“Now hold it. I get to meet the cat? And rap to the cat?” Bob, a 19-year-old Jethro Tull fanatic, was creaming in his jeans.

“All you have to do is get to the Beverly Wilshire this weekend.”

“Get to the Beverly Wilshire this weekend? I’ll fucking clobber the first guy that gets in my way. Fuck, this is all right. Allright."

“Just make sure that you’ve got some decent questions lined up. Make him work.”

“I’ll have questions up the ass, Jack.”

Surely a major pari of Jethro Tull’s appeal is the almost-taunting fashion with which Ian Anderson defies his fans to understand — and in some cases, even enjoy — his music. Tull devotees consider themselves in the elite ranks of rock and roll fandom. Their duty, as they see it, is nqt so much to simply appreciate Jethro Tull, but to painstakingly analyze Anderson’s musical crypticisms. As a result, to a boundless legion of 15 to 20 year olds, Ian Anderson is Bob Dylan.