 JETHRO
TULL - A PASSION PLAY
(1973) Ian Anderson - Flauta, guitarra
acústica, saxofones, voces Barriemore Barlow - Percusión
Martin Barre - Guitarra
eléctrica John Evan - Piano, órgano,
sintetizadores, narración Jeffrey Hammond - Bajo, voces
Lista de Temas:
A Passion Play
The Story Of The Hare Who Lost His Spectacles
The End
A Passion Play
"Do you still see me even here?''
(The silver cord lies on the ground).
"And so I'm dead'', the young man said ---
over the hill (not a wish away).
My friends (as one) all stand aligned
although their taxis came too late.
There was a rush along the Fulham Road.
There was a hush in the Passion Play.
Such a sense of glowing in the aftermath
ripe with rich attainments
all imagined sad misdeeds in disarray
the sore thumb screams aloud,
echoing out of the Passion Play.
All the old familiar choruses
come crowding in a different key:
Melodies decaying in sweet dissonance.
There was a rush along the Fulham Road
into the Ever-Passion Play.
And who comes here to wish me well?
A sweetly-scented angel fell.
She laid her head upon my disbelief
and bathed me with her ever-smile.
And with a howl across the sand
I go escorted by a band of gentlemen
in leather bound -- NO-ONE
(but someone to be found).
All along the icy wastes
there are faces smiling in the gloom.
Roll up roll down,
Feeling unwound? -- step into the viewing room.
The cameras were all around.
We've got you taped -- you're in the play.
Here's your I.D.
(Ideal for identifying one and all.)
Invest your life in the Memory Bank -
ours the interest and we thank you.
The ice-cream lady wet her drawers, t
to see you in the passion play.
Take the prize for instant pleasure
captain of the cricket team
public speaking in all weathers
a knighthood from a queen.
All your best friends' telephones never
cooled from the heat of your hand.
There's a line in a front-page story
13 horses that also-ran.
Climb in your old umbrella.
Does it have a nasty tear in the dome?
But the rain only gets in sometimes and
the sun never leaves you alone.
Lover of the black and white -- it's your first night.
The Passion Play goes all the way spoils your insight.
Tell me how the baby's made,
how the lady's laid
why the old dog howls in sadness.
And your little sister's immaculate virginity
wings away on the bony shoulders of a young
horse named George who stole surreptitiously
into her geography revision.
(The examining body examined her body.)
Actor of the low-high Q, let's hear your view.
Peek at the lines upon your sleeves
since your memory won't do.
Tell me how the baby's graded
how the lady's faded
why the old dogs howl with madness.
All of this and some of that's
the only way to skin the cat.
And now you've lost a skin or two -
you're for us and we for you.
The dressing room is right behind
We've got you taped -- you're in the play.
How does it feel to be in the play?
How does it feel to play the play?
How does it feel to be the play?
Man of passion rise again,
we won't cross you out -- for we do love
you like a son -- of that there's no doubt.
Tell us is it you who are here for our good cheer?
Or are we here for the glory, for the story,
for the gory satisfaction of telling you
how absolutely awful you really are?
There was a rush along the Fulham Road.
There was a hush in the Passion Play.
The Story Of The Hare Who Lost His
Spectacles
This is the story of the hare who lost his spectacles.
Owl loved to rest quietly
whilst no one was watching.
Sitting on a fence one day,
he was surprised when suddenly
a kangaroo ran close by.
Now this may not seem strange,
but when Owl overheard Kangaroo
whisper to no one in particular,
"The hare has lost his spectacles,''
well, he began to wonder.
Presently, the moon appeared from behind a cloud
and there, lying on the grass was Hare.
In the stream that flowed by the grass -
a Newt.
And sitting astride a twig of a bush - a Bee.
Ostensibly motionless, the hare
was trembling with excitement,
for without his spectacles
he appeared completely helpless.
Where were his spectacles?
Could someone have stolen them?
Had he mislaid them?
What was he to do?
Bee wanted to help,
and thinking he had the answer began:
"You probably ate them thinking
they were a carrot.''
"No!'' interrupted Owl, who was wise.
"I have good eye-sight, insight, and foresight.
How could an intelligent hare
make such a silly mistake?''
But all this time,
Owl had been sitting on the fence, scowling!
Kangaroo were hopping mad at this sort of talk.
She thought herself far superior in
intelligence to the others.
She was their leader; their guru.
She had the answer:
"Hare, you must go in search of the optician.''
But then she realized that Hare was
completely helpless without his spectacles.
And so, Kangaroo loudly proclaimed,
"I can't send Hare in search of anything!''
"You can guru, you can!'' shouted Newt.
"You can send him with Owl.''
But Owl had gone to sleep.
Newt knew too much to be stopped
by so small a problem -
"You can take him in your pouch".
But alas, Hare was much too big
to fit into Kangaroo's pouch.
All this time, it had been quite plain to Hare
that the others knew nothing about spectacles.
As for all their tempting ideas,
well Hare didn't care.
The lost spectacles were his own affair.
And after all, Hare did have a spare a-pair.
A-pair.
The End
We sleep by the ever-bright hole
in the door, eat in the corner
talk to the floor -
cheating the spiders who come to say
"Please'', (politely).
They bend at the knees.
Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs.
Old gentlemen talk of when they were young,
of ladies lost and erring sons.
Lace-covered dandies revel (with friends)
pure as the truth -- tied at both ends.
Well I'll go to the foot of our stairs.
Scented cathedral -- spire pointed down.
We pray for souls in Kentish Town.
A delicate hush -- the gods floating by
wishing us well -- pie in the sky.
God of ages, Lord of Time -
mine is the right to be wrong.
Well I'll go to the foot of our stairs.
Jack rabbit mister... spawn a new breed
of love-hungry pilgrims
(no bodies to feed).
Show me a good man.
I'll show you the door.
The last hymn is sung
and the devil cries "More.''
Well, I'm all for leaving and that being done,
I've put in a request to take up my turn
in that forsaken paradise that
calls itself "Hell'' - where
no-one has nothing and nothing is well meaning fool,
pick up thy bed and rise up from your gloom smiling.
Give me your hate and do as the loving heathen do.
Colors I've none -- dark or light,
red, white or blue.
Cold is my touch (freezing).
Summoned by name -- I am the overseer over you.
Given this command to watch
o'er our miserable sphere.
Fallen from grace
called on to bring sun or rain.
Occasional corn from my oversight grew.
Fell with mine angels from a far better place,
offering services for the saving of face.
Now you're here,
you may as well admire all whom living
has retired from the benign reconciliation.
Legends were born surrounding mysterious
lights seen in the sky (flashing).
I just lit a fag, then took my
leave in the blink of an eye.
Passionate play -- join round the maypole
in dance (primitive rite) (wrongly).
Summoned by name I am the overseer over you.
Flee the icy Lucifer.
Oh he's an awful fellow!
What a mistake!
I didn't take a feather from his pillow.
Here's the everlasting rub: neither am I good or bad.
I'd give up my halo for a horn
and the horn for the hat I once had.
I'm only breathing.
There's life on my ceiling.
The flies there are sleeping quietly.
Twist my right arm in the dark.
I would give two or three for one of those days
that never made impressions on the old score.
I would gladly be a dog barking up the wrong tree.
Everyone's saved -- we're in the grave.
See you there for afternoon tea.
Time for awaking -- the tea lady's
making a brew-up and baking new bread.
Pick me up at half past none -
there's not a moment to lose.
There is the train on which I came.
On the platform are my old shoes.
Station master rings his bell.
Whistles blow and flags wave.
A little of what you fancy does you good
(Or so it should).
I thank everybody for making me welcome.
I'd stay but my wings have just dropped off.
Hail! Son of kings,
make the ever-dying sign
cross your fingers in the sky
for those about to BE.
There am I waiting along the sand.
Cast your sweet spell upon the land and sea.
Magus Perde, take your hand from off the chain.
Loose a wish to still the rain
the storm about to BE.
Here am I (voyager into life).
Tough are the soles that tread the knife's edge.
Break the circle, stretch the line,
call upon the devil.
Bring the gods the gods' own fire.
In the conflict revel.
The passengers upon the ferry crossing
waiting to be born renew the
pledge of life's long song
rise to the reveille horn.
Animals queueing at the gate
that stands upon the shore,
breathe the ever-burning fire
that guards the ever-door.
Man son of man buy
he flame of ever-life
(yours to breathe and breath
the pain of living): living BE!
Here am I!
Roll the stone away from the dark
into ever-day.
There was a rush along the Fulham Road
into the Ever-passion Play.
|
