The message Ian Anderson wants engraved on his tombstone
It’s a pithy way to surmise Ian Anderson’s, or indeed any other artist’s, legacy in rock and pop history.
How exactly does one capture the Jethro Tull frontman in an enduring epitaph to hang over his eternal whereabouts? Whatever ends up inscribed on his grave needs to be accompanied by the band’s quasi-logo, being the silhouetted figure of a one-legged flautist that looks plucked straight from some weathered medieval manuscript of beasts and mythic characters.
They were different. Burnished at the end of the 1960s with a potent brew of hard rock, bluesy stroll, and folkloric flair, Jethro Tull orbited the emerging progressive rock scene across the ensuing years in their own idiosyncratic way.
Embracing the likes of King Crimson or Genesis’ songcraft expanse while eschewing Yes and Emerson, Lake & Palmer’s cosmic noodles, Anderson’s dogged pursuit of new creative ventures would even see him poke fun at the proggy excesses of the day with 1972’s satirical Thick as a Brick. It was the secret weapon to Jethro Tull’s work that fans loved the most, always armed with a razor-sharp awareness and sense of humour to avoid lapsing into the sillier pitfalls that ensnared their peers.
Perhaps it’s such restless unorthodoxy that best serves a statement on Anderson’s final resting place? Fans would agree, Jethro Tull forever marking their own weird presence at whatever musical fancy they put their hand to, be it arcane folk or the piledriving new wave synths smattering their 1980s efforts.
It’s a sentiment shared by Jethro Tull’s songsmith, too, taking pride in their unerring chase for music’s untamed, fraught beckoning over commercial security, knowing full well the artistic failures that come with such gambles.
“Over all those years, Jethro Tull tried hard,” Anderson told The Guardian in 2022. “Some people might say we tried too hard, but it’s better to do that and fall on your face once in a while rather than sit comfortably backpedalling in order to keep on an even keel. I’d get restless if I did generic music like the Stones or even the Who, or the Ramones in the world of punk. I feel I’ve gotta get on and do something that allows me to get close to what I think I can do.”
Generic? Perhaps. The Rolling Stones certainly lapsed into a post-Tattoo You machine perfectly titled ‘Stones Inc’ by the Robert’s Record Corner YouTube series, yet still flashed a genre dexterity to anyone that’s bothered to follow their output across the last 40-odd years. The Who have rested on their stadium powerpop laurels since Face Dances, but the Ramones were more myriad than is remembered, touching on bubblegum love songs, metal affront, and pop blasts when the moment called for it.
But generic is one thing Jethro Tull had managed to avoid like the plague, always clamouring for some new lyrical corner or musical cranny to discover across their winding oeuvre, even as recently as 2025’s Curious Ruminant.
“If you can elaborate all of that and put it in a three-line epitaph for my tombstone, I’d be most grateful to receive the result by email at some point,” Anderson quipped, offering tips to his future stonemason and anybody stepping up to the task of capturing Jethro Tull’s intrepid spirit.
