Middle Cyclone

This Tornado Loves You

My love, I am the speed of sound
I left them motherless, fatherless
Their souls they hang inside-out from their mouths
But it’s never enough

I want you

Carved your name across three counties
Ground it in with bloody hides
Their broken necks will line the ditch
’til you stop it, stop it
Stop this madness

I want you

I have waited with a glacier’s patience
Smashed every transformer with every trailer
’til nothing was standing
65 miles wide
Still you are nowhere
Still you are nowhere
Nowhere in sight

Come out to meet me
Run out to meet me
Come in to the light

Climb the boxcars to the engine through the smoke into the sky
Your rails have always outrun mine
So I pick them up and crash them down
In a moment close to now
Cuz I miss, I miss, I miss, I miss, I miss, I miss, I miss
I miss how you’d sigh yourself to sleep

When I raked the springtime across your sheets

My love, I am the speed of sound
I left them motherless, fatherless
Their souls they hang inside-out from their mouths
But it’s never enough

My love
I’m an owl on the sill in the evening
But morning finds you
Still warm and breathing

This tornado loves you
What will make you believe me?
This tornado loves you
What will make you believe me?

Jethro Tull live on 10th Feb. 1977 at Golders Green Hippodrome

Skating Away On the Thin Ice of the New Day

Meanwhile back in the year one — when you belonged to no-one —
You didnt stand a chance son, if your pants were undone.
’cause you were bred for humanity and sold to society
One day youll wake up in the present day
A million generations removed from expectations
Of being who you really want to be.
Skating away
Skating away
Skating away on the thin ice of the new day.

So as you push off from the shore,
Won’t you turn your head once more and make your peace with everyone?
For those who choose to stay,
Will live just one more day
To do the things they should have done.
And as you cross the wilderness, spinning in your emptiness:
You feel you have to pray.
Looking for a sign
That the universal mind has written you into the passion play.

Skating away on the thin ice of the new day.

And as you cross the circle line, the ice-wall creaks behind
You’re a rabbit on the run.
And the silver splinters fly in the corner of your eye
Shining in the setting sun.
Well, do you ever get the feeling that the story’s
Too damn real and in the present tense?
Or that everybody’s on the stage, and it seems like
You’re the only person sitting in the audience?

Jack in the Green

Have you seen Jack-In-The-Green?
With his long tail hanging down.
He sits quietly under every tree
in the folds of his velvet gown.
He drinks from the empty acorn cup
the dew that dawn sweetly bestows.
And taps his cane upon the ground
signals the snowdrops it’s time to grow.

It’s no fun being Jack-In-The-Green
no place to dance, no time for song.
He wears the colours of the summer soldier
carries the green flag all the winter long.

Jack, do you never sleep
does the green still run deep in your heart?
Or will these changing times,
motorways, powerlines,
keep us apart?
Well, I don’t think so
I saw some grass growing through the pavements today.

The rowan, the oak and the holly tree
are the charges left for you to groom.
Each blade of grass whispers Jack-In-The-Green.
Oh Jack, please help me through my winter’s night.
And we are the berries on the holly tree.
Oh, the mistlethrush is coming.
Jack, put out the light.

Thick as a Brick Part 1

Really don’t mind if you sit this one out.
My words but a whisper – your deafness a SHOUT.
I may make you feel but I can’t make you think.
Your sperm’s in the gutter – your love’s in the sink.
So you ride yourselves over the fields
and you make all your animal deals and
your wise men don’t know how it feels to be thick as a brick.
And the sand-castle virtues are all swept away in
the tidal destruction
the moral melee.
The elastic retreat rings the close of play as the last wave uncovers
the newfangled way.
But your new shoes are worn at the heels and
your suntan does rapidly peel
and your wise men don’t know how it feels to be thick as a brick.
And the love that I feel is so far away:
I’m a bad dream that I just had today – and you
shake your head and
say it’s a shame.

Spin me back down the years and the days of my youth.
Draw the lace and black curtains and shut out the whole truth.
Spin me down the long ages: let them sing the song.

See there! A son is born – and we pronounce him fit to fight.
There are black-heads on his shoulders, and he pees himself in the night.
We’ll
make a man of him
put him to trade
teach him
to play Monopoly and
to sing in the rain.

The poet and the painter casting shadows on the water
as the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea.
The do-er and the thinker: no allowance for the other
as the failing light illuminates the mercenary’s creed.
The home fire burning: the kettle almost boiling
but the master of the house is far away.
The horses stamping – their warm breath clouding
in the sharp and frosty morning of the day.
And the poet lifts his pen while the soldier sheaths his sword.

And the youngest of the family is moving with authority.
Building castles by the sea, he dares the tardy tide to wash them all aside.

The cattle quietly grazing at the grass down by the river
where the swelling mountain water moves onward to the sea:
the builder of the castles renews the age-old purpose
and contemplates the milking girl whose offer is his need.
The young men of the household have
all gone into service and
are not to be expected for a year.
The innocent young master – thoughts moving ever faster
has formed the plan to change the man he seems.
And the poet sheaths his pen while the soldier lifts his sword.

And the oldest of the family is moving with authority.
Coming from across the sea, he challenges the son who puts him to the run.

What do you do when
the old man’s gone – do you want to be him? And
your real self sings the song.
Do you want to free him?
No one to help you get up steam
and the whirlpool turns you `way off-beam.

Thick as a Brick Part 2

LATER.
See there! A man born – and we pronounce him fit for peace.
There’s a load lifted from his shoulders with the discovery of his disease.
We’ll take the child from him
put it to the test
teach it to be a wise man
how to fool the rest.

QUOTE
We will be geared to the average rather than the exceptional
God is an overwhelming responsibility
we walked through the maternity ward and saw 218 babies wearing nylons
cats are on the upgrade
upgrade? Hipgrave. Oh, Mac.

LATER
In the clear white circles of morning wonder,
I take my place with the lord of the hills.
And the blue-eyed soldiers stand slightly discoloured (in neat little rows)
sporting canvas frills.
With their jock-straps pinching, they slouch to attention,
while queueing for sarnies at the office canteen.
Saying — how’s your granny and
good old Ernie: he coughed up a tenner on a premium bond win.

The legends (worded in the ancient tribal hymn) lie cradled
in the seagull’s call.
And all the promises they made are ground beneath the sadist’s fall.
The poet and the wise man stand behind the gun,
and signal for the crack of dawn.
Light the sun.

Do you believe in the day? Do you?
Believe in the day! The Dawn Creation of the Kings has begun.
Soft Venus (lonely maiden) brings the ageless one.
Do you believe in the day?
The fading hero has returned to the night – and fully pregnant with the day,
wise men endorse the poet’s sight.
Do you believe in the day? Do you? Believe in the day!

Let me tell you the tales of your life of
your love and the cut of the knife
the tireless oppression
the wisdom instilled
the desire to kill or be killed.
Let me sing of the losers who lie in the street as the last bus goes by.
The pavements are empty: the gutters run red – while the fool
toasts his god in the sky.

So come all ye young men who are building castles!
Kindly state the time of the year and join your voices in a hellish chorus.
Mark the precise nature of your fear.
Let me help you pick up your dead as the sins of the father are fed
with
the blood of the fools and
the thoughts of the wise and
from the pan under your bed.
Let me make you a present of song as
the wise man breaks wind and is gone while
the fool with the hour-glass is cooking his goose and
the nursery rhyme winds along.

So! Come all ye young men who are building castles!
Kindly state the time of the year and join your voices in a hellish chorus.
Mark the precise nature of your fear.
See! The summer lightning casts its bolts upon you
and the hour of judgement draweth near.
Would you be
the fool stood in his suit of armour or
the wiser man who rushes clear.
So! Come on ye childhood heroes!
Won’t your rise up from the pages of your comic-books
your super-crooks and
show us all the way.
Well! Make your will and testament.
Won’t you? Join your local government.
We’ll have Superman for president
let Robin save the day.

So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you through?
They’re all resting down in Cornwall – writing up their memoirs
for a paper-back edition of the Boy Scout Manual.

OF COURSE
So you ride yourselves over the fields and
you make all your animal deals and
your wise men don’t know how it feels to be thick as a brick.

Songs From the Wood

Let me bring you songs from the wood:
to make you feel much better than you could know.
Dust you down from tip to toe.
Show you how the garden grows.
Hold you steady as you go.
Join the chorus if you can:
it’ll make of you an honest man.

Let me bring you love from the field:
poppies red and roses filled with summer rain.
To heal the wound and still the pain
that threatens again and again
as you drag down every lover’s lane.
Life’s long celebration’s here.
I’ll toast you all in penny cheer.

Let me bring you all things refined:
galliards and lute songs served in chilling ale.
Greetings well met fellow, hail!
I am the wind to fill your sail.
I am the cross to take your nail:
A singer of these ageless times.
With kitchen prose and gutter rhymes.
Songs from the wood make you feel much better.

Velvet Green

Walking on velvet green. Scots pine growing.
Isn’t it rare to be taking the air, singing.
Walking on velvet green.
Walking on velvet green. Distant cows lowing.
Never a care: with your legs in the air, loving.
Walking on velvet green.

Won’t you have my company, yes, take it in your hands.
Go down on velvet green, with a country man.
Who’s a young girl’s fancy and an old maid’s dream.
Tell your mother that you walked all night on velvet green.

One dusky half-hour’s ride up to the north.
There lies your reputation and all that you’re worth.
Where the scent of wild roses turns the milk to cream.
Tell your mother that you walked all night on velvet green.

And the long grass blows in the evening cool.
And August’s rare delight may be April’s fool.
But think not of that, my love,
I’m tight against the seam.
And I’m growing up to meet you down on velvet green.
Now I may tell you that it’s love and not just lust.
And if we live the lie, let’s lie in trust.

On golden daffodils, to catch the silver stream
that washes out the wild oat seed on velvet green.
We’ll dream as lovers under the stars
of civilizations raging afar.
And the ragged dawn breaks on your battle scars.
As you walk home cold and alone upon velvet green.

Walking on velvet green. Scots pine growing.
Isn’t it rare to be taking the air, singing.
Walking on velvet green.
Walking on velvet green. Distant cows lowing.
Never a care: with your legs in the air, loving.
Walking on velvet green.

Hunting Girl

One day I walked the road and crossed a field
to go by where the hounds ran hard.
And on the master raced: behind the hunters chased
to where the path was barred.
One fine young lady’s horse refused the fence to clear.
I unlocked the gate but she did wait until the pack had disappeared.

Crop handle carved in bone;
sat high upon a throne of finest English leather.
The queen of all the pack,
this joker raised his hat and talked about the weather.
All should be warned about this high born Hunting Girl.
She took this simple man’s downfall in hand;
I raised the flag that she unfurled.

Boot leather flashing and spurnecks the size of my thumb.
This highborn hunter had tastes as strange as they come.
Unbridled passion: I took the bit in my teeth.
Her standing over, me on my knees underneath.

My lady, be discrete.
I must get to my feet and go back to the farm.
Whilst I appreciate you are no deviant,
I might come to some harm.
I’m not inclined to acts refined, if that’s how it goes.
Oh, high born Hunting Girl,
I’m just a normal low born so and so.

Aqualung

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

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 road
salvation à 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 was
screaming agony.

And you snatch your rattling last breaths
with deep-sea-diver sounds,
and the flowers bloom like
madness in the spring.

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 road
salvation à 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.

Dee dee dee dee.

Aqualung my friend
don’t you start away uneasy
you poor old sod, you see, it’s only me.

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.
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 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.

Locomotive Breath

In the shuffling madness
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.

Glosoli – Sigur Rós

“Glósóli” – (Icelandic for “Glowing sun”) is a song by Sigur Rós, released as part of their 2005 album Takk. Together with Sæglópur it was the first single released from the album, available as a download only release on iTunes in America and Europe respectively.

The name is a combination of gló- from the verb að glóa meaning “to glow, shine, glitter” and sóli meaning “sole.” The second element of the name, sóli, is homonymous with a declension of the word for “sun”, sól. However, sól, being a feminine noun, only appears as sóli in certain grammatical cases. In this instance, being the title of a song and declined for the nominative case, the form reveals it to be the masculine noun sóli.

The song is also praised for its artistic and highly cinematographic music video. The video consists of children dressed in old-fashioned Icelandic clothing, migrating towards an unknown destination somewhere in Iceland. The leader, a boy with a drum, directs the group through a land characterized by open fields and rocky hills, all the while picking up more and more children. The group then fall asleep and the video enters a dream-like state, signified by a change in hue. The song culminates at the end when the children reach a large hill and the leader starts beating his drum rapidly. When the song climaxes, the children start to run full speed up the hill. It is then shown that the hill is in fact a cliff, ending at the ocean. When the children reach the edge, they jump off and swim through the air. The video features a characteristic ambiguous ending, when the last and youngest child is shown jumping off the cliff in a cannon-ball style. The cinematographer has stated that to him the child definitely flies along with the rest, but ambiguity was the intention. The child naturally chose the cannon-ball style after a reluctance to jump whilst filming.

The video was directed by Arni & Kinski. Swedish director Ted Karlsson also directed a few parts and shot the movie. It is shot on an Arri S35 with lens from Panavision.

Personnel

* Jón Þór Birgisson – vocals, guitar
* Kjartan Sveinsson – keyboard
* Georg Hólm – bass
* Orri Páll Dýrason – drums