Into the Music: The Confessions of a Van Fan

It was on an oppressively dismal winter afternoon in 1992 that, at the age of seven, I first stumbled upon the music of Van Morrison. My father, the overseer of a family-owned construction company, had picked me up from school in his rusty, royal blue pickup truck, and was delivering me to a friend's house to play. It was a routine car ride, filled with idol conversation about the day's events. At once, however, I became agog by the sounds seeping from our FM radio station: an odd, ticktocking percussion, followed by a booming flush of pipes and horns. The sound was distinctly Irish, and the melody was infectious and welcoming, especially in the ears of a seven year old. Such exalting music, the likes of which I had never before heard, imbued the bleak midwinter day with a rare dose of nimble and vibrant joy. Little did I know that, upon this chance encounter with "I'll Tell Me Ma," my life would be forever changed.

Seven years later, on Christmas Eve of 1999, the celtic jig reared its head again. It was an uncharacteristically snowy holiday season in Virginia, and my evening was spent at a family Christmas party, held annually at my grandfather's sequestered country home. As I mingled with aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents, I sensed a familiar strain come waltzing from a cassette player in the nearby dining room. My initial observation was that the giddyness of the tune seemed eminently planned for this occasion: the warm radiance of the music blended seamlessly with the flickering glow of the fireplace. The pattering of the drums fused with the unflagging crackling of the smoldering logs, and provided a jovial backdrop to the spatterings of drunken conversation throughout the house.

It took me a moment to recognize what I was hearing, but when a stout and vigorous male voice began belting out the words, "I'll tell me ma/when I get home/the girls won't leave the boys alone," I made a sudden, nostalgic association with what seemed like my appallingly distant childhood. This song, though simple in words and structure, had once again exhilarated me, and I began frantically combing the house in search of someone who could identify the musician responsible for my hypnotic transfixture. My father's youngest brother was the only one among the bunch who could settle my inquisiton. His answer: why, of course, Van Morrison.

The following day was Christmas, and so all of the record stores around town were closed in observance of the holiday. I did, however, brave the "Day-After-Christmas" sales with my mother, and after visiting a handful of shops, I finally got my hands on Van's Irish Heartbeat album. It didn't end there, though, as I also snatched up copies of Moondance, Astral Weeks, and Saint Dominic's Preview, thus exhausting my Christmas gift money, and aggrivating my mother with such outrageous frivolity.

On that very day, a lifelong bond was formed between the soul of Johnny Archer, and the music of Van Morrison.

My two-time brush with "I'll Tell Me Ma" proved only a very brief beginning to my boundless reconnaissance mission into the vast universe of Van. Although it has become routine and distastefully cliché to portray a musical encounter as a life-altering event, I fervently believe that every time I give Van a spin on my playlist, I am temporarily transposed into a more savory time and place. It nevertheless seems strange, even in my own mind, that a reclusive Irish curmudgeon could pluck at and effectively manipulate my own spirit and soul. However, my subsequent romps amidst Van's wide-reaching reprertoire have disclosed many of the magical marks that have been branded in my psyche, and thus helping to explain why it is that I keep coming back for more.

For instance, I found that Astral Weeks is a consummate companion to the warm, windswept hillside of a sunny, summer afternoon.

I found that "In the Garden" is the greatest love song ever written, and that it can capture the ecstacy and agony of an infatuated affection better than any work of art ever has, or ever will.

I found that Van can vocally conjure a brooding thunderstorm and a soft spring zephyr, in consecutive breaths (see: "Ancient Highway" and "In the Afternoon" on Days Like This).

I found that "For Mr. Thomas" never fails to make me laugh.

I found that "In the Midnight" never fails to make me cry.

I found that I've never much cared to analyze the character of Madame George; in fact, all I care to do is listen to the whimsical arrangement of the song as it mingles beautifully with Van's breathtaking vocals.

I found that "Talk is Cheap" is the best therapy for a smoldering temper.

I found that Beautiful Vision is the best therapy for a smoldering hangover.

I found that Van performs Bob Dylan songs better than Bob Dylan performs Bob Dylan songs (see: "Just Like a Woman").

I found that "Summertime in England" is a great song to get high to, and that Avalon Sunset is a great substitute for attending church.

I found that Tupelo Honey works best as the soundtrack to an evening ride in the rolling countryside with your beloved. Meanwhile, I found that its title track is the best song to have playing if you're trying to get lucky with your beloved.

I found that "Celtic New Year" has the aura of a misty and foggy Irish gloaming.

I found that no song is more apt for confronting the death of someone you love than "And the Healing Has Begun."

I found that "Cry For Home" should be the last song I hear before I die.

And I found that Van Morrison can cater to my every mood, my every feeling, and my every musical need. Whereas most people rely on a dozen different musicians to fulfill their listening requirements, I only need Van.

Suddenly, it isn't so difficult to explain why I'd turn over a small fortune to pay for the forty-one commercial releases in my Van collection; or why I'd be willing to mutilate my hard drive to accomodate his dozens of concert bootlegs; or why I'd skip the last week of my college semester to flock hundreds of miles away, only to witness a "phoned in" performance of Van's; or why I'd even go to the trouble of making a blog about all of this in the first place.

The world is not an easy place to live. Therefore, when a man incurs something that he can truly cherish... something that makes him truly happy... he must cling to it as if he were drowning. In some ways Van is my addiction; in other ways, he's my lifeline.

I could go on living without Van's music; but it would all be far less meaningful.