By c.d. kaplan

I’m not sure exactly when I first heard, or even became aware of “Astral Weeks.” It certainly wasn’t in ’68, when it was recorded. Most likely a decade or so later when the album nabbed a high perch on the Best Albums of All Time lists.

So I ventured in the slipstream, never turning back. My vinyl copy is worn. The CD is on regular rotation. The album is soulful, elegiac. It is sad, triumphant. This Irishman we’d only known as a rocker used top-shelf jazz players to back him. Brilliant. Who knew he had genius in him?

How many times have I given the record as a gift? Twenty? Double that?

For the first time ever, Van Morrison performed “Astral Weeks” in its entirety last weekend at the Hollywood Bowl. Classics were promised for the opening set. (Unlike his show last spring at the Ryman in Nashville, when he yawned his way through recent, less resonant material.)

Looking for a honeymoon destination, the Film Babe and I heard about the concert a couple weeks ago. We went online. We hit the jackpot at Ticketmaster Roulette. Seats popped up in the third row.

I looked at my bride. She looked at me. Click. Done. L.A. here we come.

I breathe in and breathe out, breathe in breathe out breath in breath out.

Let’s start by saying the concert was transcendent, beyond performance. Van took me to the great beyond, and I’m not sure I’ll ever make it all the way back.

When he’s on, Morrison is beyond words himself. He scats, folds and molds syllables, stretching their aesthetic, turning them inside out, fashioning emotion beyond any literal meaning. He is the human saxophone.

On one tune — I was mesmerized so much that some ran into each other — he offered, “Let me tell you the story … it doesn’t have any words.” Then he cooed and moaned and groaned and growled and honked and scatted and t-t-t-tuh-tuh-tuh-ticked, until it was impossible not to feel exactly what he was yearning and churning.

At the end of “Madame George,” the crowd was compelled to jump on board. Is this a train, he asked? This is a train/ this is the train/ this is the train/ get the train … Ten minutes of riffing later on the one word and image, he was off the stage and the staid L.A. crowd was howling for him to return. (Of course, given the seminal nature of the evening, the audience was full of acolytes from hither and yon and across the ponds.)

The first set of Friday’s show spanned his career. “Wavelength” begat “Saint Dominic’s Preview,” which begat “All In The Game/ You Know What They’re Writing About.” He finished with “Troubadours,” “Angelou,” Moon Dance” and “Brown-Eyed Girl.”

For an encore to the set, he did the usual: “Gloria.” But he worked to make the old saw work, even when his mic swallowed the first couple of lines. He went gospel call and response with one of the women backing him on vocals. It took off.

“Astral Weeks” — the second set — was not played in order. He slipped in “Slim Slow Slider” early on. A sad song about a dying friend finished with a flurry of hope, far different than Richard Davis’ bass coda on the album. (Jazz virtuoso Davis was to appear with Morrison at the Hollywood Bowl but had to cancel because of a family matter.)

Morrison’s voice was rich, full, pure. It soared and swooped. He was in total command. A tempestuous sort, he often brays at the sound man or otherwise appears irritated on stage at something real or imagined. Not this night. He was fully present, locked and loaded.

Friends have asked, how was the show? Beyond my loftiest of lofty expectations, I say. As special as any I’ve experienced. Spiritual, a trip to the Wailing Wall. Profound.

And so I’m now at the spot where if I continue, this will sound like some 7th grader writing about his first concert. I’ll wrap it up.

Van Morrison gets to me. I’ll also argue that he’s top of the heap of soul singers extant. But the latter is a matter of opinion and of no matter. I’m always ready.

I’ve heard Morrison when he mailed it in, crabbing to stage hands about one thing or another for the entirety of shortened sets. I’ve heard him sing a version of “St. James Infirmary” so sad that it brought tears.
Last week’s set at the Hollywood Bowl was light years beyond. Too often he seems disinterested on stage.

Not that night. Morrison was engaged, hell bent on taking the music to a different plane.

Van Morrison has described the “Astral Weeks” sessions as alchemy. Who am I to disagree? What happened on stage last Friday — one guy’s opinion — was beyond explanation, scientific, mystical or otherwise. It was the essence of music, no, something more. Sustenance. Succor.

Like I said, Morrison took me to the Great Beyond. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully make it back.

c.d. kaplan generally writes about sports for LEO Weekly.