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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.
LATER.
I've come down from the upper class to mend your rotten ways.
My father was a man-of-power whom everyone obeyed.
So come on all you criminals!
I've got to put you straight just like I did with my old man --
twenty years too late.
Your bread and water's going cold.
Your hair is too short and neat.
I'll judge you all and make damn sure that no-one judges me.
You curl your toes in fun as you smile at everyone -- you meet the stares.
You're unaware that your doings aren't done.
And you laugh most ruthlessly as you tell us what not to be.
But how are we supposed to see where we should run?
I see you shuffle in the courtroom with
your rings upon your fingers and
your downy little sidies and
your silver-buckle shoes.
Playing at the hard case, you follow the example of the comic-paper idol
who lets you bend the rules.
So!
Come on ye childhood heroes!
Won't you 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.
You put your bet on number one and it comes up every time.
The other kids have all backed down and they put you first in line.
And so you finally ask yourself just how big you are --
and take your place in a wiser world of bigger motor cars.
And you wonder who to call on.
So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you though?
They're all resting down in Cornwall --
writing up their memoirs for a paper-back edition
of the Boy Scout Manual.
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 ar 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.
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.
LATER.
I've come down from the upper class to mend your rotten ways.
My father was a man-of-power whom everyone obeyed.
So come on all you criminals!
I've got to put you straight just like I did with my old man --
twenty years too late.
Your bread and water's going cold.
Your hair is too short and neat.
I'll judge you all and make damn sure that no-one judges me.
You curl your toes in fun as you smile at everyone -- you meet the stares.
You're unaware that your doings aren't done.
And you laugh most ruthlessly as you tell us what not to be.
But how are we supposed to see where we should run?
I see you shuffle in the courtroom with
your rings upon your fingers and
your downy little sidies and
your silver-buckle shoes.
Playing at the hard case, you follow the example of the comic-paper idol
who lets you bend the rules.
So!
Come on ye childhood heroes!
Won't you 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.
You put your bet on number one and it comes up every time.
The other kids have all backed down and they put you first in line.
And so you finally ask yourself just how big you are --
and take your place in a wiser world of bigger motor cars.
And you wonder who to call on.
So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you though?
They're all resting down in Cornwall --
writing up their memoirs for a paper-back edition
of the Boy Scout Manual.
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 ar 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.
Lyrics submitted by azkm
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So it's fun to have our own discussions about what the song means.
I must say I haven't looked too far into all the lyrics but one part that stand out the most to me is this part:
"And the sand castle virtues are all swept away, in the tidal destruction, the moral melee."
Now I could be wrong about what I think this means because others have said other things but here's my interpretation.
I think it's talking about childhood, and how we are forced to grow up. That part at least, along with other certain parts. We do all these things when we're little, silly things, that are normal for us and I guess make us happy, like build sand castles? :D (sand castle virtues).
And then at one point we are forced to grow out of that, forced to be older, forced to do what is normal for us to do in society. (All swept away, in the tidal destruction, the moral melee)
This I thought makes sense and my dad said it made sense too.
It would also fit in quite well with some other parts like
"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."
What I think that part, is about generations. At one point we grow up and have children, we teach them to be innocent, we teach them silly things, like what we did when we were little. We build sand castles with them, and it brings us back to when we were little.
And then we never want our kids to grow up and have to change being so innocent, we want them to only know the good and the simple in the world.
So we dare the ocean (or the moral melee, or society) to take it from our child, and in the meanwhile we try to keep them innocent.
I am also super aware I'm a little late in this discussion.
The album's newspaper cover is my favorite of all time. I remember sitting, listening to the album, and having that cover to read through the entire song since it's so in-depth. I love the connect-the-dots and those goofy shopping boots. Oh, and of course young Gerald Bostock, lol.
Album cover aside, 'Thick as a Brick' is a magnificent piece of work ! I'mnot sure why he felt the need right off the bat to tell listeners that he really didn't mind if they "sat this one out." If you love and understand Tull, this fits right in.
As for the lyrics, they're mostly nonsensical padding around the basic concept that we should seek knowledge for ourselves rather than rely on appointed "wise men." After all, these intellectuals can't know everything since they don't know what it's like to be stupid. ("And your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.")
Now, did he put "nonsensical padding" in the forefront of the point and purpose of this work? Heh. Methinks NOT!
So, I must someday set aside time for what it means and how deeply it has influenced me.
This was not the first "popular" or "contemporary" rock that I heard when I was young. I can pretty much figure "Hey Jude" and "Revolution" were my introduction to rock (back to back on a 45 RPM single!!!).
But "Thick as a Brick", with its cool newspaper-like cover and full lyrics printed there, was mind-blowing.
Call it a joke, sniping at critics, or whatever. But if you think thats all it is, then I think you have missed out.
I love the irony of a concept album making fun of people who called his previous work a concept album. I love the album more, though.
This music and album being about this, it was the biggest irony ever when many people regarded it as the best concept prog rock album of all time.
And I must say, not only this is one of the best music ever, you guys did a hell of an interpretation, I can't add a thing... inpraiseoffolly and murphymurphy, I'm with you.. and gstormcrow's quote from Anderson's interview just wraps it all up for me.. unlike Yes lyrics (like Close to the Edge), Tull's lyrics had much to say, although not being "clear-cut" and inviting people to think for themselves. Like he says about Beethoven, you can make your own meaning, but that does not mean he wasn't thinking of one when he wrote it!
But this whole thing can get very messy, I recommend you check Close to the Edge by Yes, here in songmeanings, if you like the music.. that for sure is a hell lot less clear, but nontheless people make a lot of interpretations upon it.
Over-analyzing is of course exactly that – by definition ”over” means too much.
After decades of listening to Tull & reading interviews from old magazine articles found on the Jethro Tull Press website, I believe the following quotes by Ian say the most regarding Thick's lyrics.
"'Thick as a brick'; it really is a slang phrase from the north of England, where I spent my (well, some of my) growing-up years. To describe someone as being 'as thick as a brick' meant to describe them as being stupid, basically. You know, to be 'thick', as in 'thick-headed'; thick as a 'brick' being a small, dense object. So I was really talking about people being intellectually incapable of absorbing whatever it might have been put across in those slightly spoofish, bombastic terms in the lyrics of the album."
(Excerpt from Ian's 12/23/91 interview on the US radio show, 'In The Studio - Thick As A Brick')
"The way that I write allows a lot of people to interpret in their own fashion. I am not just saying one thing. I am saying a lot of things to a lot of people. The music means different things to different people." "I want to insist that every listener makes a tiny bit of effort to reach the music and interpret what I am saying. My words put out feelers. It's up to listeners to pick up on them and get from them what they wish - I'm not attempting to be clear-cut. I want to deal in terms that invite questioning. Balm for the masses is no use whatsoever." "We do tend to judge music on its rhythms and whether you can tap your foot to it. But most of our music deserves to be listened to several times. I'm still listening to Beethoven and I still don't understand what he is doing, but I'll get there some day. God knows that whatever I ultimately make of Beethoven I will never derive the same interpretation as what was intended - and I hope he respects my right to my interpretation - but at least I have a willingness to try to understand it." "I don't really want to get into specific comparisons and explanations, especially about Passion Play and Thick As A Brick. I don't want to start people off trying to figure out where the new album is in relation to the last two. Believe it or not, they all mean something." "It's distinctly worrying, because I know that the last few records have been difficult to listen to. WarChild, so I'm told, is a lot more accessible. I don't know if I like that or not. I've started to worry that perhaps people will think it's a simple record and they'll play it at parties and they'll play it when they're stoned and they'll play it in their car - instead of actually sitting down and making an effort to listen." (Excerpts from Ian's interview with Melody Maker magazine published in their 12/07/74 issue)
Which fits in with the whole "this song is bull" idea that critiques the prog rock culture's nature to over-analyze music and try to seem over intelligent. Which also ties in with the "think for yourself" message that the song seems to convey in general. By writing a song with no intentional meaning, listeners are able to find their own meanings in it, what makes the lyrics not bull is the fact that they are.
Also ironic that there's so much analyzing of the lyrics of a song that critiques such a thing.
Won't you 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 though?
They're all resting down in Cornwall --
writing up their memoirs for a paper-back edition
of the Boy Scout Manual.
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.
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.
A day of judgement with lightening bolts is coming. Who does Ian think he is?
Intriguing. "... the hour of judgement draweth near. Would you be the fool stood in his suit of armour or the wiser man who rushes clear?"
Elsewhere (not in Ian's wonderful lyrics) I have read: "How long, O naive ones, will you love being simple-minded? And scoffers delight themselves in scoffing? And fools hate knowledge?" In the original language used by the writer of this particular bit of ancient prose, the simple-minded, the scoffer, and the fool were three ~Very~ different types of people.
And, centuries later: "Where is the wise man? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?.... the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men. .... God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong,"
Many may dislike or disagree my input here because of their own bias or (dis)inclinations. However, there is ~Un-DENIABLY~ a parallel here between these words in Scripture and the lyrics of "Thick as a Brick".
Anyhoo - I love the music and I love the words. "I really don't mind if you sit this one out" says it all for me. Don't take it seriously, guys. "I may make you feel but I can't make you think" and "your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick" - so stop thinking and enjoy!
Later, I listened carefully to the lyrics; thought about them; learned to play the whole thing on guitar and sing all the words.
Now, the lyrics do seem to be about how society programs the next generation to carry on ugly traditions. The theme moves stealthily over various associated themes, including an appeal to romanticism, but it all comes back to that one thing.
There is one other thing I'm noticing, this time, and it's how Anderson actually puts some stress on the importance of "thinking" and not just "feeling". It's like he's coping to the view that part of what drives the madness forward is too great an emphasis on feeling, and not enough on thinking. That's a sort of revolutionary act in the popular arts world! I'm reminded of Jesus talking about cleaning the *eye*; this is where you might expect him to resort to the typical metaphor of the *heart*. But, no, Jesus insists at one point on citing the eye as the image of choice. And that seems to be one of the subtle ideas promoted by "Brick"; that sometimes feeling isn't enough. And, in fact, that absent clear vision (thinking), the drive of strong feeling winds up being a hideous interpersonal and social liability. I'm kind of sensitive about this because I divorced over this very issue; my wife could feel with the best of them, but had serious problems with thinking through to logical and meaningful conclusions about things. This resulted in downstream effects (lying, subterfuge) that were very damaging to any intent to maintain a healthy relationship.