as the outdoor choir and the crisp air of ”Velvet Green”
And as this story entangles on how gnarly..and the knot that ties of Aqualung and Cross-eyed- Mary, to it’s followup to the Jethro Tull band; in song—and in allegory—with it’s blends towards the great ”ISLE OF WRIGHT”, and it’s beckoned call of such inspirited…at a very English rock fest in 1970. Back home, the buzz is on the London streets: A hint and sense of a surreal styled set of grouped posters, packed on walls. Jethro Tull is the main billing—with live performances featuring Aqualung and cross eyed Mary…as her very own mom looks puzzled—studying her daughter’s animated features. Mary’s mom, with a wrapped bonnet oldster. A liver-pooling who dodges her bulge of an eye…in a wince and Ray-band dark glass…and stammers quite angerly, lifting of her skirted water rains…and leggings—along with her hammer heavy clogs…as a wagon scurries and splashes over her—too the bloodies of such socks and shoes; as she spots from the very rear of a carriage…and quickly spots her daughter’s cross eyed—with a full packed set alongside the Tull band mates!
Subsequent of a subterranean cross eye to bare her of the better wisdom’s—straight out of this crawled hell. A hole in ones heart, which surrounds the bested…and those of ”handsomes, looking down; as now,cross eyed once a dancer to the muted of her memes—keeping Aqualung’s parked rear-on-a-bench of stirs…change the chorus of ”To Old To R0CK N ROLL” Yet be it of middle age and the times of their lives..as the Tull band rehearses in humor in song. Ladder lever soundboard and the tuning of the keys of the piano. Aqualung engages in a loud vivacious laugh of the saviors and oldsters he claims…rave-on rock n roll tradition…and the presumes of the melded minds of Jethro Tull. The cross eyed Mary…and Aqualung’s lifted confidence to their own will—clear off the park bench of the indecent! Alas, a handful of pennies…as a stranger of better suits and higher standards, has the absence of mind, with a hole in one’s breasted pocket—leaving the shard-ed bench next to Aqualung— bypassing the soup kitchen…and the aroma which is no different from these two characters. Yet Aqualung and his woman on Holiday…and feeling a bit like a Royal Hobo in the presence of song. Oh’ Mary could never cure her cross eyed moods…her eye droppers to the sidebars of how the band shall play her; and in all the dulled up double visioned …and angry sighted world. Then came Aqualung to court and escort her to the festival of the Isles; on the very backs of the heavy horses. Their are no cabin fare for the likes of these 2. They both own it. The locomotive breaths and the crowds at the Aisles, of a look about cheer—and so very wholehearted… as these two tawdry, low living people, poses the very plug to the show!
OFF TO THE FESTIVAL: The Scot ferry cross to the Isle of Wright…with sea of eyes and a double Decker bus…and it’s hold’s in truss to a Jethro Tull fanfare fill at capacity. Thumb riders get to the show, although fences to keep those out. The free spirits and non money keepers of the lite; yet the policeman finds it’s uneven’s on a Doberman hand grip—with their holds no longer good; and as nightfall, the splendid view of sea sights, as far as the eye can travel. A hit with the pointed lift zones, light and stage systems of the Isles of Wright. The writing on the wall—”The Kids Are Alright’, sings The Who. Fences can no longer hold the fetch of the dogs…the dollar and it’s scent. It is just not worth in free love spirit…and machines exchange. Anton down West, an inception of painted words, phrases and color coordination…as rock musicians assemble as if Marionettes of whimsical studiers–to take part and partnered, one Joni Mitchell—with her sincere tears and harrowing voice by the piano keys…begging to the crowd to show some respect to the performances…and the better serves to the people; as she so states…and as The Passion Played of the Tull’s, in rudimentary joining of this entire hippy numbered system—pleading to no avail other than the cross eyed one. Although on the contrary, Mary pleads her own case, as an indelible force to recon with! Joni stlll insists that the people show a little kindness…as she lovingly proceeds in her song, ”Both sides now”
There is this sudden shift of loud cheers, yet gussying ale-cartwheeled sod-dens…and chums out on the front lawn, in roastful galleys; as Tull acoustics to the center stage. Scotch Whiskey banished in the bright fall…the cream of de-crem, in all the fall down drunk pastors…and this Euro version of peace and love…not of wars. And as one individual stupid fool dressed as a mock canard and Mounty off his heavy horse…a sudden sigh on the administration wall of a harpoon Marxist…and all bugged out late at sea. A lutenist at arms …the day Lennon visually became a soldier. As next, right on stage, Tull hits it big with Martin Bare’s signature guitar to our Aqualung. Ian attempts to bring order to the domestic spat, here on stage; as Cross-eyed -Mary has stolen the spotlight! Aqualung has his own brand of fruitful fun & drink, until rightly he is stopped cold…as Martin Bare bust a’ string; and thunder herds rush of the stage! Joni sits her guitar. The Who attempts to brake from the unruly, as the MC says just like the driving of the Woodstock festival just one yr ago; that in fact, of a free concert, for now on! Aqualung sits a nearby bench next to the stage—looking and feeling so proud. The cross eye broken, as her spectacles do-not fit, but wedge. Ironically though, her eyesight in the Lear—and stare at such of her Aqualung taken up with a 19 yr old fussy. Ian has seen enough…as he rounds up his heavy horses. Wilkinson, my god it’s over. ”Martin pack your guitars, we are heading home”, he says.
SO IN THE AFTER CURRENT AND WAVES OF THE FESTIVAL…AND WELL PASTED OF THE ISLES: Tull’s Aqualung becomes an instant million seller. Cross eyed Mary remains in…and of the reveal of the outer slip of the record jacket…and inner album sleeve; as two wild misfits; 1 Aqualung and 1 Cross-eyed Mary, fit tightly and wedged in a sealed album package. There they’ll stay; unless the right wishful teenager of good imagination, brings them back to life! Yet hopefully, just in fun and song.