Jethro Tull

Tonight, mustiness is our drug of choice. We sniff out its scent from afar, like truffle hounds irresistibly drawn to its call. Or like the rats lured by the Pied Piper of Hamelin, who, following the sound of his flute, left the city en masse. A reference that's far from casual, given that what awaits us is none other than the legendary flute of Ian Anderson. We can only hope to spare ourselves the fate of those rodents, avoiding a drowning in the river Weser of saccharine, self-indulgent nostalgia. Luckily, the ever-indomitable leader of Jethro Tull has an arsenal of tricks, gimmicks and irony on hand to ward off the looming sense of melancholy threatening us. What's more, the occasion allows us to indulge shamelessly in memories: the fiftieth anniversary of the legendary prog band, to be celebrated on stage like a slightly démodé party of old friends lost from sight and found again on a midsummer night.

La Cavea is packed with a diverse crowd, naturally mostly over 50, but with a few amusing exceptions, like young couples or even the children and grandchildren of older fans. What unites them is a passion for the band that debuted on February 2, 1968, at the London rock temple of the Marquee Club, and took its name from the brilliant English agronomist who invented the first mechanical seed drill in 1701.

When Ian Anderson bursts onto the stage at 9:20pm, wielding his flute alongside his fellow travelers, the ovation is guaranteed. The show opens with "My Sunday Feeling," one of the tracks from the 1968 debut "This Was."

Behind the band, on the big screen, old television sets project images from the band's glorious past, but — here's the antidote to rascally nostalgia — Jethro Tull-TV pours out irony and delightful anecdotes, with a parade of figures tied to the band's history introducing their classics. Jeffrey Hammond, John Evan (dressed up as an English daffodil!) and Clive Bunker virtually drop the jukebox coin for tracks like "Dharma For One," "A Song For Jeffrey" and "Heavy Horses." Surprise guests also pop up: Tony Iommi — whom Anderson recalls was Tull's guitarist for just one concert, before reuniting with his band Earth, the embryo of the future Black Sabbath — another six-string legend like Joe Bonamassa, and the younger Slash of Guns N' Roses: all engaged in reviving crucial moments of Anderson and co.'s career, such as the evergreen "Bourée," a reworking of Bach's famous suite (echoed later also in "Toccata And Fugue"), or the equally beloved "Thick As A Brick," "Some Day The Sun Won't Shine For You" and "A New Day Yesterday," tinged with that unmistakable folk-blues shade that from the very start set the Blackpool band apart from fierce prog rivals like King Crimson, Yes, Genesis and the rest. But Jethro Tull leave nothing out, including Renaissance flourishes with the madrigal "Pastime With Good Company," written by Henry VIII.

The seventy-year-old Anderson has long since given up his thick head of hair, and now, frankly, he's starting to lose a bit of his voice too: you can tell it's an effort, but the odd shaky moment here and there doesn't derail the success of a performance that sees him raging away on his transverse flute with splendid harmonic flourishes and thunderous breaks. Of course, you can feel that the people backing him are no longer the real Tull, but a squad of skilled session players who find themselves catapulted, almost by chance, into the middle of a legend: Scott Hammond's jazz-inflected drumming, for instance, can't match the acrobatics of Barriemore Barlow and Clive Bunker, while Florian Ophale's guitar comes across as a bit too polished compared to the raw folk-blues instinct that is the Tull trademark — a sound Anderson himself had practically declared extinct back in 2014.

"Too Old For Rock N' Roll/Too Young To Die"? The dilemma of the famous (and still wonderful) 1976 suite — reprised here flawlessly — lands on La Cavea like a boulder. But then again, who says rock is still young people's music? If anything, it seems to be turning into quite the opposite, and a wry Anderson, striking his trademark flamingo pose, reminds us of it with biting British humor — the same man who once sang "Living In The Past" and who, in the '80s, had himself wheeled onto the stage in a wheelchair to poke fun at the band's advancing age. A sharp wit he also dusts off when introducing "My God": "Everyone's taken it as a song against religion or God, but that's not it at all, it's a complete ramble!" he demurs, about what actually remains a scathing indictment of the hypocrisy and falseness of church institutions.

There's irony too in the vocal exchange between Ian and the young protagonist of the "Aqualung" video, who sings several passages of the song in his place — via the album's original version — almost as if not wanting to spoil that dazzling urban scene, magically balanced between guitar melodies, glissandos and sudden bursts of roughness. In practice, it's the ultimate summa of Anderson's prog craftsmanship: simple and direct enough to hit the listener right in the gut, yet sophisticated in its arrangements, always complex and refined.

Then comes that final, titanic, overwhelming blast of "Locomotive Breath," which triggers a well-deserved standing ovation, complete with the inevitable rush toward the stage. Ian Anderson's locomotive still runs and puffs along, heedless of trends, age and a cruel world. Climbing aboard was a joy once again, despite everything. But now the journey is over, and who knows, perhaps for good. What remains are the Jethro Tull records, as memorable today as ever. And that irresistible scent of mustiness that the followers of the magic piper of Dunfermline will never be able to resist.

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