TAKE A BOW
VENUE ECHO AUDITORIUM, LIVERPOOL DATE 07/04/2018
We catch Jethro Tull in Liverpool, plus reviews of Yes, Martin Barre, Jordan Rudess, Magenta, Roadburn Festival, Sumer, Between The Buried And Me, Charlie Barnes and more…
Liverpool’s Echo Arena – in which the smaller, posher Auditorium is housed – is a monument to modern mega entertainment. Tonight represents the fourth date of Tull’s 50th-anniversary tour, but upon entering the giant glass doors down the side of this circular monolith, we feel more like we’re attending a convention.
There are shining escalators, attentive ushers and, perched upon the sensible, hard-wearing carpet of the Auditorium’s upper level, a small carvery stand. A somewhat ignominious home for a band famed for odes to arable ancestry, it’s a little different from the bedsits and blues clubs that offered Tull their first lodgings.
But then this is a band that, 36 members and 21 albums later, is itself a little different.
Their challenge tonight is appraising that journey – to tread the line of dewyeyed nostalgia necessitated by this golden anniversary, without undermining a long legacy of creative momentum. It will require tact, self-awareness and a little of the mischief that Ian Anderson has always so ably embodied. We don’t have to wait long for the latter. Across the tannoy, a voice recognisable in its scuffed Lancashire drawl politely informs us: “Jethro Tull himself will be onstage in 10 minutes!”
Throughout their distinguished history, Tull have operated with a speedily rotating cast of musicians. Tonight’s group is now identical to the musicians involved in Anderson’s solo line-up, and are thus markedly well-honed.
The hammering blues rock of My Sunday Feeling, accompanied by a rapid-cut onscreen compilation of Tull imagery, announces their arrival. Anderson, conspicuous in his absence, enters stage right, flute to lips, displaying a surprising store of catlike agility. There’s no codpiece and the bulges might be in different places now, but Love Story immediately convinces, the hard rock leanings of guitarist Florian
Opahle proving well-suited to the group’s bluesy debut.
“Gosh, how time flies,” reflects Anderson once the dust settles. And as we’re shown a Jeffrey Hammond video link that segues into A Song
For Jeffrey, it slowly dawns that tonight’s live tribute to a band of 36 members “minus the flute player” might be less Nightlife and more This Is Your Life. Nostalgia thus takes precedence. Scott Hammond is granted, after mock debate, the “tinsiest winsiest drum break-ette” in tribute to Clive Bunker, and soon all manner of celebrities are appearing onscreen to intro their favourites, all duly performed by our live hosts. Joe Bonamassa selects A New Day Yesterday, Tony Iommi picks Bourée; Iron Maiden’s Steve Harris requests a cut from A Passion Play.
The band do their best to restore a pace that’s often lost to the between-song ‘living history’ element. Opahle in particular looks desperate to be let off the leash, but structure forbids it here. Fortunately, Anderson’s virtuoso flute theatrics are still present. He whirls, spits and wrings sounds from his instrument that thrive amid the rock cacophony.
The same cannot be said of the man’s vocals, which, stretched taut across the diverse wealth of Tull’s back catalogue, take on the reedy, waif-like quality of latter-day Dylan. The boisterous riffing of My God highlights the relative weakness of his snapped vowels, while segments of iconic tunes like Heavy Horses and Aqualung are disappointingly dealt with via pre-taped video performances from unspecified singers. Harmonic masterclass Ring Out,
Solstice Bells, here requested by Def Leppard’s Joe Elliott, is particularly underwhelming. The roller-coaster backing is tight but the ‘ring on’ refrain is flatter than a coastal lowland.
All this is not to say Tull aren’t still capable of surprises, though. Change is shown to be a good thing on Farm On The Freeway, which feels more pertinent than ever and is brought to vicious life by this powerful, electric incarnation of Tull. Bassist David Goodier’s vocal melds well here, while Anderson, sprawling and animated, plays the flute like he’s punching it.
Tonight’s finale marked is Locomotive Breath, and a handful of the crowd are emboldened enough to dance. Creeping to their side of the stage, Anderson locks eyes with these devoted few, hammering out the track’s iconic solo.
It’s the whisper of an exchange, of that cyclical energy transfer that powers the live experience beyond sound, comfortable seating and ample parking. It’s gone too soon and
Prog is left wondering what a straight set in a darker, stickier room would have delivered. For a moment, though, Tull thunder.