Four years before Ronnie Van Zant uttered the immortal words “Turn it up” to open “Sweet Home Alabama,” Van Morrison was uttering the same injunction—but in his case he was talking about your radio, not the world’s greatest Southern Rock band. The Gaelic soul singer with the mystical streak turned the phrase into a mantra on “Caravan” from 1970’s Moondance, and by so doing transformed your cheap hand-held FM transistor radio into a means of tuning into the cosmos. That little radio is, quite literally, our ticket to Heaven.
From “Gloria” and “Here Comes the Night” with his days with Belfast, Ireland’s Them to the brilliant string of solo efforts that extended from 1968’s Astral Weeks, 1970’s Moondance and that same year’s His Band and the Street Choir, 1971’s Tupelo Honey to 1972’s St. Dominic’s Preview, Morrison veered from the simple romantic lyricism of songs like “Tupelo Honey” and “Moondance” to deeply spiritual and more ambitious songs like “Listen to the Lion,” “Cypress Avenue,” and “Madame George.” Call them his Songs of Innocence and Experience.
On 1970’s Moondance—which is horn-heavy and replete with female backing vocalists—Morrison works the innocence vein, while imbuing many of its songs with a deep strain of Irish mysticism that charges even the simplest of subjects with a sense of awe. On “And It Stoned Me” he gets drunk on a jar of water from a mountain stream. On “Into the Mystic” he takes us spiritually seaward—just as he does on “Tupelo Honey” and “Listen to the Lion.” He implores us to let our spirits fly; tells us he wants to rock our gypsy souls, and lets us know “it’s too late to stop now.”
And speaking of gypsies, it’s their caravan that moves triumphantly our way in the song of the same name. Talk about communion; his friends are there, and his love too—he commands her to turn on that electric light, so “we can get down to what’s wrong and what’s right.” Never have a string of “la la la la, la la las” been imbued with such spiritual depth.
The title track is a slinky and jazzy number about making your moves bathed in moonlight; flute, piano, and saxophone set the mood, and this one has likely inspired more midnight dances beneath the stars than any other pop song in history. Morrison sings “Crazy Love” in an uncharacteristic hush; it’s a genius touch, actually—the way he almost whispers the lyrics lends more power to his message than shouting down the house Van Morrison style ever could. The jaunty and Dylaneque “Come Running” is a piano- and horn-driven romp on which Morrison sings, “Well you watch the train go ’round the bend/Play in dust and dream that it will never end/Deep in your heart.”
“These Dreams of You” features Morrison’s harmonica, and some nice organ and horns, to say nothing of a show-stopping alto saxophone that flutters like a hummingbird. “Ray Charles was shot down,” Morrison sings, “but he got up to do his best,” and while I’m assuming he’s talking about Charles’ 1961 heroin bust it doesn’t matter much—it’s the getting up part that matters to Morrison, whose would-be love in the song doesn’t exactly do him nice: “I dreamed we played cards in the dark/And you lost and you lied/Wasn’t very hard to do/But hurt me deep down inside.”
“Brand New Day” is all gospel redemption and search for freedom; joined by a female gospel choir he sings about how he’s been used and abused and even tied to the railroad tracks, but a new morning sun promises a brand new day. “Here it comes!” he repeats, “here it comes right now!” and he may as well be singing about the rapture.
Morrison repeats the title of “Everyone” seven times in a row in the frolicsome song of the same name; too bad the omnipresent flute and clavinet give the song an overly precious and almost baroque feel. Stripped down would have been better; as it is “Everyone” evokes Elton John’s seriously over-baked “Skyline Pigeon,” and no one wants that.
As for LP closer “Glad Tiding” it’s no Christmas song even if Morrison does raise the subject (“And they’ll lay you down low in the easy/And the lips that you kiss will say Christmas”). Morrison tells us to dry our eyes, does the “la la la la” to the accompaniment of a horn section, sends us glad tidings from New York City, and in general offers us words of spiritual reconciliation: “But meet them halfway with love, peace and persuasion/And expect them to rise for the occasion/Don’t it gratify when you see it materialize/Right in front of your eyes/That surprise.”
The growls and roars Morrison summons from deep within his Irish soul on “Listen to the Lion”; his heartfelt goodbye to the drag queen “Madame George”; that “she’s an angel in the first degree” in “Tupelo Honey” all reveal Van Morrison to be the deepest and most romantic vocalist of our time. And at the heart of his music is the sheer joy of being young, alive and in love.
In the magnificent “Madame George” Morrison goes into a trance and sings, “And the love that loves the love that loves the love/that loves to love the love that loves the love to love the love/that loves to love.” Got that? It doesn’t matter. It’s enough to know that we too can roar, and if we rear loud enough we’ll reduce to rubble the walls that separate us from love, one another and our authentic, leonine selves.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A
