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Last night I picked up my guitar and started noodling around with some new material (still working on Dream Theater's "Endless Sacrifice"), as well as resurrecting old favorites. This lead to me playing "Aqualung" (the song, not the whole album) and then singing my way through the entire album a cappella, even though I could have easily tossed it into the computer and given it a listen. I also relearned "Hymn 43." Now, of course, the entire album is stuck in my head and I'm reflecting on my love of the album.
Aqualung is not my favorite Jethro Tull album. It's a great album and definitely in my top five, but my favorite is a toss-up between Stand Up (the first album with Martin Barre on guitar), Benefit (the first album with John Evan on keyboards, albeit as a session musician and not full-fledged band member yet) and Thick As A Brick (the amazing 43-minutes long single-song concept album spoof of concept albums in response to the claim that Aqualung was a concept album). Really all four of these albums are from the same period, so it's no surprise I have a hard time deciding which is my favorite. Aqualung is all-around a great album, but what particularly appeals to me is how much Ian Anderson captured my feelings on organized religion on side two (the side labeled "My God" and starting with the song of the same title).
Side two starts with "My God," a very dark-sounding song with a cynical view of how people distort religion and use it for their own personal gain and self-justification. As I listened to this song again I couldn't help but think of the current election. The lyrics tell a story of someone looking around the church in which they are submerged and feeling contempt and disgust.
Lyrics to "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.
This continues into the next song, "Hymn 43," which focuses more on how some people can act in such horrible, sinful ways and then come back to church or prayer and ask for forgiveness and salvation. It can also be interpreted as the personal pleas of someone who is caught up in this sort of behavior and trying to escape it.
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!
The next two songs, "Slipstream" and "Locomotive Breath," seem to be the pivotal points in a transition, whether it is the transition of the cynic from being disgusted and disgruntled with the church to finding a clearer, more personal sense of spirituality, or the person with whom this cynic is disgusted from abusing and leaning on religion to overcome the guilt of being a unabashed sinner to being someone who understands what they have done and genuinely feeling remorse and seeking to live a better life. Really these two songs seem to point toward the latter of the two, but I almost feel as if Ian Anderson were trying to tell the story of two people on opposite sides almost coming to a middle ground where they find spirituality and shed some of their baggage: one who sheds the cynicism and finds a personal path of spirituality outside of organized religion, and the other who transcends their former greed and lust to find true meaning in the religion they formerly used as a crutch, guilt-dump and/or status symbol. Whether this is the case, or it's one, the other, or some other story of spiritual transition that I'm missing, it's obviously a story of spiritual transition.
The last song on side two is "Wind Up," where the narrator personally asks God what it's all about and God basically replies that it most certainly isn't about a hollow trek to the local church once a week. The narrator throws off the need to attend regular worship service every Sunday simply out of fear of death and a possible afterlife that might include torment for those who didn't wind God up every Sunday. The narrator instead seeks out a more personal spiritual path of asking questions and seeking answers for oneself.
Lyrics to "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 just 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.
So 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 excomunicate 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.
Aqualung is not my favorite Jethro Tull album. It's a great album and definitely in my top five, but my favorite is a toss-up between Stand Up (the first album with Martin Barre on guitar), Benefit (the first album with John Evan on keyboards, albeit as a session musician and not full-fledged band member yet) and Thick As A Brick (the amazing 43-minutes long single-song concept album spoof of concept albums in response to the claim that Aqualung was a concept album). Really all four of these albums are from the same period, so it's no surprise I have a hard time deciding which is my favorite. Aqualung is all-around a great album, but what particularly appeals to me is how much Ian Anderson captured my feelings on organized religion on side two (the side labeled "My God" and starting with the song of the same title).
Side two starts with "My God," a very dark-sounding song with a cynical view of how people distort religion and use it for their own personal gain and self-justification. As I listened to this song again I couldn't help but think of the current election. The lyrics tell a story of someone looking around the church in which they are submerged and feeling contempt and disgust.
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.
This continues into the next song, "Hymn 43," which focuses more on how some people can act in such horrible, sinful ways and then come back to church or prayer and ask for forgiveness and salvation. It can also be interpreted as the personal pleas of someone who is caught up in this sort of behavior and trying to escape it.
Lyrics to "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!
The next two songs, "Slipstream" and "Locomotive Breath," seem to be the pivotal points in a transition, whether it is the transition of the cynic from being disgusted and disgruntled with the church to finding a clearer, more personal sense of spirituality, or the person with whom this cynic is disgusted from abusing and leaning on religion to overcome the guilt of being a unabashed sinner to being someone who understands what they have done and genuinely feeling remorse and seeking to live a better life. Really these two songs seem to point toward the latter of the two, but I almost feel as if Ian Anderson were trying to tell the story of two people on opposite sides almost coming to a middle ground where they find spirituality and shed some of their baggage: one who sheds the cynicism and finds a personal path of spirituality outside of organized religion, and the other who transcends their former greed and lust to find true meaning in the religion they formerly used as a crutch, guilt-dump and/or status symbol. Whether this is the case, or it's one, the other, or some other story of spiritual transition that I'm missing, it's obviously a story of spiritual transition.
The last song on side two is "Wind Up," where the narrator personally asks God what it's all about and God basically replies that it most certainly isn't about a hollow trek to the local church once a week. The narrator throws off the need to attend regular worship service every Sunday simply out of fear of death and a possible afterlife that might include torment for those who didn't wind God up every Sunday. The narrator instead seeks out a more personal spiritual path of asking questions and seeking answers for oneself.
Lyrics to "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 just 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.
So 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 excomunicate 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.
When I first attached to this album, I was very much like the cynical and dark narrator in "My God." My reasons were driven primarily by my confusion over my gender identity and my frustration with prayers unanswered, but also because I was tired of being scared into believing (I can tell some interesting and frightening experiences attending Baptist and Pentacostal churches and "salvation"). Regardless, I used to blindly shun organized religion with no real alternative or thought. It was a reaction out of frustration and anger. I now find myself where I feel I have transitioned spiritually into a person who has found a personal spiritual path like the narrator in "Wind Up." I go to a Unitarian Universalist fellowship regularly, though not every Sunday. I'm active in the fellowship to the extent I think I can handle. Yes, it's organized religion, but it affords me personal freedom to decide what spiritual path I want to take and when I want to show up for service or not. I've never felt pressured or guilted into attending, and I don't feel my experience is hollow or born from fear. I realize that I still have a lot of questions to ask and a lot of answers to find, but at least now I feel like I'm looking and asking rather than just sitting in a seat because I have to or else, or refusing to sit in a seat because it's futile and I'm angry about life and not being given the starting position I would have preferred.
