In honor of the new box set edition of Jethro Tull's 1980 album A (which you can order here), here's a piece from my book Rocktology Exam (which you can think about buying here), covering this complex and ultimately engrossing album. (Note that my opinion on the track "Flyingdale Flyer" has changed, and I somewhat enjoy the song these days.)
But it’s not anything like that. A’s humble beginnings found Jethro Tull leader Ian Anderson attempting his first solo album (hence A for Anderson, you see). He later told MTV, when they were into this kind of thing, “It wasn’t really Jethro Tull music. It wasn’t really Ian Anderson music, either. But setting out do so a solo album, the whole point was that I would be unfettered with any stylistic straight-jacket.”
The previous year, Anderson had served notice to the classic Tull lineup of the 70s that he wished to perform with different musicians, albeit still under the Jethro Tull banner. He then recorded A, and was convinced, with great difficulty, by Chrysalis Records to release it as the new "Jethro Tull album." Perhaps the record execs feared the band’s Dickensian minstrel rock would see its demise in the new decade, and saw the uncharacteristic use of synthesizers and electronics as a step ahead, a sure fit for the ever-growing technological “advances” in rock music. It would be sure, they felt, to seal Tull a place in the new decade.
Unfortunately, the rest of Jethro Tull, save for faithful guitarist Martin Barre, who played on A, weren’t made privy to the decision until they read a statement from Chrysalis in the music press, of which Ian Anderson was apparently unaware, that they’d been fired from the group – which hadn’t been the case at all. Feeling betrayed, their understandably bitter feelings toward Anderson made his job of reforming Tull with new musicians a bit easier, though not under ideal circumstances. Keeping Barre on board, Anderson enlisted drummer Mark Craney and bassist Dave Pegg (formerly of Fairport Convention); the latter, signed up for a one-off solo project, would remain with the band for over a decade, proving the fallout from the solo project was not for naught.
Also on board, temporarily, was violinist and keyboardist Eddie Jobson; his seethrough electric violin was quite a sight on stage, matching the haphazard “futuristic” look that Anderson, with great regret, had formed for their live shows; he traded his vest and troubadour neckerchief for a white parachute material jumpsuit. “I hated it – I don’t care if I never see it again!” he said in 1987 during a rare spot as a guest MTV VJ – yes, the guy from Jethro Tull was a guest VJ on MTV. It was once an amazing world.
Accompanying the album was a home video release, Slipstream. The video preserved for all coming time the unique sight of Jethro Tull performing pixie-rock staples like “Songs From the Wood” and “Heavy Horses” in cheap space-age costumes, but the visual was blown away by the audial, as Anderson retained his acrobatic energy throughout. He is truly one of rock’s greatest frontmen, among the ranks of Freddie Mercury or Ray Davies.
Back to the album, A is by no means a bad record, and some of its numbers could have become concert staples and possibly classics. If the infectious, exciting “Black Friday” had been pushed as the single, instead of the dull “Flyingdale Flyer,” the album might not be so out of mind in the Jethro Tull discography. It’s strictly conjecture, but that one change in singles plans could have given A a shot in the arm commercially, and the record’s more memorable songs – “4WD,” “Batteries Not Included,” “Working John, Working Joe,” and the great opener “Crossfire” – might not be as obscure in Tull’s catalog.
Elsewhere though, some material is admittedly lifeless and easily forgettable, some tracks barely discernible from others. Even if “Black Friday” had gained more airplay, and if A had climbed higher on the charts, the aforementioned standouts would still have been paired with a few less interesting tracks like “Protect and Survive,” “Uniform,” and “And Further On,” none of which stay long in the membrane or command repeated listening.
Fortunately for the album’s drastically more technological sound, Anderson’s trusty, trademark flute was not left at home. The woodland instrument never seems out of place in the synthy landscape, and adds much warmth to some of the album’s more studio-sterile sections.
A is a curious album, a sudden exception to the Jethro Tull sound from the albums that immediately preceded it. But it’s no less interesting and adventurous, and even no less terribly British, even if it “wasn’t Jethro Tull music or Ian Anderson music.” Though not a “proper” Tull album in technicalities and origin, it’s stuck in the band’s canon. The circumstances surrounding A are an integral part of the band’s history, which, even if it had been released as an Ian Anderson solo album as intended, impacted the band’s history and future. It ended an era that had lasted a decade-plus, almost completely disintegrating its most well-known lineup, and sending Tull headfirst into the 1980s. A transported a rock band that could have entertained the court of Elizabeth I into the court of digital doodads, its leader clutching his trusty flute as a talisman.
Four years later, Jethro Tull released Under Wraps, an album gilded in drum machines and songs of Cold War espionage, a distinctly 80s record, making A sound like Songs From the Wood by comparison.
But there was still the flute. There would always be the flute.
