***The Belfast Cowboy, Van Morrison, Rides Again
From
The Pen Of Frank Jackman
A while back, maybe a couple of
years ago, maybe three, although at that time rather accidentally, I was on something
of an outlaw country moment tear. Again. The “again” part stemmed from a point I made
at the time that I had also mentioned elsewhere when I had the opportunity to discuss
county music, or rather more correctly outlaw country music, that I had a very
short, but worthwhile period when I was immersed in this genre in the late
1970s. Previous to that time I had written off country music, outlaw or
Nashville, as so much twaddle, as so much my southern born father’s music. Hokey
stuff from the bayous, the mountains and the sticks, George Jones, Hank
Williams (sorry, now sorry, Hank), Eddie Arnold, Patsy Cline (sorry, sorry now,
Patsy) stuff that drove me up the wall. Make of that what you will, rebellion
against the father or whatnot, but that was the case. I should also point out,
as I have elsewhere, that 1950s coming of age teen rock “n’ aficionado in the
making was also driven up that same wall by the insistent Harry James, Glen
Miller, Inkspots, Andrews Sister, Bing Crosby stuff that my mother and father,
and maybe yours too, gathered from the local radio station that knew its
demographics, the music that had gotten them through the apart World War II,
one fighting off in the Pacific the other waiting at home, waiting against the
other shoe dropping night. Make of that what you will as well.
But back to that 1970s moment. After
tiring somewhat of Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings and other more well- known
country outlaws I gravitated toward the music, eerily beautiful and haunting
music, of Townes Van Zandt whose Steve Earle tribute album Townes I have
recently reviewed in this space. As I noted in that review, as well, while this
outlaw country thing was short-lived and I scrambled back to my first loves,
blues, rock and folk music I always had time to listen to Townes and his funny
mix of blues, folk rock, rock folk, and just downright outlaw country.
And that brings us to the album
under review, Magic Time, and another “outlaw” country music man, the
Belfast cowboy Van Morrison. Wait a minute, Van Morrison? Belfast cowboy? Okay,
let me take a few steps back. I first heard Van Morrison in his 1960s rock period
when I flipped out over his Into The Mystic on his Moondance
album. And also later when I saw him doing some blues stuff highlighted by his
appearance in Martin Scorsese PBS History of Blues series several years
ago and said, yes, brother blues. But somewhere along the way he turned again
on us and has “reinvented” himself as the “son”, the legitimate son, of Hank
Williams. While one album, or one recording artist, will not have me scampering
back to look for that acid-etched outlaw country moment Van Morrison has proven
to be no one-trick pony as his long and hard-bitten career proves.
If you do not believe me then just listen to him ante up on
his Keep Mediocrity At Bay, a classic folk bluesy number; the thoughtful
Just Like Greta; the pathos of Lonely And Blue; the title song Magic
Time; and, something out of time, a time when we were young and ready to do
battle, do serious battle against all that was old, ugly, and greedy in the
world, Evening Train. The Belfast cowboy, indeed, although I always
thought, and maybe I read too many Westerns as a kid, cowboys wore their
emotions down deep, deep down in their rambling souls not on their blues high
white note sleeves.
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