Before he was a genius, Van Morrison was a professional, and he\u2019d probably take the latter as a higher compliment. Morrison came up in the world of Irish showbands \u2014 a regionalized variant on the jazz big band, a relic of a time when there was more money in live music than today, and a commitment that entails practice as a lifestyle. This work ethic is the most useful way to explain how he was able to write perfect songs like \u201cHere Comes the Night\u201d as a teenager \u2014 and, if the legends are true, improvise the songs on 1968\u2019s masterpiece \u201cAstral Weeks\u201d more or less on the spot.<\/p>\n
Anyone who knew the first thing about Morrison knew they were unlikely to hear any of those songs at his exclusive engagement at San Francisco\u2019s Chapel on Monday. This was the launch party for his new album, \u201cSomebody Tried to Sell Me a Bridge,\u201d which is entirely in a blues idiom; Morrison\u2019s father had one of the biggest record collections in Ireland, and the eventual Van the Man grew up immersed in blues, R&B and classic soul. This is still the music dearest and truest to his heart, and though he\u2019s an infamously erratic live performer, the chance to be immersed in this music allowed him to coast on a kind of cool professionalism.<\/p>\n
The setlist leaned obscure, and he sounded best on faster numbers like Eddie Vinson\u2019s \u201cKidney Stew Blues\u201d and Marie Adams\u2019 \u201cI\u2019m Gonna Play the Honky Tonks.\u201d The most unconventional cover, a slowed-down version of Fats Domino\u2019s \u201cAin\u2019t That a Shame,\u201d gave him an opportunity to indulge in the perverse repetitions of words that so enthralled rock critics in the 1970s, when Morrison was in his live prime. On recordings like \u201cListen to the Lion\u201d from 1974\u2019s definitive live album \u201cIt\u2019s Too Late to Stop Now,\u201d these repetitions felt like his way of channeling a universal, Bardic Celtic subconscious. These days, it feels more like one of his moves.<\/p>\n
\u201cI used to live here,\u201d he repeated at one point, emphasizing his Bay Area roots, but the rich vein of Marin new age and Theosophic thought that came to full flower on his \u201880s records was not relevant to this set. Here was the Belfast boy, drunk on blues.<\/p>\n
A more evident connection to Morrison\u2019s Marin years was the presence of John Allair, one of Marin County\u2019s earliest rockers and one of the few people alive today who can be said to have played with Fats Domino in his prime. Now in his mid-80s, he\u2019s a damned good organist, and not just for his age. Rising from his seat to solo, he was often more visible than Morrison, who stalked among his musicians, giving stage directions and generally seemed more comfortable at the center than at the front.<\/p>\n
Allair\u2019s presence also reinforced the idea that this show was a living link to a pre-Beatles era when putting on a great show was more important than being a genius, when musicians came to the blues through Sonny Boy Williamson rather than Led Zeppelin, when the average artist would put more of a premium on practice than on the druggy surrendering to cosmic visions that became associated with great rock music in the mid- to late \u201860s. An announcer began the set by announcing, \u201cLadies and gentlemen, Van Morrison.\u201d When was the last time you went to a set with an announcer? Usually rock bands dim the lights, trudge glumly onstage and hope you\u2019ll cheer. A lot was gained when rock \u2018n\u2019 roll became art rather than dance music, but a lot was lost.<\/p>\n
Morrison is 80 years old, thinner than the pink-suited popinjay who graced the Band\u2019s \u201cLast Waltz\u201d stage with Rockette high kicks. If there wasn\u2019t much of the \u201cAstral Weeks\u201d wonder boy in Morrison\u2019s set, there wasn\u2019t much of the cantankerous side, either; aside from a brusque request to turn the mic up, his bubble of contentment remained un-popped throughout the show. When he encored with the garage-rock standard \u201cGloria,\u201d just in case you forgot he wrote it, it felt like a gift from this most uncompromising artist: a rare glimmer of genius amid the professionalism, and maybe a reward to the audience for not shouting for it.<\/p>\n