EnglandJethro Tull

Artist rating: 83.89 % (ranking: not set)
Highest rating: 83.98 % (1982)
Most recent trend: 44.85 % (1987)
Highest trend: 86.82 % (1972)

Tracks (A-Ö)



Formed: 1968-02

Formed 55 years ago

External links



Mick Abrahams, Ian Anderson, Barriemore Barlow, Martin Barre, Clive Bunker, Gerry Conway, Glenn Cornick, Mark Craney, John Evan, John Glascock, Jeffrey Hammond, David Palmer, Dave Pegg, Peter Vettese
69.43 %
69.97 %
95.99 %
50.05 %


Jethro Tull - Aqualung
86.73 %
Date released: 1971-03-19
Type: studio

In collection: CD
Best track: Aqualung
Average track length: 03:57
Average track rating:


Jethro Tull:
Year (1971):
Decade (1970's):


Total time:


Band members

2Ian Anderson (23)
lead vocals, acoustic guitar, flute
2Martin Barre (24)
electric guitar, descant recorder
2Clive Bunker (24)
drums, percussion
2John Evan (22)
piano, organ, Mellotron
2Jeffrey Hammond (24)
backing vocals (4), bass guitar, alto recorder, odd voices

Session works

2David Palmer (33)
orchestral arrangements and conducting




Sitting on a park bench eyeing little girls with bad intent
Snot running down his nose, greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes
Hey, aqualung
Drying in the cold sun, watching as the frilly panties run
Hey, aqualung
Feeling like a dead duck, spitting out pieces of his broken luck
Oh, aqualung

Sun streaking cold, an old man wandering lonely
Taking time the only way he knows
Leg hurting bad, as he bends to pick a dog end
he goes down to the bog and warms his feet

Feeling alone, the army's up the rode
salvation a la mode and a cup of tea
Aqualung my friend, don't you start away uneasy
you poor old sod, you see, it's only me

Do you still remember December's foggy freeze
when the ice that clings on to your beard is screaming agony
And you snatch your rattling last breaths with deep-sea-diver sounds
and the flowers bloom like madness in the spring
Cross-Eyed Mary
Who would be a poor man, a beggarman, a thief
if he had a rich man in his hand
And who would steal the candy from a laughing baby's mouth
if he could take it from the money man

Cross-eyed Mary goes jumping in again
She signs no contract but she always plays the game
She dines in Hampstead village on expense accounted gruel
and the jack-knife barber drops her off at school

Laughing in the playground gets no kicks from little boys
would rather make it with a letching grey
Or maybe her attention is drawn by Aqualung
who watches through the railings as they play

Cross-eyed Mary finds it hard to get along
She's a poor man's rich girl and she'll do it for a song
She's a rich man stealer but her favour's good and strong
She's the Robin Hood of Highgate helps the poor man get along
Cheap Day Return
On Preston platform
do your soft shoe shuffle dance
Brush away the cigarette ash that's
falling down your pants
And you sadly wonder
does the nurse treat your old man
the way she should
She made you tea
asked for your autograph
what a laugh
Mother Goose
As I did walk by Hampstead Fair
I came upon Mother Goose - so I turned her loose -
she was screaming.
And a foreign student said to me -
was it really true there are elephants and lions too
in Piccadilly Circus?

Walked down by the bathing pond
to try and catch some sun.
Saw at least a hundred schoolgirls sobbing
into hankerchiefs as one.
I don't believe they knew
I was a schoolboy.

And a bearded lady said to me -
if you start your raving and your misbehaving -
you'll be sorry.
Then the chicken-fancier came to play -
with his long red beard (and his sister's weird:
she drives a lorry).

Laughed down by the putting green -
I popped 'em in their holes.
Four and twenty labourers were labouring -
digging up their gold.
I don't believe they knew
that I was Long John Silver.

Saw Johnny Scarecrow make his rounds
in his jet-black mac (which he won't give back) -
stole it from a snow man.
Wond'ring Aloud
Wond'ring aloud -
how we feel today.
Last night sipped the sunset -
my hands in her hair.
We are our own saviours
as we start both our hearts beating life
into each other.

Wond'ring aloud -
will the years treat us well.
As she floats in the kitchen,
I'm tasting the smell
of toast as the butter runs.
Then she comes, spilling crumbs on the bed
and I shake my head.
And it's only the giving
that makes you what you are.
Up to Me
Take you to the cinema
Leave you in a wimpy bar
You tell me that we've gone to far
Come running up to me
Make the scene at cousin Jack's
Leave him to put the bottles back
Mends his glasses that I cracked
Well that's one up to me

Buy a silver cloud to ride
Pack the tennis club inside
Trouser cuffs hung far too wide
Well it was up to me
Tyres down on your bicycle
Your nose feels like an icicle
The yellow fingered smoky girl
is looking up to me

Well I'm a common working man
with a half of bitter - bread and jam
Well if it pleases me I'll put one on you man
when the cupper fades away

The rainy season comes to pass
The day-glo pirate sinks at last
And if I laughed a bit too fast
Well it was up to me
My God
People - what have you done -
locked Him in His golden cage.
Made Him bend to your religion,
Him resurrected from the grave.

He is the god of nothing
if that's all that you can see.
You are the god of everything,
He's inside you and me.

So lean upon Him gently
and don't call on Him to save you
from your social graces
and the sins you used to waive.

The bloody Church of England,
in chains of history,
requests your earthly presence at
the vicarage for tea.

And the graven image you-know-who
with His plastic crucifix, he's got him fixed,
confuses me as to who and where and why,
as to how he gets his kicks.

Confessing to the endless sin,
the endless whining sounds.
You'll be praying till next Thursday to
all the gods that you can count.
Hymn 43
Oh father high in heaven, smile down upon your son,
whose busy with his money games, his women and his gun.
Oh Jesus save me!

And the unsung Western hero killed an Indian or three
and made his name in Hollywood to set the white man free.
Oh Jesus save me!

If Jesus saves, well, He'd better save Himself
from the gory glory seekers who use His name in death.
Oh Jesus save me!

I saw him in the city and on the mountains of the moon,
His cross was rather bloody, He could hardly roll His stone.
Oh Jesus save me!
Well the lush separation unfolds you
and the products of wealth
push you along on the bow wave
of the spiritless undying selves.
And you press on God's waiter your last dime,
as he hands you the bill.
And you spin in the slipstream,
timeless, unreasoning,
paddle right out of the mess.
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.
Wind Up
When I was young and they packed me off to school
and taught me how not to play the game,
I didn't mind if they groomed me for success,
or if they said that I was a fool.

So I left there in the morning
with their God tucked underneath my arm,
their half-assed smiles
and the book of rules.

And I asked this God a question and by way of firm reply,
He said: I'm not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.
So to my old headmaster (and to anyone who cares):
before I'm through I'd like to say my prayers.

I don't believe you:
you had the whole damn thing all wrong,
He's not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.
Well you can excommunicate me on my way to Sunday school
and have all the bishops harmonize these lines.

How do you dare tell me that I'm my Father's son
when that was just an accident of Birth.
I'd rather look around me, compose a better song
'cos that's the honest measure of my worth.

In your pomp and all your glory you're a poorer man than me,
as you lick the boots of death born out of fear.

I don't believe you:
you had the whole damn thing all wrong,
He's not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.