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We then, somewhat dutifully, took the quaintly theatrical show on the road in the UK, USA and a few other
countries. Since 1972, the album has never been performed in its entirety although a few minutes of the material have been a regular repertoire staple in both Tull and Ian Anderson solo shows over the years.
Now, scheduled for performance again in 2012, I will take the original album and this follow-up recording, TAAB2,
to a theatre near you.
So, forty years on, what would Gerald Bostock aged fifty in 2012 be doing today? What might have befallen him?
TAAB2: Whatever happened to Gerald Bostock? The Concept
The theme of this anniversary follow-up album is to examine the possible different paths that the precocious young
schoolboy, Gerald Bostock, might have taken later in life and to create alter-ego characters whose song-section identities illustrate the hugely varied potential twists and turns of fate and opportunity. Not just for Gerald but to echo how our own lives develop, change direction and ultimately conclude through chance encounters and interventions, however tiny and insignificant they might seem at the time.
In the development of the piece, the divergences of lifes infinitely forked roads finally give way to an almost
gravitational pull which brings us back in convergence to, perhaps, a pre-ordained, karma-like conclusion.
As we baby-boomers look back on our own lives, we must often feel an occasional what-if moment. Might we, like
Gerald, have become instead preacher, soldier, down-and-out, shopkeeper or finance tycoon?
And those of more tender years - the social media and internet generation - may choose to ponder well the myriad of
chance possibilities ahead of them at every turn.....
PEBBLES THROWN
FROM A PEBBLE THROWN Take me on the ghost train. 20p and there you are. Scary in the tunnel night. White knuckle fingers on the safety bar. Which way to blue skies? Phantoms pop from cupboard doors. Mocking, manic laughter shrieks, dark promises of blood and gore. Interventions at every turn. Opportunities thrown wide and far. Journeys I might never take. TomTom thinks he knows just where we are. Ripples from a pebble thrown make tsunami on a foreign shore. I would slip right off this high-rise hell but the elevator stops at every floor. Twelve, going on sixteen. Such a rush to grow old and wise. Endless possibilities. Follow, soaring where the eagle flies. Which way to blue skies? Mummy said dont go out alone. I hear bad name-calling, derisory. So, choose direction, and turn the stone. PEBBLES INSTRUMENTAL MIGHT-HAVE-BEENS We all must wonder, now and then, if things had turned out - well - just plain different. Chance path taken, page unturned or brief encounter, blossomed, splintered. Might you have been the man of courage, brave upon lifes battlefield, Captain Commerce, high-flown banker, hedonistic, down-at-heel? A Puritan of moral fibre, voice raised in praise magnificent? Or rested in assured repose, knowing your lot in quiet content? What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens fly, soft petals on a breeze. What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens. Why-nots, Perhaps and Wait-and-sees.
BANKER BETS, BANKER WINS Education, micro-managed. MBA: a doddle mastered. City-bound, Canary Wharf. A cushy number, fluky bastard. Banker bets and banker wins, never missed yet, for all his sins. Hedge funds, wraps and equities. Lackeys, aides in fierce attendance. Trusts and gilts, reserve currencies. Liquid gold in safe ascendance. Banker bets and banker wins, never missed yet, for all his sins. Treat myself to quality time, test a porsche and snort a line, eat Hermione for lunch. Set that glum PA a-jumping, book front-row tickets for something after we munch. Fast-tracked futures, hard-nut traders. Feeding frenzy, pigs a-troughing. Fuelled by forecasts, and hot share options. Big fat bonus in the offing. Draconian calls for regulation are drowned in latte with Starbucks muffin. Mortgage melt-down: non est mea culpa. Threatened exit, stage left, laughing.... Banker bets and banker wins, never missed yet, for all his sins. Banker bets, cheques in the post: not worth the ink its written in.
ADRIFT AND DUMFOUNDED He stands at the crossroads of New St. and Old Town. Gerald Something from good-home-on-sea. Thinking back to the child that he once was. All bread and butter and jam for his tea. Men came and went in his moments of madness. Muttered apologies, late for a meeting. Too much intensity too much feigned sadness. Crestfallen, hangdog, glances too fleeting. He was your golden boy, hes adrift and dumfounded with nowhere to go, no appointments to keep. Hes our little man, hes adrift and dumfounded. Head on hard pillow, waiting for sleep. Broken societies, selfish, uncaring. Addled brains clutching at chemicals soothing. Desperate measures, desperately tearing at last vestige of dignity, his for the losing. He was your golden boy, hes adrift and dumfounded with nowhere to go, no appointments to keep. Hes our little man, hes adrift and dumfounded. Head on hard pillow, waiting for sleep.
WOOTTON BASSETT TOWN Hourglass sands run through my veins like blood draining from a salty wound. Mad Mars forgets the cost of strife, serves no longer, purpose in my life. I lie in sweat, cry others tears and write a letter to my Mum, my wife, my God unheard, unseen, Who never thinks to intervene. Oh, what pain and oh, what lie has called to us, from heaven on high? This cruel and harsh sweet punishment for follies acted, leaves us spent. Long road to Baghdad, then Persian hordes? Where will we stop to sheath our swords? IEDs lie patient, sleeping, wake when soldier boots come creeping. Hourglass sands run through my veins like blood draining from a salty wound. Mad Mars forgets the cost of strife, serves no longer, purpose in my life. Down this dusty scorched wind-blast track, eyes facing forward, ne'er look back. As rain comes down on Wootton Bassett Town, black hearses crawl and church bells sound. Bikers, burghers line the kerbs; a politician, a Highness Royal. Chance shoppers, tradesmen, stiffly stand and shed their tears for the military man.
That was today's speaker, the humble Reverend Gerald. Tune in to the National Godspend Channel next week. Praise be to Him and HALLELUJAH. Remember to keep those pledges coming in and - give till it hurts.
A CHANGE OF HORSES
Last lights wink out on this pale and sultry night. Stars signal long past two AM. I feel the lateness in the hour and Im fifty long years from home. A new dawn glimmers. Time for a change of horses. It's time to chart new courses and head for safer houses. No more empty towers of this unholy Babylon. Some four hundred thousand hours have come and gone. I smell, in the air, a new meadow morning. Fresh-flowering grasses stirring and no pressure free-falling. Thin mists to bring and light airs to call. And we treasure all, all that we left behind us. No pointed cold and dark regrets. No nameless blame to lay. Resolute, the optimist, I ride fresh horse and spur it on. Four hundred thousand hours have come and gone.
22 MULBERRY WALK
CONFESSIONAL Gerald the Banker I made my millions, stashed the pile in Swiss bank havens, lost the lot when Inland Revenue got wise. So, I did my time, my time for what? Gerald the Homeless On the streets, a pretty pickle. I met a man who lifted me. Took me home for slap and tickle, in civil partnership, pledged to me. Gerald the Chorister Enough of twisted overkill, Hellfire, damnation, voices shrill. I was rumbled, de-frocked and tumbled from grace and favour, caught hand in till. Gerald the Military Man Invalided out of theatre. Civilian rehabilitation. My time now given to help my brothers find cold feet, lost building nations. Gerald: A Most Ordinary Man Sold the shop, flicked off the power switch. In silent siding, Mallard must stay. Carriages and sleek coal tender packed in boxes, sold on eBay. Sold on eBay. KISMET IN SUBURBIA Gerald the Banker Fresh start, another day, another life, a quiet cafe. Starbuck euphoria. Count my blessings, crossword ready. Soon, pipe and slippers in the study by the telly. I seek forgiveness, I beg your pardons at number 9 Mulberry Gardens. Gerald the Chorister Fresh start, another day, another life so far away from hell-raised aria. Now I lay me down to live in acquiescence, mine to give to all who listen. Deaf to dark un-heavenly host at 25 Mulberry Close. Gerald the Military Man Fresh start, another day, another life so far away from white heat Arabia. Comrades pictures on the mantle, lit by flower-scented candle, ghostly, flicker. Last man standing, bowed but alive at 33 Mulberry Drive. Gerald: A Most Ordinary Man Fresh start, another day, another life not so far away in slow-burn suburbia. All routine and repetition, stamp-collecting, first editions, steam train-spotting. Numb, the senses and numb, the brain, at 54 Mulberry Lane. Gerald the Homeless Fresh start, another day, my cared-for partner just slipped away from sweet utopia. Bequeathed comforts, ceramic hob, electric blanket, your uncles Bob: a pretty picture. Treasured moments, past and present, at 17 Mulberry Crescent.