Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands. With cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, breath out of time -
You can call 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 - I'm just a Baker Street Muse.

Ale-spew, puddle-brew - boys, throw it up clean.
Coke and Bacardi colours them green.
From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted princess with great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is fifty feet down in the Baker
Street underground.

What the Hell?
I didn't make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.
Couldn't shake her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to take her - I'm just a Baker Street Muse.

Walking down the gutter thinking, "How the Hell am I today?"
Well, I didn't really ask you but thanks all the same.

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 at 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
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.

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 nor butter -
On a double yellow line where she can park anytime.
Old Lady Grey; Crash-barrier Waltzer -
Some only son's mother. Baker Street 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, oh 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

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
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

And when all's said and all's done - 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. Shop-window. Heel.
Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands. With cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, breath out of time -
You can call 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 - I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
I'm just a Baker Street Muse. Just a Baker Street Muse.
Just a Baker Street Muse

Lyrics submitted by knate15

"Baker St. Muse" as written by Ian Anderson

Lyrics © BMG Rights Management

Lyrics powered by LyricFind

Baker St. Muse song meanings
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  • +2
    General Comment

    I first heard the aqualung album in 1976. I was 14. I had older brothers which meant this would be my journey into rock n roll with groups like led-who-sabbath-uriah heep and many others. So while many of my peers were listening to disco, or to van halen or areosmith, These were my great discoveries, Already at fourteen i was a real problem child, alcohol specifically. After I heard Aqualung I was instantly a big fan, this guy did something to me, what a connection, its hard to describe, and I'm sure Anderson would be clueless, upon listening to my going on, but what an impact. Although I would party for years with my (friends) I was never really part of anything to speak of, and those years were spent in much pain, loneliness, regret, and feeling sorry for myself(and knowing it). While every one else seemed rather happy partying all the time, I was more often then not miserable and confused. I felt like the Aqualung character, this old man who had missed the boat, and I felt I would, and had lived this wasted life. My father was a big alcoholic too. I already knew what I was in for, at age 14. But I had no intention of quitting at that time, most of my world evolved around alcohol.(I know many people will not understand this).This song in particular takes me back to the ninth grade (although I still listen to it) listening to Baker Street Muse, waiting for the painfullest parts, Crash-barrier Waltzer, after the french term referring to some strange dance, and then. I was an angry young (man) and to me, with much sorrow, and with little resources. I always wanted to be more then what I was, and change what I would become, and of course I wanted to live. And I wanted love, find some beautiful, wonderful girl to love. Cold wind to Valhalla, drinking bikers with there loser women, that's what he's talking about, and making ME wonder who the hero's are, and what it means to be a hero. Stoners and bikers and criminals may listen to him, but I think most of it gos right over their heads. I really believe this, and Anderson reveals his observations many a songs. Bungle in the Jungle-Skating Away-Rainbow Blues-Glory Row-Chequered Flag. But one of the best ways to see his observations, or better put his bafflement with people, Listen between songs of his live album from 1978 talking with(too)the audience. But be careful some of its been omitted on the US Cd. Its on the European 2 disc Cd, if you can find it, and on the original LP released in the US.I guess those folk who buy the tickets to the show, or buy the music, buy the tickets to the show and buy the music. You see it doesn't matter what Anderson intentions were or our,and though he may not understand the impact he's made on others or why. I understand for me the impact over all was positive. I could go into this much deeper but won't. It can't be denied Anderson had an ability to evoke feelings, truly (at least mine).Look at Reasons for waiting, that aint some stoner turned rock star. I think personally he probably feels very deeply, and for me that's mostly what I take away from his stuff. Their was a shift in some of his lyrics after they bashed passion play. his cynicism was ever more exaggerated, I believe it affected him, people turning on you, loving you for this, but man you could be yesterdays news in a heart beat.(its not that I'm afraid of losing fans, I'm just trying to understand it) I think he looked around and was more baffled then ever. I'm sure he worked though it all though, it like stages, I doubt he's very cynical today,(guessing) Its like working though emotions, and dare I say feelings.(not all people seem to have these).What does this song mean to me, I could go on for hours. He's my favorite. And I should add clean and sober 1985. Beautiful wife and children, 16 and 14.
    jethro tullon December 09, 2008   Link
  • 0
    General CommentRandom and whimsical observations about the odds and sodds inhabiting an old haunt of IA's. Very witty I'd like to add.
    kagemushaon February 11, 2005   Link
  • 0
    General CommentLast line is simply great. Last two actually.
    inpraiseoffollyon September 09, 2006   Link
  • 0
    General CommentOf course, this isn't the whole song. Oh well, I just submitted it, in full.
    inpraiseoffollyon October 01, 2006   Link
  • 0
    General CommentFeel free to correct the lyrics, as I copied them from I'll then fix them up there.

    On another note, great song. Minstrel in the Gallery shows true promise at beating Aqualung, which I've been waiting to happen by a Jethro Tull album not called Thick as a Brick.
    inpraiseoffollyon October 01, 2006   Link
  • 0
    General CommentHard to believe that Ian was not fond of which album, Aqualung or Minstrel in the Gallery?
    Chard121on June 11, 2007   Link
  • 0
    General CommentI didn't know that Anderson wasn't fond of this album, but I'm not surprised to read it. The album had the potential to be their best album. The band was in peak form and the tunes and lyrics are nothing short of brilliant. Yet, most songs seem indulgently extended with loud guitar solos and extra verses. Judging by the very tight albums that followed a couple of years later, I can imagine that Ian came to feel the same. Ah, if only George Martin had produced the album :)

    With that odd thought, it just occurred to me that the full Baker Street Muse feels closer to the second side of Abbey Road than A Passion Play or TaaB.
    offhandon August 07, 2010   Link
  • 0
    My OpinionI believe this song is about a murder of passion.

    Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
    Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
    (This is someone not quite right in the head at this moment.)

    Didn't make her - with my Baker Street Ruse.
    (Chatting her up. That didn't work.)
    Couldn't shake her - with my Baker Street Bruise.
    (He did something violent.)
    Like to take her - I'm just a Baker Street Muse.
    (Can't take her now. She dead, so it's a loss.)

    Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is fifty feet down in the Baker
    Street underground.
    (Where she wound up. )

    And who is Baker St most associated with?
    Bezukhovon June 27, 2016   Link
  • 0
    General CommentThis song and the whole Minstrel In the Gallery album were recorded during a time when Ian Anderson's first marriage was coming to an end, and the songs have a kind of wistful, somewhat melancholy feel to them. He takes a look at where he is and what he's become and this is a kind of poem about it all.

    The setting involves Ian Anderson walking down Baker Street in London and describing what he sees and where he sees himself in all of it. It's a gritty, kind of ugly picture. He sees scenes of sordid sexual encounters, drunks throwing up, and various faceless people. The middle section, Crash-barrier Waltzer, is one of the very best lyrical descriptions of his career. It's a poetic depiction of an encounter between a drunk old woman and a policeman. He compares it to ballet pas-de-deux, much like Romeo and Juliet, where the old woman, much like Juliet in the play, has fallen asleep, although her "sleeping draught" is alcohol. The policeman, much like Romeo, is struck with "poisoned regret" at the sight of her, although his version of regret is self-righteous anger instead of the romantic heartbreak of the original Romeo. The line "no drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the crowded emptiness" is pure genius. He's saying the the urban streets are crowded with people, and yet somehow empty at the same time - empty of meaning and substance. Everything is empty.

    The last portion is Ian Anderson summing up his life as an artist up to that point. The line about his having no time for time magazine or Rolling Stone may have something to do with the fact that Jethro Tull has been excluded from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. IA liked to express how he felt about the critics with obscene gestures at the time, and the feeling has been mutual with a lot of critics, even though songs like this one deserve a whole lot more critical acclaim than they have ever remotely received. The little boy standing on a burning log image is a kind of symbolic self-image in that same mold, with IA not being sure if Mother England likes him or wants to burn him.

    Another fantastic line comes near the end, where IA says "If sometimes I sing to a cynical degree, it's just the nonsense that it seems." He's dismissing himself and his own importance in a great gesture of irony, laughing at himself and the world in general.

    This is a tremendously thoughtful, evocative, and interesting kind of song that takes multiple listenings to really appreciate. That was one reason why a number of critics turned on Tull and Ian Anderson in the end, because they didn't want to have to think about what was being said in order to understand it, but I always thought that this song and the whole album were true genius, some of the best stuff ever written.
    JT1968on October 14, 2016   Link
  • -1
    General CommentYes, hard to believe that Ian himself was never too fond of the album. I personally love its chrystal clear sound and memorable tunes (except for the title track, where the drawn out guitar-solo-part always annoys me a little).
    haripu69on November 04, 2006   Link

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