JazzFest 07 — Van Is The Man.

Before his gig in New Orleans last week, I’d heard Van Morrison in person for only three sets. None compared to the transcendence of this most recent JazzFest gig. In fact, few sets by anybody else at anytime in my half century listening career approached the exquisite performance.

He opened for the Moody Blues at Cincinnati Gardens back in the day. A couple of hundred of us gathered around the stage. The rest of the crowd, which filled the place for the headliner, were in the bathrooms and hallways, deciding whether purple microdot or orange barrel would be the evening’s vehicle of choice. Morrison was moody and introspective. He paced the stage like a caged tiger, growling and hiccuping his lyrics and moans to the rhythm of some immaculate, internal percussion.

I’d love to say more. My critical analysis must remain on the shelf. I went with the microdot and all empiricism was lost as our VW van careened down that winding interstate into the Queen City.

The next time I saw Van in concert was, like last week, at the New Orleans JazzFest. It must have been six, seven years ago. He played an indoor evening concert. Then, the next day, outside at the fairgrounds racetrack, site of the festival. The nighttime show was as disappointing as any I’ve attended. Morrison was obviously in his cups. From the moment he stepped on stage he was barking at the sound guy, or a band member, or a stage hand, or all three at once. He gave a perfunctory, uninspired 50 minute performance, then bid a hasty adieu.

It was a dumbfounding disaster. It was Derby weekend back here. I’ve heard tell of some folks who flew down to New Orleans just for that Friday night show, then flew back on Saturday morning after for Derby. Bet they were pissed.

Most of my running pals passed on Morrison the next day, figuring there would be something better on one of the nine other stages. I used horse racing theory to assume the night before’s gig was a throw away and that Morrison would come back strong. So he did.

He played almost two hours. He was loose and felt the spirit force that is New Orleans. The tunes were seated in rhythm and blues, Crescent City R & B at that. He more than made up for the night before.

But it was nothing like his recent set. Did I use the word transcendent? Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. It would have been all worth it only for his version of St. James Infirmary, the best I’ve ever heard. He opened with a soprano saxophone vamp. Then, when it was time for the lyrics, he and the chorus simply moaned for a bit. Then he sang. Unbelievable.

During Stranded, a mesmerizing tune under any circumstance, the gal in the band playing pedal steel riffed on Santo & Johnny’s Sleep Walk. Sweet. One break also morphed into Gene Vincent’s Be Bop A Lu La. There was Moondance and Have I Told You Lately That I Love You and I Can’t Stop Loving You. And Fats Domino’s Hello Josephine with Dr. John sitting in lamely on the keyboard. And a Webb Pierce song from Morrison’s less than stellar country album. And Precious Time. When, for his closer, he scat sang his way through And The Healing Has Begun, there was only minor regret that he’d omitted Into The Mystic.

Van Morrison is a stalwart. He’s made about an album a year for, what, three, four, decades? Most amazing. A few that could be called clunkers. All worth a listen.

He is the human saxophone. And when he’s alive and right, he’s top shelf.

The rest of the festival was gravy.

J.J. Gray — an amalgam of Tony Joe White and Otis Redding — was on. Big time. The New Orleans Social Club proved a worthy successor to the strain of Meters and Neville Brothers. They closed with John Fogerty’s Fortunate Son. Funkified, of course. It was brutally good.

Then there were all the indigenous acts, most of whom you’ve heard little from, all of whom make it the greatest music weekend of the year. Every year. Special props to the New Orleans Klezmer All-Stars, who once again turned the eastern European, clarinet-driven dance tunes into a backbeat-drenched gumbo that’s way more Ornette Coleman and Galactic than anything you’d hear at a bar mitzvah party. Smokin’.

No Comments

No comments yet.

Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI

Leave a comment