Van is still the man, as he unleashes his full talent – and humour
Van Morrison Nell’s Jazz & Blues Club, W14
★★★★★
Atiny little jazz club in west London witnessed a show as great as any in his illustrious career from the legendary Northern Irish singer-songwriter. Van Morrison was on blistering form, delivering a dazzling and engaged performance that was as warm and friendly as it was bravura. Which, as long time Morrison watchers know, is not a given. He is always impressive when he plays but he doesn’t always look happy about it. Yet here he was, unleashing the full charge of his extraordinary talent to a couple of hundred fortunate fans.
With another fine new album to promote, Roll with the Punches (his 36th solo album), Morrison appeared on Later… with Jools Holland at the Albert Hall last week and he will tour prestigious concert halls in November. But he seems to like small clubs best, which take him back to his R’N’B roots. At Nell’s, his seven-piece band crowded on a tiny stage, where Morrison stood like a hatchet-faced old bluesman in suit, trilby and sunglasses, inches away from the audience. His only real concession to stardom was a gold-plated microphone and stand.
The band watched their leader with nervous intensity as he called out songs, apparently making his set list up on the spot. But smiles broke out as the musicians established Morrison’s mood, as he nodded vigorously, punched the air for snare shots, and muttered “Yeah! Yeah!” at intricate guitar and trumpet solos. Most of the band played at least two instruments, Morrison himself played three: electric guitar, saxophone and harmonica, all with virtuoso fluidity and feel. But his fourth instrument is the one that still raises goosebumps: his voice. At 72, Morrison sang like a champion, his breath blowing through the notes like cosmic howls, swirling and eddying above the piano lines, swooping down with the bass, ricocheting off the drums with staccato repetitions. Whenever his head tipped back, the voice rose, and he embarked on an extemporaneous coda, it was astonishing to behold.
He played some R’N’B covers from the new album (“If anyone’s interested!” he griped cheerfully), some gorgeous selections from his vast catalogue (In the Afternoon from 1979 was bliss) and a smattering of hits. “This is an old chestnut but don’t hold it against me,” he quipped before 1973’s Warm Love. He tore through Baby Please Don’t Go, and whipped up an effervescent Gloria. A headspinning Moondance was reinvented around stunning solos. “The reason we do that one is it gives the guys in the band a chance to blow, d’you know what I’m saying?” he remarked in his gruff, deadpan manner. Oh, we knew all right. “Let me explain this one to you, too,” he joked before a sensual rendition of 1979’s All in the Game.
Morrison can be a legendarily taciturn and cantankerous performer, but here he was, cracking jokes, asking for requests. “This is a workshop!” he announced, to much laughter. “We’re not doing comedy yet,” he mock-complained, “that comes at the end.”
Back in the Seventies, when Morrison bore the aura of a hippy guru, his concerts were approached as spiritual experiences. These days, he seems content to offer something more prosaic. But such was the astonishing skill, soul and feeling on display, the effect remains the same: singer, band and audience lifted into the mystic realm of pure musical communion. Roll on, Van, roll on.