Van Morrison’s a great songwriter, but a miserable person.
Rod Stewart
I write songs. Then, I record them. And, later, maybe I perform them on stage. That’s what I do. That’s my job. Simple.
Van Morrison
Perfection in art is virtually unattainable. Yet perfection is the aim of artists who hold themselves to high standards, for the production of flawless objects resides at the heart of their quest. In this respect, writers, sculptors, and painters have a much easier time facing that challenge because, almost always, they work alone. If they miss the mark, then, they’ve only themselves to blame.
But artists who require help to bring forth their creative visions—musicians and filmmakers, for instance—have the monumental task of relying on others to help them find the perfect means of expression. That is why, I believe, one hears so often of sharp tensions on a movie set, or of the often puzzling breakup of vastly talented groups of musicians.
By all accounts, Van Morrison is one of the most difficult artists to work with. Just last year, rock journalists were asked to name the musicians they found most troublesome to interview: Van Morrison ranked first, and several of the writers insisted it be noted that, in their opinion, no one else even comes close. And according to the Morrison’s biographers, the list of people who’ve worked with the Irishman and found him extremely irritating is quite long.
Because of Morrison’s volatility, several musicians who’ve toured with the singer have confessed that performing on stage with him is, invariably, a stressful experience. This seems to have been particularly true in the early years of his career—a career that has now spanned over five decades. But after viewing and listening to recent performances, in which Morrison appears to be having fun, one can surmise that the passage of time has tamed his legendary temper, if only slightly.
Over Christmas I purchased the DVD
Van Morrison Live at Montreux 1980 & 1974. The 1980 performance took place shortly after the release of
Common One, one of his more enigmatic recordings. Morrison’s performance at the Montreux Jazz Festival is quite good. And the band is outstanding. But at times the musicians seem haunted, their eyes flitting about nervously as if they fear that at any moment the specter of Morrison’s cantankerousness will materialize.
Regardless, the high point of the concert occurs rather early, I believe, when the program is only into the fourth song: “Troubadours,” a composition that originally appeared on
Into the Music, a 1979 recording.
“Troubadours” is a tribute to the musical performers who roamed throughout medieval Europe, earning a living by playing their creations in town after town. Morrison’s lyrics begin by describing the entrance of the troubadours as they pass the city walls. And as they make their way to the castle gates, the people gather from near and far, eager to listen to songs of love and chivalry.
In this live performance, the medieval feel of the song relies heavily on Mark Isham’s masterful playing of the piccolo trumpet (the same instrument used in the Beatles’ “Penny Lane”). Isham’s stately scales—a rather faithful rendition of the studio arrangement—make it easy to imagine days of yore when knights in armor performed gallant deeds.
The band plays inspiredly as it accompanies the modern-day Irish troubadour. Every note, every beat, every nuance is played with majestic splendor—as if they're accutely aware that they’re backing a dazzling rendition of a gorgeous poem for the enjoyment of the Montreux Jazz Festival audience.
In the closing refrain, the lyrics bid the love interest of the troubadours to lift her window high so she can better hear the performers. The song repeats this exhortation four times, and while Morrison sings, Isham’s piccolo trumpet adorns the piece with kingly flourishes, keeping listeners in a medieval mindset as the song approaches its climax.
At the end of the first refrain, after Morrison asks the song’s love interest to raise her window high, he commands: “Listen!” It is then that Pee Wee Ellis, on the tenor saxophone, plays a delicate solo that ends when Van begins to sing the refrain again, backed by Isham’s stately playing. Three more times Morrison orders the audience to listen, at the end of each refrain, and in the interstices, Ellis performs solos of gradually increasing intensity.
The live rendition of “Troubadours” is mesmerizing, and Morrison’s calls to “Listen!” draw full attention to the music's beauty as well as to his gloriously talented backing band. At the conclusion, I found it necessary to breathe out slowly as I wiped a few tears from my eyes.
Although I’ve listened to the studio version of “Troubadors” countless times, the Montreux performance helped me realize the unquestionable magnificence of the song. Hardcore Morrison fans—and I count myself among them—know that when The Man clicks on stage, few singers in the music business can come close to attaining his exalted heights. And it is at times like these that the Irish songwriter, who fully believes in the healing power of music, reaches out and touches our souls.
For those of you who’ve yet to be stirred by the work of this astounding artist, I bring ye counsel: lift your windows high, and listen.
