Список песен:
1. Minstrel in the Gallery
2. Cold Wind to Valhalla
3. Black Satin Dancer
4. Requiem
5. One White Duck
6. Baker Street Muse
including: Pig-Me & the Whore
Nice Little Tune
Crash-Barrier Waltzer
Mother England Reverie
7. Grace
Комментарий Иана Андерсона к альбому:
"Менестрель" стал первым из двух дисков, сделанных опять заграницей, дабы избежать абсурдных британских налогов, которые ложились на артистов и исполнителей. Он и "Too Old to Rock and Roll" записаны в Монте-Карло в один и тот же год, хотя выпущены в разные. "Minstrel" запечатлел мои размышления того периода - многое на нем было написано, когда я с ностальгией оглядывался на свою жизнь в Англии. Я привык там жить и вдруг на целый год я очутился на чужбине. Так что много вещей, например, 'Baker Street Mews' (в тексте именно "mews"! - MW) и титульная, были моими зарисовками городской жизни в Лондоне. Альбом также показывает мою жизнь как музыканта - тогда я не поддерживал ни с кем постоянных отношений, жил в отелях или снимал апартаменты.
Тексты песен:
1. Minstrel in the Gallerу
The Minstrel in the Gallery looked down upon the
smiling faces.
He met the gazes - observed the spaces between the
old men's cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred - oblique
suggestions - and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters - static-humming
panel-beaters - freshly day-glo'd factory cheaters
(salaried and collar-scrubbing).
He titillated men-of-action - belly warming, hands
still rubbing on the parts they never mention.
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating
one-line jokers - T.V.documentary makers
(over-fed and undertakers).
Sunday paper backgammon players - family-scarred
and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage and he
looked at all the friend's he'd made.
The Ministrel in the Gallery looked down on the
rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass - saw his face in
everyone.
2. Cold Wind to Valhallа
And ride with us young bonny lass -
With the angels of the night.
Crack wind clatter - flash rein bite on an out-size
unicorn.
Rough-shod winging sky blue flight on a Cold Wind
to Valhalla.
And join with us please - Valkyrie maidens cry
above the Cold Wind to Valhalla.
Break fast with the Gods. Night angels serve
with ice-bound majesty.
Frozen flaking fish raw nerve -
In a cup of silver liquid fire.
Moon jet brave beam split ceiling swerve and light
the old Valhalla.
Come join with us please - Valkyrie maidens cry
above the Cold Wind to Valhalla.
The heroes rest upon the sighs of Thor's trusty
hand-maidens.
Midnight lonely whisper cries,
"We're getting a bit short on heroes lately".
Sword snap fright white pale goodbyes in the
desolation of Valhalla.
And join with us please - Valkyrie maidens ride
empty-handed on the Cold Wind to Valhalla.
3. Black Satin Dancer
Come, let me play with you, Black Satin Dancer.
In all your giving, given is the answer.
Tearing life from limb and looking sweeter than the
brightest flower in my garden.
Begging your pardon - shedding right unreason.
Over sensation fly the fleeting seasons.
Thin wind whispering on broken mandolin.
Bending the minutes - the hours ever turning on that
old gold story of mercy.
Desperate breathing. Tongue nipple-teasing.
Your fast river flowing - your Northern fire fed.
Come, Black Satin Dancer, come softly to bed.
4. Requiem
Well I saw a bird today - flying from a bush and the
wind blew it away.
And the black-eyed mother sun scorched the butterfly
at play - velvet veined
I saw it burn.
With a wintry storm-blown sigh, a silver cloud blew
right on by
And, taking in the morning, I sang - O Requiem.
Well, my lady told me, "Stay".
I looked aside and walked away along the Strand.
But I didn't say a word, as the train time-table blurred
close behind the taxi stand.
Saw her face in the tear-drop black cab window.
Fading into the traffic; watched her go.
And taking in the morning, heard myself singing -
O Requiem.
Here I go again.
It's the same old story.
Well, I saw a bird today - I looked aside and walked
away along the Strand.
5. One White Duck
There's haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way -
And there's note on the telephone - some roses on a tray.
And the motorway's stretching right out to us all,
as I pull on my old wings - One White Duck
on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
I'll catch a ride on a violin - strung upon your bow.
And I'll float on your melody - sing your chorus soft
and low.
There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called.
You can see from the fireplace, One White Duck
on your wall.
Isn't it just too damn real?
So fly away Peter and fly away Paul - from the
finger-tip ledge of contentment.
The long restless rustle of high heel boots calls,
And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all.
Something must be wrong with me and my brain
if I'm so patently unrewarding.
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that
way - and my zero to your power of ten equals
nothing at all.
There's no double-lock defence; there's no chain on
my door.
I'm available for consultation.
But remember your way in is also my way out, and
love's four-letter word is no compensation.
I'm the Black Ace dog-handler; I'm a waiter on
skates - so don't jump to your foreskin conclusion -
Because I'm up to my deaf ears in cold breakfast trays -
To be cleared before I can dine on your sweet Sunday
lunch confusion.
6. Baker Street Musе
Windy bus-stop. Click. Snop-window. Heel.
Shady gentlemen. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands,
With cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, breath out of time -
You can call on me on another line.
Indian restaurants that curry my brain.
Newspaper warriors changing the names they
advertise from the station stand.
With cold print hands.
Symphony word-player, I'll be your headline.
If you catch me another time.
Didn't make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.
Couldn't shake her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to take her - but I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
6.1. Pig-Me And The Whorе
"Big bottled Fraulein, put your weight on me", said the
pig-me to the whore,
desperate for more in his assault upon the mountain.
Little man, his youth a fountain.
Overdrafted and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an attempt in getting close to
where he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, between Blandford Street
and Mars;
Proposition, deal. Flying button feel. Testicle testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, divulging
the wrinkles of his years.
Wedding-bell induced fears
Shedding bell-end tears in the pocket of her resistance.
International assistance flowing generous and full
to his never-ready tool.
Pulls his eyes over her wool.
And he shudders as he comes -
And my rudder slowly turns me into the Marylebone Road.
6.2. Crash-Barrier Waltzer
And here slip I - dragging one foot in the gutter -
In the midnight echo of the shop that sells cheap radios.
And there sits she - no bed, no bread not butter -
On a double yellow line where she can park anytime,
Old Lady Grey; Crash-barrier Waltzer -
Some only son's mother, Baker St. Casualty.
Oh Mr. Policeman - blue shirt ballet master
Feet in sticking plaster -
Move the old lady on,
Strange pas-de-deux -
His Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping draught his poisoned regret,
No drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the
crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, let me send her to a cheap hotel -
I'll pay the bill and make her well - like hell you
bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must teach them to be still
more independent.
6.3. Mother England Reveriе
I have no time for Time Magazine or Rolling Stone.
I have no wish for wishing-wells or wishing bones.
I have no house in the country I have no motor-car.
And if you think I'm joking, then I'm just a one-line
joker in a public bar.
And it seems there's no-body left for tennis; and I'm
a one-band-man.
And I want no Top Twenty funeral or a hundred grand.
There was a little boy stood on a burning log,
rubbing his hands with glee. He said "Oh Mother England
did you light my smile; or did you light
this fire under me?
One day I'll be a minstrel in the gallery.
And paint you a picture of the queen.
And if sometimes I sing to a cynical degree -
It's just the nonsense that it seems".
So I drift down through the Baker Street valley,
in my steep-sided un-reality.
And when all's said and all's done - I couldn't wish
for a better one.
It's a real-life ripe dead-certainty -
That I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
Talking to the gutter-stinking, winking in the same
old way.
I tried to catch my eye but I looked the other way.
Indian restaurants that curry my brain -
Newspaper warriors changing the names they
advertise from the station stand.
Circumcised with cold print hands.
Windy bus-stop. Click. Snop-window. Heel.
Shady gentlemen. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands.
With cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, breath out of time -
You can call on me on another line.
Didn't make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.
Couldn't shake her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to take her - but I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
7. Graсе
Hello sun,
Hello bird,
Hello my lady,
Hello breakfast. May I
buy you again tomorrow?
