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Not surprisingly 1990's The Best of Van Morrison is among the best-selling albums in Morrison's catalog. After all, it's where the hits are. And, sure, if you've only known Morrison through the FM-band, you've come to know him for "Brown Eyed Girl," "Moondance," "Domino," "Wild Night," "Wavelength" and a handful of others. Brides around the world are disappointed at their weddings when the DJ opts for Van's version of "Have I Told You Lately" instead of the more recognizable Rod Stewart cover. And anyone who attends a Van Morrison concert is in for a crapshoot. Could be soulful and transcendent. Could be moody and disinterested. Could spotlight half a dozen other musicians and singers. Just about anything could happen. He might sing the entire set beached on the piano. Hardcore Morrison fans know to expect the unexpected and also know that while Morrison's hits are worth their time, they're hardly representative of what drives his music.
Universal Music's Van Morrison reissue program, like Van himself, defies logic. Albums ranging from 1971's Tupelo Honey through 2002's Down the Road are scheduled for reissue over the next year-and-a-half and the second batch seems as random as the first seven that were issued in January. It's not chronological or thematic in any discernible way. This time around it's 1974's Veedon Fleece, 1985's Live at the Grand Opera House Belfast, 1986's No Guru, No Method, No Teacher, 1990's Enlightenment, 1994‘s A Night in San Francisco and 1997's The Healing Game. Try making a cohesive statement from that group. All but the Opera House collection come with a few bonus cuts, alternate takes and excellent remastered sound.
Veedon Fleece is the obvious jewel and the album that best represents the hidden Van. Mostly overlooked at the time of its initial release -- it had no hits and critics seemed to hit Morrison burnout, as did Morrison who didn't release another album until 1977 -- it's come to be recognized as one of Van's towering achievements, often paralleled with his widespread acknowledged masterwork, 1968's Astral Weeks. Fleece is its now obvious counterpart, filled with songs that defy natural description, that flow to their own pulse and resolve on their own merit. The reissue includes the lyrics and two bonus cuts: alternate takes of "Cul De Sac" and "Twilight Zone," a track that never made it to Fleece, but has been bootlegged in concert and a different take of which appeared on Morrison's 1998 collection of outtakes, The Philosopher's Stone.
These additions affect the album, especially the lyric sheet. My LP and original CD barely included the album credits. It wasn't until a few years ago while searching the internet that I came across the lyrics to Veedon Fleece. Admittedly, I'm not always an observant listener. I'm usually content to let the music come to me slowly, to mishear lyrics and never stand corrected, to make non-existent associations and take them as literal truths. So, imagine my shock after more than twenty years of listening to "Fair Play," the opening cut, to discover that it has something to do with the lakes of Kilarney being so blue and mentions of Oscar Wilde and Henry David Thoreau. I knew something was "blue," I'd just never bothered to figure out what. I'd been transfixed by the simple shuffle between the song's two chords, the pastoral charm of the piano and the acoustic bass, and the loose, flowing groove that allowed Van the chance to slip around the beat with words like "imagination" and phrases like "tit for tat, love you for that" and "you say, Geronimo." Just like its album cover, I imagined the grass growing greener as the song crossed the six-minute mark. Reading the lyrics doesn't change its imagistic thrust, but it nails down a few mysteries that never needed resolving.
"Linden Arden Stole the Highlights" follows and having its mysteries resolved do affect the outcome. Just as I've never listened close enough to the narrative of Bobbie Gentry's "Ode to Billie Joe" or Jimmy Webb's "Galveston" to discern the entire story (my attention span is bad, folks), I'd never made it to the end of this slightly over two-minute story song to learn that a man's head is cut off with a hatchet. Somehow I missed that. I knew he was a "drinkin' man" who went to church on Sundays and loved the little children "like they were his very own." I knew the piano built to a crescendo and Morrison hit notes in his upper register that in just a few years would no longer be available to him. But I had no idea that anyone died in the delivery of the song. As a result of this discovery, I have now looked to find out what I'm missing in "Streets of Arklow," where the flute sends chills up my back as it echoes over the Irish countryside (or in my case, my childhood backyard in New Jersey), or what great relevance "William Blake and the Eternals" serves in "You Don't Pull No Punches, But You Don't Push the River," a song with an ominous brood lurking under its casual shuffle. There are things I don't want to know. As Van later sings on a much better album than it deserves to be, 1990's Enlightenment: "Enlightenment, don't know what it is."
Don't know what it is. Yes, don't want to know what it is.
