I have all Jethro Tull up to about 2000 AD.

Rosemary’s Sister sounds about right, I think. I have no wish to hear it again unless surrounded by giggling schoolgirls, but well done for spotting it. A large foamy pint of your choice when next I’m up in town, unless you’ve overstepped your final warning by then and sacrificed a virgin on Rob’s bar counter or whatever it is you do that draws attention to yourself in public houses. With me it was always the trouserless table dance with whipped cream and knopfwurst, so now I just sit in a corner and do some colouring-in till it’s time to go back to the nice soft room with the flowers and plastic cutlery.

The pic of Flock with the sweaty violinist is THE best rock post ever, IMHO

–Ivan
aka
Hieronymus Frutflanel
aka
Osbert Flangewhistler
aka
Orson Cartoon

I was never much of a fan of the wailing nasal woman school of folk “rock” a la Steeleye Spam, as I’m sure you well know, but this is moving into more exciting territory.

I have to point out I was a big fan of Richard, particularly in the +Linda` days. I was therefore hugely disappointed when I went to the Fairport Convention at Cropredy (bet that surprised you) to hear the lad do a most miserable monotonous and turgid set. I was gutted. I should have realized he was tailoring his act to the expectations of the crowd, who had probably come along to enjoy a few days of miserable folksy dirginess and vegan food stall inspired scurvy and diarrhoea. I think these things are for self-flagellants who haven’t quite got the bottle for the actual knotted rope and hair shirt.

FC themselves surpassed my worst fears in producing a set of the most self indulgent woe-is-me folking hell that was only made bearable because it sat right on the edge of finger-in-the-ear potential parody stock and occasionally teetered over the brink, which caused my entire party to erupt in fits of giggles and leave the field of combat lest we offend the tearful crowd who hung on every word sung about the falling bombs and the baby crying and the poor auntie trapped in the attic… or whatever it was. (There’s a pint in t’Sun if you can identify the poorly remembered song.) The day was rescued by All About Eve and yon salmon-farming flautist arriving to do Locomotive Breath and similar hits of yesteryear with the band which had miraculously transmogrified itself out of its Clark Kent folkiness into the mighty, building-leaping and blue-eyed hero that was Jeffro-T.

Sandy, now she was a different kettle of syrup altogether. Sadly missed

I look forward to the continuing review. Though I do not share your love of hey-nonny fiddle-di-dee foll-de-rollockry. I’m enjoying the read and I”m wondering if you ever discovered East Of Eden or Flock. This could lead us into Mahavishnu Orchestra land, particularly before Mr Goodman was replaced By Jean-Luc Picard for the next generation lineup.

Speaking of extreme violinse, I have some nice DVDage of Curved Air, if that appeals. There are moments when Sonja Kristina is unnervingly Sandy Dennyish, to my eyes and ears, but then my cpu is addled by rock’n'roll – what do I know?

Hey – word count panic – whose blog is this anyway?

Hugs,

–Hyphen

Piece of film flutters to editing room floor, no longer required.
Lights off. Building silent.

Tiny elf sneaks out of mouse hole, retrieves trampled film. Drags it to desk top. Threads up editing viewer and turns handles, slowly at first, then faster… faster… flickering image appears. Lone bugler atop ramparts, silhouetted against setting sun.
Elf rewinds, flicks “optical out” switch into “on” position and cranks again.

Wowwwwing strains of familiar tune waft out from machine, speeding up, slowing down, warbling, changing pitch… yet somehow monotonous. Ear-grating. Fingernail-blackboard screeching with weird intervals. To be endured for duty, not enjoyed for pleasure.
Elf plays it backwards, then forwards again, marveling at how similar it sounds in either direction.

Satisfied elf yanks film out, hand over hand, making winding crank spin. It still spinning as film hits floor again.

Elf jumps up and down on film clip, creasing it beyond any chance of re-use. Kicks it under desk.

Elf tramps back into mouse hole, tunelessly whistling. Wonders to (s)elf, shuddering –
Did Steeleye Span ever do version of “Last Post?”

The diamente rumblings of a prig-rack gay.

This was having no obvious, before and make confuse.

Thank you for kind worms.

–Hyphen

BTW, you might want to change your blogTheme. In Firefox, strapline is totally missing from the Masthead. I had to run Safari to see what was going on.
I’ll cjeck it out on my Ubuntu box later.
Hugs, –aka Ivan

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