By: David Schultz

The Eighties proved to be an awkward era. Not only did it give us the Safety dance, purple rain, luftballons, the moonwalk, Wang Chung and Terence Trent D’Arby, it’s the decade that gave us the phrase “Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto.” In addition to cringeworthy fashion statements like suits with pastel-colored T-shirts and teased, feathered hair for both men and women, the Eighties brought us into the computer age. In the arcades, we played Pac-Man and Missile Command and at home, we slowly converted our record collections to compact disc.

The emergence of MTV, which stressed an artist’s appearance as much as their talent, the widespread incorporation of synthesized and computer generated music and the initial growth of rap drove many established and iconic acts from the Sixties and Seventies into an identity crisis as they tried to keep up with the changing times. The Eighties may have served as the birthing ground for U2, R.E.M. and The Replacements but it also marked the time that the careers of many artists from the Woodstock generation went into a tailspin.

Since Oliver Stone has decided to bring Gordon Gekko, the decade’s archetype of amoral greed, into the modern day with Wall Street 2: Money Never Sleeps, it’s probably not a bad time to look back at the Eighties and see how it nearly dimmed some of the rock era’s brightest lights.

ERIC CLAPTON
By the Eighties, Clapton’s storied reputation as a blues-rock demigod had started to diminish as he battled drug and alcohol addiction. Where Slow Hand once dallied in the studio with the likes of Duane Allman, Steve Winwood and George Harrison, the Eighties saw him palling around with Phil Collins and releasing slickly produced albums like Behind The Sun and August. At his 80s nadir, Clapton found himself in heavy rotation on MTV with “It’s In The Way That You Use It,” his tie-in with The Color Of Money, and in Michelob commercials with his re-recorded version of “After Midnight.” Capitalizing on everyone’s need to replace their LPs with CDs, many artists had their greatest hits combined into comprehensive multi-disc box sets. Clapton’s Crossroads, which covered all aspects of his career, created the blueprint for such collections and reawakened interest in the master bluesman. Trading in the T-shirt and jeans that had become his stage wear in favor of dapper suits, Clapton stopped dabbling in 80s-style superficial blues-rock and once again found his muse.

GRATEFUL DEAD
Defying all logic, the Grateful Dead had a run of success on MTV. In 1987, The venerable jamband titans released In The Dark, easily their most accessible album and, in line with the times, made . . . shudder . . . a music video for its lead single “Touch Of Grey.” In between Peter Gabriel and Dire Straits videos, the shaggy manes of Jerry Garcia and Bob Weir played interchangeably with animatronic skeletons while Deadheads watched on with bemused horror. In line with the chorus of “Touch Of Grey,” the Dead survived the Eighties by persevering and simply outlasting the nonsense until it came full circle. Whatever fair-weather fans they attracted through their MTV exposure quickly fell to the wayside as the Dead remained on the road, paving the way for the modern jamband scene to flourish. Always a mighty live draw, the Dead toured regularly up until Jerry Garcia’s death in 1995. By that point, the brain cells in which Deadheads stored their memories of the Dead’s brief 80s flirtation with mainstream popularity had long been killed.

LOU REED
With classics like “Walk On The Wild Side” and “Street Hassle” a distant memory, the former leader of the Velvet Underground spent most of the Eighties churning out albums like Legendary Hearts and Mistrial, filled with formulaic, barely inspired three chord rock songs. Never the most harmonious singer, Reed got in into his head that he should be acknowledged as one of the originators of the burgeoning rap scene, insinuating as much on “The Original Wrapper.” At the end of the decade, Reed turned his razor-sharp intellect on two subjects on which no one would doubt his expertise, New York City and Andy Warhol. With the release of New York in 1989 and his collaboration the next year with John Cale on Songs For Drella, a eulogy for Warhol, their former mentor and patron, Reed found relevant topics to apply his blunt, streetwise poetry to, reemerging as one of America’s most prolific and outspoken songwriters. Like he had for the decades before, he continued to sort-of rap most of his lyrics but once Marky Mark & The Funky Bunch released “Wildside,” Reed seemed to lose all interest in drawing comparisons between himself and the world of hip hop.

GENESIS
Next to ZZ Top, there was no more unlikely MTV superstar than Phil Collins. Looking more lecherous old man than video icon, Collins worked ahead of the curve; his slick videos for “Sussudio” “Take Me Home” and “In The Air Tonight” defining the early 80s Miami Vice influenced video era. As a solo star, this was fine. However, as the de facto leader of Genesis, one of the titans of progressive rock, this influence resulted in the band that created The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway being represented by Spitting Image puppets on “Land Of Confusion” and hawking Michelob beer with “Tonight, Tonight, Tonight.” Unlike many of the other artists on this list, the Eighties didn’t almost kill Genesis, they put the band six feet under. After the unbearable We Can’t Dance, the band went dormant with Collins officially leaving in 1996, relegating them to a cult status amongst those who would flock in droves to see a reunion with Peter Gabriel. However, like all bands from the Seventies, there is always one word that generates gobs of cash: reunion. The 2007 Genesis reunion tour touched on their forgettable 80s success but wisely kept things focused on their pre-80s majesty.

DAVID BOWIE
David Bowie's descent into Eighties inanity didn’t take place during that decade – although some would be pressed to call shenanigans on “Blue Jean,” “China Doll” and his mincing prance with Mick Jagger on “Dancing In The Streets.” Rather, in 1997, Bowie engaged in the type of Wall Street chicanery that made Michael Milken the poster boy for Wall Street greed: junk bonds. Coming up with the novel idea of selling securities backed by royalties on his pre-1990 recordings, Bowie Bonds were initially greeted with optimism and an A3 rating. Coupling Bowie’s retirement from the stage with the digital revolution and its crippling effect on music sales in any medium, the lack of a sustainable interest in Bowie’s back catalog has resulted in the Bowie Bonds being continuously downgraded, reaching a level just a touch above junk bond status.

JETHRO TULL
When a band that’s made their career on English blues, sprawling progressive rock suites and flute-based epics becomes fascinated with the synthesizer, nothing good could result. In the case of Jethro Tull, nothing good did result. Instead of flirting with Bach compositions and mandolin solos from a prior century, Ian Anderson attempted to give the band a new wavish Eighties feel on albums like A, Under Wraps and their most Spinal Tappish effort, Broadsword And The Beast by including electric violins and decidedly non-rustic synthesizers. The extreme divergence from medieval acoustics and progressive rock digressions alienated all but the most loyal of fans. Tull came to its senses by the end of the decade but at that point it’s unclear if anyone was still paying attention. It surely baffled everyone when they won the inaugural Grammy for Best Hard Rock Album for the mostly acoustic Crest Of The Knave.

AEROSMITH
This is the band from the Seventies that proves to be the exception to the rule. Already in trouble at the start of the decade, the band was on the steep path to nostalgia tours and obscurity when Run DMC helped resurrect Aerosmith’s career with rock and rap music’s original mash-up, “Walk This Way.” Being associated with the groundbreaking rap trio and the emerging genre of music hardly hurt Aerosmith, nor did it do Run DMC any harm to get the rub from one of the hardest rocking bands of the previous decade. In the era before gangsta rap and Kanye West egos, a classic rock act reaching across the aisle in this fashion seemed more revolutionary than conciliatory or opportunistic. Once the singles from Permanent Vacation started to make their way into heavy rotation on MTV, Aerosmith became one of the first bands that actually was saved by the Eighties.

NEIL YOUNG
As if the success of Buffalo Springfield was an albatross hanging around his neck, Neil Young found himself a Vocoder and a synthesizer and let the world know what “Mr. Soul” would have sounded like if it had been recorded by robots. Embracing the new technology a bit too eagerly, Young released Trans, an album chock full of Eighties-style robotics and unlike anything Young had ever done before. Geffen Records, who released Trans, hated it so much, they skipped constructive criticism and sued him for making it. Young’s dabbling in computer rock was thankfully short lived but it sent him into a downward creative spiral and he spent the decade making the weakest music of his career, getting banned from MTV in the process for glibly mocking the network and its advertisers. Fortunately, the first Bush era awakened the rocker; when Young released Freedom and the incendiary “Rockin’ In The Free World,” the past decade faded blissfully into the ether and Young took his rightful spot as the flannel clad Godfather of Grunge.

THE WHO
The world’s loudest band presciently sat out the decade, saving the world from finding out what other synthesized epics Pete Townshend had in mind when he wrote “Eminence Front.” Instead, we got sappy fluff like “After The Fire” from Daltrey’s Under The Raging Moon and Townshend succumbing to the urge to rap on “Face The Face” and to the need to adapt The Iron Giant into a misfire of a concept album. To celebrate the 25th anniversary of Tommy, The Who reunited and embarked on the first of many, many reunion tours. Always a reliable draw, Townshend, Daltrey and, until his death in 2002, bassist John Entwistle, kept The Who’s legacy alive, waiting until the oughts to put out any new material bearing The Who’s mighty trademark. Daltrey’s voice may have lost its once-mighty power and Townshend battled tinnitus, but once they launch into “Won’t Get Fooled Again” or “Baba O’Riley,” people don’t seem to care, mainly cause Townshend remains one of the best guitarists alive.

ZZ TOP
In the Eighties, ZZ Top performed the nearly impossible task of transforming themselves from a gruff, rough-and-tumble Southern-rock trio into neo-lecherous, bearded purveyors of synthesized blues. It’s hard to begrudge them the success they found by reinventing themselves as it resuscitated their flagging career . . . but at what cost? Nowadays, when ZZ Top enters the conversation, it’s impossible to extricate the images of the three of them mysteriously appearing with a bevy of hot, leggy women to offer up the keys of their cherry red vintage Ford to some deserving soul. Beguiled by the synths, ZZ Top turned the blues into a cartoon wonderland, stripping the music’s back door man ethic of every ounce of its menace.

Happy Thanksgiving. The daily Earfuls will return after the holiday.

Labels: Aerosmith, David Bowie, Eric Clapton, Genesis, Grateful Dead, Jethro Tull, Lou Reed, Neil Young, The Who, ZZ Top

By: David Schultz

A staple of classic rock radio, the mention of the name Jethro Tull conjures images of Ian Anderson perched on one leg with a manic, possessed look in his eye. With flute in hand, he leads his band of merry men through prog-rock elegies that borrow riffs from medieval times and careens through FM radio stalwarts, singing about the man who eyes little girls with bad intent and keeps alive the trains from the shuffling madness that has no way to slow down. This is the Jethro Tull that your average fan will be familiar with. It’s really only the tip of the iceberg; those who have delved deeper into the world of Tull are already well versed in Ian Anderson’s penchant for acoustic reveries and classical digressions. It’s a side of the band that too often becomes lost in memories of some of the excesses that This Is Spinal Tap brought under a microscope.

Despite the near-yearly Jethro Tull tours, it’s been ages since there has been a hint of a new album and the might classic rock titan has become less of an immediate and omnipresent concern. Nonetheless, Anderson possesses an ardent and devoted fan base. It skews heavily into the Baby Boomers but it is no less a force for the touches of grey in their remaining hair. For his current solo trek of the United States, Anderson has turned off the electricity, devoting the tour to exploring the often ignored, vastly underrated acoustic side of Jethro Tull.

As I’ve mentioned here before, in high school, my uncle sent me a handful of cassette tapes that included Thick As A Brick, War Child, This Was amongst other Jethro Tull classics that blew me away and made me a fan for life. Last week, when Anderson played to a packed house at the stately Beacon Theater in New York City, it afforded your humble narrator the opportunity to repay his uncle, who may be one of Anderson and Jethro Tull’s biggest fans, by bringing him to the show. While not only gratifying, it was convenient: Anderson opened the show with a set of rarities that was nothing short of fanatic’s dream. If my uncle wasn’t there, I would have spent the night sighing about how much he would have loved it.

Opening with the lilting melodies of Stormwatch’s charming “Dun Ringill,” Anderson moved through the Minstrel In The Gallery outtake “March The Mad Hatter,” Song From The Wood’s “Jack In The Green” and Stand Up’s “Jeffrey Goes To Leicester Square.” By the time Anderson eased into “Skating Away On The Thin Ice Of A New Day,” his band consisting of guitarist Florian Opahle, drummer Mark Mondesir and Tull’s keyboardist and bassist John O’Hara and David Goodier was all assembled and ready to stage as folksy a sit-in as Anderson would permit. O’Hara and Mondesir would engage in the occasional bongo duel, Goodier would intertwine his bass with the viola of Carnegie Hall’s Meena Bhasin and Opahle strummed away with a fury that would have made Martin Barre proud.

Anderson’s orchestral shows have opened the door for him to craft new arrangements of old standards. While tweaked versions of classics have become the fashion over the past few years, new songs haven’t. So when Anderson busted out not one but two new songs that he had written for Ravi Shankar and his daughter, the house grew quiet in eager anticipation. The pair of songs, “Tea With The Princess” and “A Change Of Horses,” were written with Shankar in mind and possessed a decidedly Middle Eastern flair, reminiscent of “Budapest,” one of the great songs from the latter-day Tull. In lieu of the sitar, Bhasin’s viola provided the classical textures and whetted appetites for the possibility that this might herald the arrival of new Tull album.

The acoustic setting provided a marvelous atmosphere for Anderson’s jazz and classical explorations. With the help of flautist Anna Drummond, Anderson reclaimed the jazz flute from Will Ferrell on “Griminelli’s Lament” and retrieved Rahsaan Roland Kirk’s “Serenade To A Cuckoo” from the back catalogue. Of course, no Anderson show would be complete without a stroll through Bach’s “Bouree” or a quick reprise of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” In addition, Bhasin paired with Anderson for one of her own compositions and Opahle dazzled on the acoustic guitar with a flamenco-derived instrumental of his own.

While the beginning of the show was a host of rarities, the close offered acoustic twists on old favorites. In previous discursions into the orchestral Jethro Tull, Anderson deconstructed “Aqualung” into a barebones arrangement that can best be described as “Classica-lung,” At the Beacon, it become “Acoustica-lung” with Anderson promenading around the front of the stage for the lilting flute solos. For the encore, Anderson transformed Tull’s other Aqualung standard into “Acoustic-omitive Breath,” with O’Hara giving a wonderful interpretation of the song’s elegiac piano solo. For a show that started as a marked departure from the canonical Anderson show, by the end, as he struck the familiar poses and raced through the Aqualung material, the thrill had been somewhat dulled and you wouldn’t have been mistaken for thinking you had wandered into a slightly transformed version of Jethro Tull concert.

ABOUT A YEAR AGO I had the opportunity to interview Ian Anderson for jambands.com. One of the benefits of being a so-called journalist is you occasionally get to chat with one of your favorite musicians. It's slightly nerve-racking: you wonder what would happen if you managed to tick them off and they insulted you. So, Lou Reed, if we ever meet -- be nice . . . please.

Labels: Ian Anderson, Jethro Tull, Live Reviews

By: David Schultz

With the world hanging on every bit of news as to Led Zeppelin’s future plans, which may or may not include a tour with The Cult and a headlining spot at Bonnaroo, New York’s attention recently focused on another English blues band from that era: Jethro Tull. The mania accompanying Led Zep’s return may have been missing but Tull’s return to the Big Apple gave reasonable cause for excitement. Even though Tull’s motivating force, flautist Ian Anderson, has played a couple solo shows in the interim, Tull’s return this past Sunday night for a sold-out show at the Hammerstein Ballroom marked the first true NYC Tull performance in more than 4 years. When compared to Anderson’s solo shows, the songs may remain relatively the same but unless you have guitarist Martin Barre, you don’t have Jethro Tull. Since forming in the late 60s, Tull has gone through many iterations and combinations but until recently the lineup had remained relatively stable. Although Doane Perry remains behind the drums, a seat he’s held for more than 20 years, the band is now completed with newcomers John O’Hara (keyboards) and David Goodier (bass).

After opening with an acoustic rendition of “Someday The Sun Won’t Shine For You,” Anderson led the band through a set that touched on electric blues (“Nothing Is Easy”), complex progressive rock suites (“My God” and “Budapest”) and baroque chamber pieces (the concert staple “Bouree”). No longer a band that desires to blow out your eardrums, Tull’s best moments occurred on quieter pieces that stressed Anderson’s brilliant skills as a classical flautist; his exquisite version of Benefit’s “Reasons For Waiting” being one of the major highlights of the evening. The Hammerstein show featured everything you’ve come to expect from a Jethro Tull show . . . and in some ways that proved disappointing. First though, a bit of background.

Along with wearing out a cassette of the “Top 15” of WNEW’s mid 80s countdown of the top 1027 rock and roll songs of all time (an initial effort that inadvertently omitted “Won’t Get Fooled Again” and “Free Bird” due to an alleged computer error), my real awakening to classic rock occurred when my uncle made me a tape of Jethro Tull’s Thick As A Brick. One listen to the 45 minute song spread out over two album sides and I was hooked. Tull’s concept album served as a gateway to popular Tull fare like Aqualung and Songs From The Wood as well as lesser-known but equally revelatory albums like A Passion Play and Minstrel In The Gallery. Once I got my first CD player, it was just a matter of time before my collection contained each and every Tull album, including the dreadfully synthesized Under Wraps (even though “Lap Of Luxury” totally rocked). Classic rock radio only scratches the surface of the depths of Tull’s exceptional body of work.

I count myself among Jethro Tull’s biggest fans and ardent supporters. As such, it pains me that they are no longer relevant. Over a thirty year stretch spanning 1968 through 1999, Tull recorded more than twenty albums of original material, amassing a back catalog that rivals their classic rock brethren in the Grateful Dead and The Allman Brothers Band. Unfortunately, over the last five or six years, Tull has taken to the road with what seems to the same dozen songs to complement obligatory renditions of “Locomotive Breath,” “Aqualung” and “Thick As A Brick.” An exceedingly large majority of Tull’s fan base possess a near encyclopedic knowledge of Tull’s history and back catalog. In repeatedly trotting out the same set of warhorses like “My Sunday Feeling” and “Living In The Past,” beloved as they may be, Tull misses the opportunity to mine the treasure trove that is at their disposal and truly give their avid fans, which is pretty much who they are playing to, something memorable. Since they’ve ceased creating original music, Tull’s modus operandi involves sporadic appearances in various regions. In doing so, they don’t have to worry about wholesale changes to the set list as they aren’t coming close to saturating any specific territory. It’s frustrating that Tull has the ability, but apparently not the willingness, to take up a residency, radically shake up their set lists and provide concert experiences that can be rivaled by only a few.

When Phil Lesh, Bob Weir or the Allmans take the stage, they strive to reinvent material from all phases of their lengthy careers; to the ecstatic glee of their fans, they continuously resurrect songs otherwise delegated to the deep cuts station of satellite radio. At the Hammerstein, Tull showed a willingness and aptitude for deconstructing their old material. With a major assist from the Calliandra String Quartet, they turned in a gorgeous orchestral adaptation of “Songs From The Wood” and in the same manner as Anderson’s solo shows, offered a reinvention of “Aqualung” that only briefly replicated the version heard daily on classic rock radio. About ¼ of Tull’s Hammerstein show came from Anderson’s recent solo tour, in which he incorporated strings into many of Tull’s familiar arrangements. In addition to the revamped and jazzier “Aqualung,” Anderson also brought his prog-rocked version of Leonard Bernstein’s “America” and a baroque style arrangement of “King Henry’s Madrigal.” For anyone who wasn’t experiencing Tull for the first time, there wasn’t much new to see or hear. Not that seeing Ian Anderson and Martin Barre do what they do best isn’t entertaining, it’s just that they are clearly capable of more.

Tull’s timeless music bridges centuries as well as genres. In their prime, they were just as prone to play solid English blues as they were to drift off into a medieval melody or a chamber piece from the 1600s. In many ways, these eccentricities have made Tull a vastly under appreciated band. Even though they have been eligible for quite some time, they never seem to be under consideration for induction into the Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame despite the fact that their initial forays into progressive rock paved the road for a diverse array of modern day prog-rock bands like The Decemberists, The Mars Volta and Umphrey’s McGee. With his tongue partially in cheek, Anderson will often crack wise about Tull’s lack of new material and people’s willingness to spend their money on their frequent reissues and relatively high-priced tickets. Like most humor though, there is a kernel of truth hidden within. In keeping things relatively static, Anderson and by extension Tull come across as happily complacent. They are missing an opportunity to recapture a legacy that is rightfully theirs and attract a whole new generation of fans to their music. It’s something their fans spend time trying to do for them; it would be nice if they showed the same interest.

Labels: Ian Anderson, Jethro Tull, Live Reviews