I might have said it before, but it bears repeating—I am a frequent latecomer to trends as they develop, and often miss the boat on a lot of stuff that I had to do a catch up on and with after the fact.
I could list the foods I hated as a child I now love, or the comic book artists whose work was just terrible until it suddenly got better as I got older, but you get the picture.
In specific regard to what I’m here to discuss, I missed the British invasion, and I mean completely, beyond seeing, and not comprehending, all those girls who’d never speak to me under any circumstances anyway, screaming on the Ed Sullivan show. I just didn’t get it—and, to be honest, that actually hasn’t changed all that much.
Throughout High School, 1964 to 1967, while my very few friends were listening to the British bands as they matured as lyricists and musicians, my musical tastes were confined to folk singers—traditional and those of the modern/protest ilk—and the American Popular songbook, that latter thanks to my mother’s influence.
I have never owned a Beatles album, or a Rolling Stones disk, either.
A brief pause to allow you to rise from the fainting couch.
All better now?
Okay.
All this said, once I was out of High School my tastes began to expand, not coincidental to my access of the gateway of daily marijuana use and alcohol consumption, and my ears opened to a lot of what was filling alternative airways back then; East coast bands like THE BLUES PROJECT, THE LOVIN’ SPOONFUL and THE YOUNG RASCALS, and West coast groups like IT’S A BEAUTIFUL DAY, MOBY GRAPE, and THE JEFFERSON AIRPLANE.
A lot of this expansion was the direct result of a slew of ridiculously affordable live performance venues throughout Manhattan, where more socially advanced pals would drag my occasionally resistant ass to listen to musicians they dug, and hoped I would join them in their enthusiasm.
In many cases, I would comply because of the potential of meeting a woman of interest, and, of course, the likelihood of available dope. In the case in question, I went along to a show at the Fillmore East, one of those relatively cheap live venues, a onetime legitimate theater from the days before the theater district moved uptown. I’m pretty sure the headliner was The Jefferson Airplane.
I’d seen and heard the Airplane live before, so no real pressure was called for. It was the opening act that brought me to my feet, and, I say without irony and no fear of contradiction, changed me permanently.
This personal Saul on the road to Damascus moment was the work of Van Morrison, touring to promote MOONDANCE, as I recall. Having never heard THEM, or his solo follow up, I had never heard anything like this—and I have never veered from his work in the five decades and counting since that night. We stuck around illegally for the second set, though this crime was in no way necessary; I was sold, American, that midnight performance cementing this newfound bond for good and forever.
Despite living on a very tight budget—I was working as an assistant, and barely getting by financially—I did a deep dive into his records, and got everything available to that date. Like any addiction, priorities must be served. Believe you me-I speak from personal experience.
Like any rabid fan, I spent more time than called for trying to understand the often slurred lyrics. And, again, like that fan, once his words deciphered linguistically, I had to figure out what the fuck he was talking about, as often as not.
None of this mattered, in the long run. There was a synergy to his occasionally—okay, okay, frequently—out there poetics and the music to which he put those lyrics to work that shook me, and kept me listening, years, decades, after one time favorites of that time and that place had been left to gather dust.
I saw him live a number of times; not recently, as the theft of value from recording artists by the digital music sites has made it necessary for all performers to appear in arenas, at astronomical prices. My fondest memory was his appearance in the student lounge(!) at Queens College, where I never matriculated but spent my unemployed days hanging out, looking to snare a free joint or a potential hookup, although we never called such things as the latter that.
In this particular case, I was as far from him as I was from a grade school teacher in a classroom. He was phenomenal. In another instance, in a performance at the Beacon theater, he was so fucked up, that, as he opened with CYPRESS AVENUE, he intoned “And I’m walking, I’m walking…” and walked off the edge of the stage, into the pit, and never made it back.
The opening act, Rockpile-“THE HARDEST WORKING BAND IN ROCK AND ROLL!” as per my pal David Burd–came back onstage and saved the day with an hour long Everly Brothers pastiche set.
Van Morrison was and remains prolific. I remember with fondness that comically oafish blowhard Jim Morrison threatening to record GLORIA, and “…make it a classic…”, and my laughing gratitude at Peter Wolf for slapping that shit down. That Jim Morrison died before he could apologize for all his bullshit has always been a burr under my saddle.
Van, on the other hand, has strained his followers good nature more than occasionally on his ownself, with frequent zigs and zags into eccentric and occasionally aberrant behavior. Scientology, Evangelical Christianity, and more, all while drinking himself into what seemed like a permanent stupor and potential wet brained death; which, I would assume, made him more available to such nonsense.
He is apparently sober now, and a knight of the British Empire, neither of which seem to have made him any less grouchy. I’d love to know if his stage presence is still cranky—but the likelihood of ever seeing him live again is none, nowhere near slim.
a few years back, what remained unreleased from the IT’S TOO LATE TO STOP NOW tour was finally available, including a DVD of a live performance at Roseland in London, circa 1973, I think. I was, for the length of that video, an old man, and twenty two again.
His recordings, which I buy unheard as soon as they are available, continue to keep this fan happy. When, years ago, the brilliant author and man of good taste Nick Hornsby announced his intention to have CARAVAN played as his funeral recessional, I had to change my identical choice to INTO THE MYSTIC.
No copycat I.
All this notwithstanding, I am grateful to have never met Van the Man. He seems difficult and obtuse, and I’d rather not put any more of a strain on separating the art from the artist as I have to. Life is too fucking short.
And now, to listen to SAINT DOMINIC’S PREVIEW, with a focus on an obscurity on that disk, REDWOOD TREE, a song which, inexplicably, has the same effect on me as does any version of Stephen Sondheim’s SUNDAY; I get unapologetically weepy.
Trust me on this.
As ever, I remain,
Howard Victor Chaykin…a Prince.
