Ian Anderson: No Myth, This Man, by Chris Federico
While discussing the breathtaking Jethro Tull album entitled Songs From the Wood, Ian Anderson referred to
an unconscious identification on his part with pre-Christian English folk music, an inexplicable,
possibly genetic affinity for aurally evoked emotions that predate modern society by a long shot. It's
interesting that this same nameless sense of wonder and catharsis is often gleaned from his own music by
his listeners. There's a strange, beyond-elated feeling that a Tull/IA fan -- necessarily an
imaginative sort with open ears -- undergoes upon listening, a sparkle that originates from somewhere
deeper than the synapses and nerve centers reveling in the pure delight of song and, less
primally, the sheer
musical and poetic ingenuity therein.
Spiraling into one's ears via words and vocal
inflections that create characters, build worlds, break rules and cast spells, Ian's throat is
responsible for more delight than all the earth's blue-movie vixens combined. He's set Mother Goose free
-- letting go of naive childhood ideals -- without losing identification with the child that any man
continues to be. The hundred schoolgirls sobbing at the sight of this "rock star" don't seem to know that
he's a schoolboy, one of their own kind, endeavoring to explore this world and find fresh things like a
little boy getting his kicks. He's still Long John Silver in his head -- searching, discovering and
unearthing. And all for us! This is why the recorders of that song nestle comfortably alongside the tin
whistles of Songs From the Wood; Anderson is ever prepared to come off as the outcast jester ("actor of
the low-high Q" -- A Passion Play) in order to infiltrate with intelligence and champion the rural
vs. the urban, the natural vs. the contrived. His penchant is for the universal gods of nature and the
Druidic celebrations of being alive, rather than the man-made Christian industry ("a poorer man than me" --
"Wind-Up," from Aqualung).
His aloof perspective on our scurrying society doesn't inhibit his activities among us -- he's always
willing to come down from the sky to cry us a song
(Benefit). He has his own dichotomies as well; the
Rover on the Heavy Horses album still revels in the
"Fire At Midnight" and still finds great value on the
"Inside." All at once a virile, juvenile troubadour
and the Gandalf of rock music, he's both exasperatedly
contemptuous of fools and foolishly jubilant. One gets
the feeling that no matter which role he assumes, the
outside, for him, is "always so far away."
These vantage points on one man's musical penchant
for identifying with historical figures and
nature-based mindsets rather than any status of modern
celebrity make Anderson an ideal role model and
identification point for any personality feeling
estranged or disenfranchised; from the late '60s
through to his latest release as of this writing (the
gorgeous Secret Language of Birds), he's been
witnessed as one of the most intelligent, most
imaginative and least apologetic "outsiders" to ever
enchant his way inside listeners' album collections,
senses of humor, points of insight and individualistic
outlooks. This places him in the same
deserving-of-hero-status pantheon as Frank Zappa. One
of the points of his public pursuit of presently
unorthodox personas, and identically one of the
results of his gloriously absurdist approach to
modern-day troubles that might bring down the typical
Western World resident, is the illustration that one
who doesn't "fit in" not only has no problem being
happy -- spry and euphoric, even -- but that quite
the reverse is true, and one who sticks to his own
beliefs and motifs harbors endless advantages over
utter conformists.
And now he grows things. Life unfurls as if set in
motion by Magus Perde. He makes fish, he breeds
felines, he learns the birds' secret words and he adds
much spice to that which he takes in. When the long
song of this minstrel ends, one Valkyrie maiden will
not return empty-handed; but the wind she rides will
be much colder than on the trip before.
Chris Federico
March 2002
http://www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/Mezzanine/7206
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