Let me bring you songs from the wood, to make you feel much better than you could know

There was package on my doorstep when I got home from work last Friday.

It was a birthday present from my Dad. Several CDs, mostly albums that were heavily rotated during my youth in the 70s, including one album I have not heard in, like 25 years:

Jethro Tull. Songs from the Wood.

I didn’t bother to change out of my work clothes or even take off my heels. I went right to the stereo, put it on, and cranked it up reeeeeal loud.

So I’m standing there in the middle of the room, totally blissing out on the awesomeness of this expertly remastered musical artifact, when Spooney walks in, regarding me with amusement.

“Isn’t this awesome?” I yell.

“Are you kidding me?” he yells back, “It’s like Spinal Tap. Only not funny.”

Bastard.

Okay, I have to admit that it is a great deal like a dead-serious Spinal Tap, but that doesn’t mean it’s not fucking wicked awesome as well.

But let me tell you, even though he is only four years younger, there is a world of difference between the class of '79 and the class of '83. And I get that. I do. Hell, the first thing I did when I went to college was throw out all my rock-n-roll records and start listening to Talking Heads, and Elvis Costello, and the B-52s and Devo and every other group we called "New Wave."

But back to the Tull. For those of you not familiar, and if you’re under 40 there’s no reason on earth why you should be, Songs from the Wood was one of those glorious high-concept albums of the 70s, the concept being, in a nutshell: we’re medieval/renaissance minstrals – except we rock!

Oh, babies, the things I did. The sex, the drugs, the inebriated driving, the vandalism, the concerts I went to but don’t remember, the close calls with the cops, and all set to soundtracks like SFTW:

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.

Who knew, one day, I would look back on those days with the same kind of gentle longing that my mother used to express about sock hops and Elvis?