I Got Drunk And Emailed Jethro Tull’s Manager Last Night

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Let me set this scene a little bit for you before I delve into this email that took much courage to look at this morning. Last night wasn’t much different than any other Thursday night. I started off with a glass of wine, turned on the classic rock music channel, got in the groove, and decided I could have a whiskey drink because tomorrow is Friday, which is a nationally acceptable day to be subpar at functioning. It’s an understatement to say that I’m a huge classic rock fan. It’s the best music and all other music just isn’t as good. If you say you like classic rock then turn around and play some mainstream shit like “Don’t Stop Believin'” or something similar, I will roll my eyes at you and walk away, as you have lost all credibility in my deep track attuned eyes. (Side note: That song wasn’t bad until drunk people ruined it.) Anyway, I’m a few drinks in at this point and I switch it on over to Spotify so I can really jam. The artist of my choosing is Jethro Tull. Hopefully everyone knows and loves them, but for those of you who may not, they’re a British rock group formed in the late ’60s. Tull is my dad’s favorite band, so, by proxy, one of mine, too.

Back in 2002, Jethro Tull finally made it back to my city when I was at an age where I could attend with parental supervision. My dad was out of town for work, so my mom, some of her wine-sponge friends, and I headed out to the local amusement park that was hosting this show. As middle-America weather can sometimes be unpredictable in the summer months, a storm started to roll in. In 2002, you still had to call someone with access to a television to find out what the weatherman was saying. We were informed it was going to blow through quickly, and the show was postponed until the storm passed, but we were already in the outdoor venue. So what did we do? We stood under a fucking tree while this thing started to roll in, because that’s the safe thing to do. Apparently the lightning was the drawing line for Tull, as Ian Anderson, the frontman, came out to say the show would have to be canceled but that they’d be back. I wanted to cry. It’s been 12 years since this occurrence, and guess what? No Jethro Tull show in my city.

So, after a few more drinks last night, I ended up on Tull’s website out of curiosity of the tour schedule, and that’s when I ran into this: “Management and Production: For concert bookings and other engagements, please use the contacts below. (In bold) These contacts are for professional enquiries [must be a British spelling] relating to concerts, promotion and production only. Please no fan mail or requests for tickets and passes. Your non-professional use of these contact e-mail addresses will be ignored.” Okay, great. Well, I’m a professional who has a SERIOUS “enquiry” relating to a concert, so in my inebriated mind, I fit all the criteria to be able to email Jethro Tull’s agent…and so at 2:12 a.m., to be exact, I did.

It started off simply enough:

“Dear Mr. [Last Name], I am an attorney here in [my city].”

I had to set my professional stage, and this point is also about where that ends.

“I once stood under a tree in the lightning sometime back around 2005 (you’ll have to excuse me for not being able to remember exact dates, as it’s been some time ago) to see Jethro Tull at [venue].”

Only three years off. Close enough.

Here’s where I start to lay it on thick:

“I had been looking forward to this date since I was a young girl, considering my father is, by far, the biggest Jethro Tull fan known to man, and has, by happenstance, sung with Ian Anderson on stage at [different venue] back in the ’90s.”

This is a true story of the time my parents took my babysitter and one of her friends to see Tull for my babysitter’s sixteenth birthday.

Next is where I reiterate the infamous tree scene and Ian Anderson’s assurance of another show. I also throw out the phrase “active military status” concerning why my dad wasn’t there for a show that didn’t, in fact, happen, and that I’d like to see it with him. (He’s going to kill me.)

“Long story long, Jethro Tull has not returned to [my city] since then, and I’d just like to see Jethro Tull, at [venue of my choosing] while we all still have the opportunity to do so. Thank you for your time, granted you’ve made it this far. Sincerely, [my name, Esq.]”

Woof. That was hard to read, mainly because I’m a fucking idiot. Why after 12 years of silence on this issue, which is apparently dear to my heart, I decided to inquire about why I never got my Jethro Tull show is beyond me. I woke up this morning and typed in my group chat, “Just so everyone knows, got so drunk last night I emailed Jethro Tull’s booking agent to ask when they were coming back since I got gyped out of a show in ’02 due to lightning and they haven’t been back.” My friends’ thoughts concerning this were “dammit” out of being wholly unsurprised, then uncontrollable laughter, then “that was the most polite ‘fuck you’ email ever,” then “how did you write that so civil while drunk?” See guys, it’s that professionalism Tull’s agent was looking for. So, Mr. Agent, while I apologize for that drunken, overly sentimental email, I’m still very serious about being able to see Jethro Tull in my city, and if you’re not too mad at me, could you please make that happen? Thanks xoxo.

After stretching college out for 9 years, McMagistrate is now an attorney in her late-ish 20's who earned her title by embracing the stigma that accompanies a healthy partying habit. She enjoys showing off her sub-par golf game and pretending her impressive law school loan doesn't exist. You can likely find her on her patio, live-tweeting her wine binges, and concerning her neighbors.

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