***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.