It's only the giving that makes you what you are...

Σαν σήμερα -18 Μαρτίου του 1971- οι Jethro Tull κυκλοφόρησαν τον τέταρτο δίσκο τους με τον τίτλο Aqualung.

-Ο μέχρι σήμερα πιο εμπορικά πετυχημένος δίσκος τους, πούλησε πάνω απο 7 εκατομμύρια αντίτυπα...-

Δεν υπάρχει κάποια αξιοσημείωτη ιστορία πίσω απο την δημιουργία του, οπότε πάμε κατευθείαν στο ψητό...

Οι Jethro Tull σε αυτόν τον δίσκο είναι οι Ian Anderson (φωνή φλάουτο κιθάρα), Martin Barre (κιθάρα), John Evan (πιάνο), Jeffrey Hammond (μπάσο) και Clive Bunker(τύμπανα)

To track list είναι το εξής:

1. Aqualung
2. Crossed-eyed Mary
3. Cheap Day Return
4. Mother goose
5. Wond'ring Aloud
6. Up to Me
7. My God
8. Hymn 43
9. Slipstream
10. Locomotive Breath
11. Wind Up

Προσωπικά όλος ο δίσκος μου αρέσει οπότε αυτά που έχουν ενα μικρό προβάδισμα είναι το Crossed-eyed Mary και το Hymn 43

Για τους μη-μυημένους ας ακούσουν το Wond'ring Aloud

n'joy



Sitting on a park bench --
eyeing little girls with bad intent.
Snot running down his nose --
greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.
Hey, aqualung
Drying in the cold sun --
Watching as the frilly panties run.
Hey, aqualung
Feeling like a dead duck --
spitting out pieces of his broken luck.
Oh/Hey, aqualung
Sun streaking cold --
an old man wandering lonely.
Taking time
the only way he knows.
Leg hurting bad,
as he bends to pick a dog end
he goes down to the bog
and warms his feet.

Feeling alone --
the army's up the road
salvation a la mode and
a cup of tea.
Aqualung my friend --
don't you start away uneasy
you poor old sod, you see, it's only me.
Do you still remember
December's foggy freeze --
when the ice that
clings on to your beard is
screaming agony.
And you snatch your rattling last breaths
with deep-sea-diver sounds,
and the flowers bloom like
madness in the spring.



Who would be a poor man, a beggarman, a thief --
if he had a rich man in his hand.
And who would steal the candy
from a laughing baby's mouth
if he could take it from the money man.
Cross-eyed Mary goes jumping in again.
She signs no contract
but she always plays the game.
Dines in Hampstead village
on expense accounted gruel,
and the jack-knife barber drops her off at school.
Laughing in the playground -- gets no kicks from little boys:
would rather make it with a letching grey.
Or maybe her attention is drawn by Aqualung,
who watches through the railings as they play.
Cross-eyed Mary finds it hard to get along.
She's a poor man's rich girl
and she'll do it for a song.
She's a rich man stealer
but her favour's good and strong:
She's the Robin Hood of Highgate --
helps the poor man get along.



Wond'ring aloud --
how we feel today.
Last night sipped the sunset --
my hands in her hair.
We are our own saviours
as we start both our hearts beating life
into each other.
Wond'ring aloud --
will the years treat us well.
As she floats in the kitchen,
I'm tasting the smell
of toast as the butter runs.
Then she comes, spilling crumbs on the bed
and I shake my head.
And it's only the giving
that makes you what you are.



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.



Oh Father high in heaven, smile down upon your son
who's busy with his money games, his women and his gun.
Oh Jesus save me!
And the unsung Western hero killed an Indian or three
and made his name in Hollywood
to set the white man free.
Oh Jesus save me!
If Jesus saves -- well, He'd better save Himself
from the gory glory seekers who use His name in death.
Oh Jesus save me!
I saw him in the city and on the mountains of the moon --
His cross was rather bloody --
He could hardly roll His stone.
Oh Jesus save me!



In the shuffling madness
of the locomotive breath,
runs the all-time loser,
headlong to his death.
"Oh" He feels the piston scraping --
steam breaking on his brow --
old Charlie stole the handle and
the train "it" won't stop going --
no way to slow down. "OhooOh"

He sees his children "jumping" off
at the stations -- one by one.
His woman and his best friend --
in bed and having fun.
"Oh" He's crawling down the corridor
on his hands and knees --
old Charlie stole the handle and
the train "it" won't stop going --
no way to slow down. "Heaheya"

He hears the silence howling --
catches angels as they fall.
And the all-time winner
has got him by the balls.
"Oh" He picks up Gideons Bible --
open at page one --
I "THINK" God "he" stole the handle and
the train "it" won't stop going --
no way to slow down.
"no way to slow down
no way to slow down
no way to slow down
no way to slow down"



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 their 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 have 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 have the whole damn thing all wrong,
He's not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.