How's this for a resume:
Gloria
Here Comes The Night
Astral Weeks
Brown Eyed Girl
Moondance
Caravan
One Irish Rover
Into the Mystic
Jackie Wilson Said
Real Real Gone
etc
etc
I saw Van Morrison this weekend. Twice, actually. A friend of mine works at the United Palace Theater, a remodeled old church on 175th and Broadway in Manhattan. It's a huge, beautiful, glorious old building. Unfortunately it still functions as a church for one Rev Ike, who has a ton of magazines available in the lobby claiming that tithing to the good Rev will make you rich. The lobby is stained with "inspirational" slogans from the Rev, which have been painted on the walls. "Give to receive" and so on. The magazine is full of bullshit stories about regular folks who had the Rev pray for them and were granted a miracle in return. The last page of the magazine was a prayer card/envelope where you can drop a "donation" of $25, $50, or $100 to have th Rev get a moment of God's ear for you.
Ick
But the building is still gorgeous. Gorgeous. Go there if you can.
Van Morrison was great. He's fronting a jazz-lite band now that veered a little too close to wedding band territory at times for me at times. And frankly I never have to hear "Moondance" again in my life. But just when I thought he was going through the motions a bit he'd pull out a phrase or he'd up the intensity of his singing and he's absolutely make you feel what he was doing. He's great.
Like I said, my friend Nicole works at the theater, so we were down in the front row right off to the side of the stage. After the show we had a drink with Van Morrison's road manager. He's been doing that job for 20 years and he had some great stories. Van Morrison, it seems, is a miserable old coot. Of course you can tell that by listening to his music, but it was funny to hear stories that confirm it. He plays 90 minutes a night. No more. No less. He keeps a clock onstage to tell him when his 90 minutes are up. And he keeps a BACKUP clock in case that one breaks.
In every city they go to Van Morrison insists on having a suite in the hotel. And every time they get to that hotel the road manager gets a call saying "This suite is too fucking big! I don't need all of this room. You take it. I'll take your room."
Every time.
The way he talked it sounded like they were an old, bickering married couple. And in many ways they are. I liked that.
I've been a fan of Van Morrison for a long time. If you've never seen his performance in "The Last Waltz" YouTube that mutherfucker now. But I'm not gonna post it. I'm always slightly annoyed at the crowd who goes to see someone like Van Morrison hoping to hear the greatest hits, or to repeat something they've already done. I wanted to punch out the asshole from CT who kept yelling for "Brown Eyed Girl". How many times do you have to hear "Brown Eyed Girl"? What's wrong with going to a show and experiencing what someone has to say now?
The funny thing is, though, that Van Morrison himself is a man who lives in the past. Not his own past, mind you (he practically held his nose as he played "Gloria") but in time before now. In times of quiet and contemplation. Before tv, before ipods, before, before before. He keeps coming back again and again to his own upbringing. Listening to Muddy Waters and John Coltrane on Radio Luxembourg. Walking the cobblestone streets of Belfast in the morning hours before the rush of the day. And spending days by rivers in quiet hours. Less rushing, more being.
Can't say I blame him.
I helped the road manager bring the boxes of unsold t-shirts back to the truck they were loading as the crew was carefully packing up the instruments. He gave me a live CD and thanked me for my trouble. I thanked him for the beer and the stories and walked out of the theater as an ambulance siren wailed by me. Someone else's story for the night, I guess.
Gloria
Here Comes The Night
Astral Weeks
Brown Eyed Girl
Moondance
Caravan
One Irish Rover
Into the Mystic
Jackie Wilson Said
Real Real Gone
etc
etc
I saw Van Morrison this weekend. Twice, actually. A friend of mine works at the United Palace Theater, a remodeled old church on 175th and Broadway in Manhattan. It's a huge, beautiful, glorious old building. Unfortunately it still functions as a church for one Rev Ike, who has a ton of magazines available in the lobby claiming that tithing to the good Rev will make you rich. The lobby is stained with "inspirational" slogans from the Rev, which have been painted on the walls. "Give to receive" and so on. The magazine is full of bullshit stories about regular folks who had the Rev pray for them and were granted a miracle in return. The last page of the magazine was a prayer card/envelope where you can drop a "donation" of $25, $50, or $100 to have th Rev get a moment of God's ear for you.
Ick
But the building is still gorgeous. Gorgeous. Go there if you can.
Van Morrison was great. He's fronting a jazz-lite band now that veered a little too close to wedding band territory at times for me at times. And frankly I never have to hear "Moondance" again in my life. But just when I thought he was going through the motions a bit he'd pull out a phrase or he'd up the intensity of his singing and he's absolutely make you feel what he was doing. He's great.
Like I said, my friend Nicole works at the theater, so we were down in the front row right off to the side of the stage. After the show we had a drink with Van Morrison's road manager. He's been doing that job for 20 years and he had some great stories. Van Morrison, it seems, is a miserable old coot. Of course you can tell that by listening to his music, but it was funny to hear stories that confirm it. He plays 90 minutes a night. No more. No less. He keeps a clock onstage to tell him when his 90 minutes are up. And he keeps a BACKUP clock in case that one breaks.
In every city they go to Van Morrison insists on having a suite in the hotel. And every time they get to that hotel the road manager gets a call saying "This suite is too fucking big! I don't need all of this room. You take it. I'll take your room."
Every time.
The way he talked it sounded like they were an old, bickering married couple. And in many ways they are. I liked that.
I've been a fan of Van Morrison for a long time. If you've never seen his performance in "The Last Waltz" YouTube that mutherfucker now. But I'm not gonna post it. I'm always slightly annoyed at the crowd who goes to see someone like Van Morrison hoping to hear the greatest hits, or to repeat something they've already done. I wanted to punch out the asshole from CT who kept yelling for "Brown Eyed Girl". How many times do you have to hear "Brown Eyed Girl"? What's wrong with going to a show and experiencing what someone has to say now?
The funny thing is, though, that Van Morrison himself is a man who lives in the past. Not his own past, mind you (he practically held his nose as he played "Gloria") but in time before now. In times of quiet and contemplation. Before tv, before ipods, before, before before. He keeps coming back again and again to his own upbringing. Listening to Muddy Waters and John Coltrane on Radio Luxembourg. Walking the cobblestone streets of Belfast in the morning hours before the rush of the day. And spending days by rivers in quiet hours. Less rushing, more being.
Can't say I blame him.
I helped the road manager bring the boxes of unsold t-shirts back to the truck they were loading as the crew was carefully packing up the instruments. He gave me a live CD and thanked me for my trouble. I thanked him for the beer and the stories and walked out of the theater as an ambulance siren wailed by me. Someone else's story for the night, I guess.