Like Ray Charles and an exceedingly small handful of others, Van Morrison could sing words straight from a phone book and still pack an irresistible emotional — not to mention musical — immediacy. But last Saturday night, Van — short for Ivan — Morrison, spared us any readings from the Complete Works of Ma Bell and riffed instead on the proto-rock-n-roll skiffle bands from which he emerged — and the American music that inspired them.
His first number was Hank Snow’s classic “I’m Moving On,” which makes sense given the name of his latest album (2023) is Moving On Skiffle. Morrison, one of the British Isles’ many rock stars to have been knighted by Queen Elizabeth, describes himself as just another “blue-eyed soul” singer, but he clearly immersed himself in the crying-and-dying vaults of early American country. He and his nine-piece band — tight, twangy, and tasty — really delivered the goods on Hank Williams’ timeless anthem of romantic wretchedness, “Cold, Cold Heart.” Who knew the Belfast Cowboy could sport rhinestone so convincingly? The stratospheric pedal steel riffs no doubt left scorch marks on the stage.
I’d have said the a capella introduction to “Worried Man Blues” — a slow, spare, and genuinely harrowing blues lament — was the emotional highlight, except for the incessant yakking and yammering of the people sitting immediately behind us. (Note to Bowl patrons: don’t talk during the show; alcohol doesn’t make you funny; and if people have to ask you to be quiet, that’s a good sign you’re being obnoxious.)
With more than 40 albums under his belt, Morrison has established himself as a lyricist of the first order, an accomplished and effortless arranger, and as a stylist, he’s in a class by himself. He could milk the lines, “Alrightallrightallrightallright,” far more than Mathew McConaughey could ever hope to.
As a performer, however, Morrison’s reputation is mixed. “Mercurial” is the word delicately used, but there was zero evidence of any such mercury Saturday night. While never a Chatty Cathy with the crowd — there were no effortlessly wise and whimsical asides between songs — Morrison introduced his exceptionally agile band a couple times at least, put them through their well-orchestrated gyrations, and reminded the world he can play a genuinely mean saxophone in his own right. But those looking for a taste of “Tupelo Honey,” a little “Moondance,” or the undeniable get-up-and-dance blast delivered by “Brown Eyed Girl” needed to look elsewhere. The closest Van Morrison to delivering those goods was “Into the Mystic,” which he managed to sneak up on the audience with.
Otherwise, he drew more from his Enlightenment period. If I had any disappointment, it was over the general lack of musical abandon. The band was undeniably tight, but there’s such a thing as being too tight. Only at the grand finale — “Gloria” — his 1964 exaltation of teenage lust and his first big hit, did he and the band really cut loose and go a little bit crazy. The shame of it all was they clearly had it in them. Despite their advancing age — or perhaps because of it — members of the audience clearly did too, joining in loudly and lovingly on the call-and-response of “G-L-O-R-I-A!”
