THICK AS A BRICK

Aqualung, many professional critics had said, was a concept album. It was about religion, or somesuch. No, no, an actual concept wasn't really needed -- the songs had some rough (or perceived, if you asked Ian Anderson) connection, thus it was a concept album, right?

Well, Ian Anderson disagreed. It was just a "bunch of songs," according to Anderson. And so, as Anderson and the rest of Jethro Tull set to work on their next album, they made an important decision. This time, they ought to really create a concept album. That would show those silly critics. And, at the same time, why not make the lyrics nonsensical and impenetrable, and the music almost woefully complex? Yes, that would show them.

Now, then, here we are. 1972. Progressive rock is fast taking hold of the American and British music markets. Close to the Edge, Foxtrot, Fragile, Octopus -- the year was alive with some of the most important contributions in the history of progressive rock, those which would shape the genre, impacting musicians for generations to come. And among them, the delightfully titled, "Thick As A Brick."

The fictional poem of a fictional boy -- or is that the real poem of a fictional boy, or the real boy of a fictional... no, wait, that's not right. Let's try this again.

"Thick as a brick" is, I am led to believe -- or maybe was -- a common expression in Great Britain, referring to -- you guessed it -- a personal mental density. It is on this premise that Gerald Bostock, Ian Anderson's fictional schoolchild Milton, bases his poem. A beautiful, epic poem, all about comic book heroes, and sperm, and wisemen, and poetry, and swordsmen, and even the Boy Scout Manual. In fact, Anderson's lyrics seem to cover nearly every range of topics known to man, while at the same time apparently saying remarkably little, really accomplishing the purpose of dumbfounding the critics.

And the music... oh, the music. Beginning with Anderson simply strumming away on his acoustic guitar, this is the first glimpse of Tull's folky future to come. Nine words, and then the flute starts in, Anderson still strumming away, blissfully unaware. Nine more words, and the flute comes in again, this time with a single guitar chord and the drums chiming in their opinion -- they'd rather not "sit this one out," as Anderson has so kindly recommended. And with the end of the first "verse" of the first part of the song (not that the song really has any verses), the flute trails off into its own happy meadow, leaving the guitar. And then the piano comes in. And the bass guitar. Soon, the whole band has joined Anderson's soft voice and now-subtle strumming. And then, Anderson becomes brutally aware of the rest of the band, and his vocals change, the strumming leaves, and the tempo rises.

And for the next forty minutes, we're off on a journey. As with all of Tull's early work, the drumming and bass play are competent, but not great. However, the flute and guitar work is as stunning as ever, with Barre contributing possibly the least "Tully" riffs to date, and Anderson framing everything perfectly with his flauting and his soft and beautiful acoustic guitar. Spanning from hard rock to acoustic folk to the almost gothic sounds of the Hammond organ, Anderson spares us of no conceivable sound, save heavy metal.

Suddenly, we're back where we started, meandering lazily through a pastoral melody, Anderson a sort of Blakeian bard, reassuring us that the wise men really don't know everything. Then it's gone, our minds full of everything and nothing all at once, without a clue what we've just heard. We just know that, whatever it was, it must have been brilliant.

After all, if a schoolchild wrote that... (Oh, by the way, Anderson still receives questions about Gerald Bostock to this day, from unsuspecting listeners. The joke must have been a success, eh?)