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Вот как надо делать концертники! Не просто взять свои лучшие песни и спеть их, почти ничего не меняя, а представить нечто совершенно новое, как это делали, например, Deep Purple и Led Zeppelin, альбомы которых, особенно «Made in Japan» и «The Song Remains the Same», по праву можно считать эталоном концертных записей. Вот и Андерсон на этом концертнике предоставляет на всех треках не то, что было на студийных альбомах. 17 треков, взятых с концертов по всему миру (Афины, Берлин, Мюнхен, Иерусалим), но скомпоновано и сведено так, что кажется, будто это один концерт. Исполнение весьма напоминает акустические перфомансы MTV Unplugged. Несколько песен превратились в инструменталы: «Living in the Past», «Under Wraps», «Look Into the Sun» (блюз с диска «Stand Up»), «Pussy Willow» (великолепная аранжировка одной из моих самых любимых тем с «The Broadsword and the Beast»). Некоторые темы удлинились за счет увеличения инструментальной части: «Someday the Sun Won’t Shine for You» (тема аж с первого студийника группы с отличной блюзовой гармоникой), «Rocks on the Road» (хит с «Catfish Rising»), «Nursie» (звучащая гораздо тяжелее оригинала), «Bouree» (инструментальная пьеса, основой для которой стала сюита Баха). Некоторые либо видоизменились – «Life Is a Long Song» (вместо фортепьяно звучит акустическая гитара), «One White Duck» (более спокойная), «A Christmas Song» (струнные оригинала заменены на гитару), «From a Dead Beat to an Old Greaser» (добавлено соло, на котором гитара переходит от шепота до крика), «This Is Not Love» (в частности, иное звучание флейты), – либо стали почти совершенно другими – «Too Old to Rock’n’Roll: Too Young to Die» (рэгги-версия), «A New Day Yesterday» (совершенно иное прочтение старого материала с увеличенной раза в два инструментальной частью в середине, в которой флейта у Иэна звучит на разные лады – и задорно, и печально, и нежно, и резко), «Locomotive Breath» (утяжеленная и увеличенная, с акустической гитарой и флейтой вместо фортепьяно). Подбор тем просто отличный – начиная с самых ранних работ и заканчивая последним диском. Есть также «John Barleycorn», классика британского фольклора, метафорически описывающая процедуру приготовления виски (произведение с таким же названием, «Джон Ячменное Зерно», есть, например, у великого шотландского поэта Роберта Бернса). Появилась она еще в начале XVII в., в правление короля Иакова I, в 1970 г. эту песню записала интересная фолк-блюзовая группа Traffic, после чего она и стала популярной в мире рока, а Jethro Tull превратили ее в мелодичный хард-рэгги. Отдельная статья разговора – это шутки, которые Иэн отпускает в адрес своих коллег. Стоит привести их, а то ведь не каждый настолько хорошо знает английский язык, чтобы оценить. 1) Перед песней «Under Wraps»: «В 1984 г. мы заигрывали со всякими синтезаторами и технологиями, но потом решили, что лучше всего просто оставить Дейва» [Дэвид Пегг – отличный басист, неизменно остающийся в команде Андерсона еще с 1980 г. и по сей день]. 2) После «Too Old to Rock’n’Roll: Too Young to Die»: «Это была рэгги-версия… потому что Мартин [Мартин Барр – гитарист, еще больший долгожитель, в группе еще с 1972 г.] только что побывал на Карибах… Он был на Антигуа и тратил ваши деньги. Вот бездельник, правда? Зато он повстречал много фантастических женщин. Мартин – известный бабник. Каждую ночь у Мартина в постели более двухсот женщин. Извините, я сказал «в постели»? В голове у него более двухсот женщин, в голове». 3) Перед «A Christmas Song»: «Рождество. Мы должны помнить, что это время для духовного подъема… Это не время для того, чтобы напиваться, объедаться и заниматься сексом с животными на ферме. Об этом не может быть и речи. Так что тебя предупредили, Дэвид Пегг». Одних этих шуток достаточно, чтобы поднять настроение. Итак, лучший лайв от Jethro Tull. Каждому, кому хочется «немного легкой музыки», хорошей и душевной, настоятельно рекомендуется. |
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And let the bad times out.
That old sun keeps on shining,
But someday it won't shine for you.
In the morning I'll be leaving.
I'll leave your mother too.
Living In The Past
[Instrumental]
Life Is A Long Song
When you're falling awake and you take stock of the new day,
and you hear your voice croak as you choke on what you need to say,
well, don't you fret, don't you fear,
I will give you good cheer.
Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
If you wait then your plate I will fill.
As the verses unfold and your soul suffers the long day,
and the twelve o'clock gloom spins the room,
you struggle on your way.
Well, don't you sigh, don't you cry,
lick the dust from your eye.
Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
We will meet in the sweet light of dawn.
As the Baker Street train spills your pain all over your new dress,
and the symphony sounds underground put you under duress,
well don't you squeal as the heel grinds you under the wheel.
Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
Life's a long song.
But the tune ends too soon for us all.
Under Wraps
[Instrumental]
Rocks On The Road
There's a black cat down on the quayside.
Ship's lights, green eyes glowing in the dark.
Two young cops handing out a beating:
know how to hurt and leave no mark.
Down in the half-lit bar of the hotel
there's a call for the last round of the day.
Push back the stool, take that elevator ride.
Fall in bed and kick my shoes away.
Rocks on the road.
Can't sleep through the wild sound of the city.
Hear a car full of young boys heading for a fight.
Long distance telephone keeps ringing out engaged:
wonder who you're talking with tonight.
Who you talking with tonight?
Rocks on the road.
Tired plumbing wakes me in the morning.
Shower runs hot, runs cold playing with me.
Well, I'm up for the down side, life's a bitch
and all that stuff:
so come and shake some apples from my tree.
Have to pay for my minibar madness.
Itemised phone bill overload.
Well now, how about some heavy rolling?
Move these rocks on the road.
Crumbs on the breakfast table.
And a million other little things to spoil my day.
Now how about a little light music
to chase it all away?
To chase it all away.
Nursie
Tip-toes in silence `round my bed
and quiets the raindrops overhead.
With her everlasting smile
She still my fever for a while.
Oh, nursie dear,
I'm glad you're here
to brush away my pain.
Too Old To Rock'N'Roll: Too Young To Die
[Instrumental]
One White Duck
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.
A New Day Yesterday
My first and last time with you
and we had some fun.
wenT walking through the trees, yeah!
And then I kissed you once.
Oh I want to see you soon
but I wonder how.
It was a new day yesterday
but it's an old day now.
Spent a long time looking
for a game to play.
My luck should be so bad now
to turn out this way.
Oh I had to leave today
just when I thought I'd found you.
It was a new day yesterday
But it's an old day now.
John Barleycorn
There were three men, came out of the west,
Their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow:
John Barleycorn must die!
Well, they've ploughed, they've sown, the've harrowed him in.
Threw clouds upon his head.
Till these three men were satisfied.
John Barleycorn was dead.
They've let him lie for a long long time,
till the rains from heaven did fall.
And little sir John sprang up his head
And so amazed them all.
They let him fly till the midsummer's day,
Till he looked both pale and wan, oh,
Then little Sir John has grown a long long beard
And so became a man.
They have hired men with the scythes so sharp.
To cut him off at the knee,
They rolled and they tied him around the waist,
serving him most him barbarously.
They hired men with the sharp pitchforks
to prick him to the heart.
And the loader he has served him worse than that,
for he's bound him to the cart.
Well, they've wheeled him 'round and 'round the field,
till they came onto a barn.
And there they made their solemn oath,
concerning a Barleycorn.
They hired men with the crab tree sticks
to split him skin from bone, yeah,
but the miller he has served him worst and bad
for he ground him between two stones.
Well there's beer all in the barrel
and brandy in the glass,
but little old sir John with his nut-brown bowl
proved the strongest man at last.
John Barleycorn, throw him up, throw him up!
Now the huntsman, he can't hunt the fox,
nor loudly blow his horn
And the tinker he can't mend his pots
Without John Barleycorn,
John Barleycorn, John Barleycorn,
Barleycorn, Barleycorn
John Barleycorn, John Barleycorn.
Look Into The Sun
[Instrumental]
A Christmas Song
Once in Royal David's City stood a lonely cattle shed,
where a mother held her baby.
You'd do well to remember the things He later said.
When you're stuffing yourselves at the Christmas parties,
you'll just laugh when I tell you to take a running jump.
You're missing the point I'm sure does not need making
that Christmas spirit is not what you drink.
So how can you laugh when your own mother's hungry,
and how can you smile when the reasons for smiling are wrong?
And if I just messed up your thoughtless pleasures,
remember, if you wish, this is just a Christmas song.
(Hey! Santa! Pass us that bottle, will you?)
From a Dead Beat to an Old Greaser
From a dead beat to an old greaser, here's thinking of you.
You won't remember the long nights;
coffee bars; black tights and white thighs
in shop windows where blonde assistants fully-fashioned a world made
of dummies (with no mummies or daddies to reject them).
When bombs were banned every Sunday and the Shadows played F.B.I.
And tired young sax-players sold their instruments of torture
sat in the station sharing wet dreams of Charlie Parker,
Jack Kerouac, René Magritte, to name a few of the heroes
who were too wise for their own good left the young brood to
go on living without them.
Old queers with young faces who remember your name,
though you're a dead beat with tired feet;
two ends that don't meet.
To a dead beat from an old greaser.
Think you must have me all wrong.
I didn't care, friend. I wasn't there, friend,
If it's the price of pint that you need, ask me again.
This Is Not Love
Winds howled. Rains spit down.
All these nights playing precious games.
Cheap hotel in some seaboard town
closed down for the winter and whispered names.
Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea
snap our heels half-heartedly
and how come you know better than me
that this is not love.
No, this is not love.
Empty drugstore postcards freeze
sunburst images of summers gone.
Think I see us in these promenade days
before we learned October's song.
Out on the headland, one gale-whipped tree;
curious, head bent to see.
And how come you know better than me
that this is not love.
Down to the sad south, smokey plumes
mark that real world city home.
Broken spells and silent gloom
ooze from that concrete honeycomb.
Puppy-dog waves on a big moon sea
snapped our heels half-heartedly
and how come you know better than me
that this is not love.
Bourée
[Instrumental]
Pussy Willow
[Instrumental]
Locomotive Breath
In the shuffling madess
of the locomotive breath,
runs the all-time loser,
headlong to his death.
He feels the piston scraping
steam breaking on his brow
old Charlie stole the handle and
the train won't stop going
no way to slow down.
He sees his children jumping off
at the stations - one by one.
His woman and his best friend
in bed and having fun.
He's crawling down the corridor
on his hands and knees
old Charlie stole the handle and
the train won't stop going
no way to slow down.
He hears the silence howling
catches angels as they fall.
And the all-time winner
has got him by the balls.
He picks up Gideons Bible
open at page one
old Charlie stole the handle and
the train won't stop going
no way to slow down.