Van Morrison
Astral Weeks

THE REVIEW

Elusive as the unconscious, indefinable as a free-associating stream of thoughts. As Lucio Dalla used to say, "The thought, like the Ocean, cannot be blocked, cannot be fenced...", and therefore cannot be cataloged.
Van Morrison is a volcano of pure sensations, goes straight to the soul, escapes any classification. He is Irish, but until the '80s he never made profitable use of the mysterious and fascinating "Celtic color". However, when he decides to use it, he does it masterfully. His music seems rather built on solid blues pillars, but with such a personal interpretation of this genre that it completely disrupts the meter and canons, arriving at an almost total anarchy, a contamination with jazz, folk, and even classical elements.

Some, for his visionary lyrics, have evoked ancient Irish poets and others, some have seen him as the heir of the legendary Celtic bard. To me, this word brings to mind poor Assurancetourix, the official bard of Asterix's Gallic village, who, every time he tries to strum something, gets regularly gagged. Nothing could be further from Van Morrison, who is impeccably accompanied by rock-solid instrumentalists, generally from jazz, and uses his sharp baritone voice very flexibly, alternating confidential whispers with the mournful tones of blues, with frequent and sudden surges that leave listeners astounded.

After a brief apprenticeship period, shuttling between his native Belfast and the USA, with his second effort he releases "Astral Weeks," the progenitor of a long series of masterpieces, recorded in two days in 1968, yet a miracle of instrumental perfection. The title track, at the beginning, already offers a perfect example of the structure of "Van the Man's" irregular blues: it proceeds in stops and starts, without verses or choruses, through continuous additions of sensations suggested by the lyrics and drawn by the music, with the progressive entrance of acoustic guitar, flute, and violin to duet with the lean rhythmic base. When it fades out, we're already in a trance and hardly realize that 7 minutes have flown by. The same sensation is given by the two long ballads that dominate the second part: "Madame George" and "Ballerina." Their themes seem monotonous, but they hypnotize and enchant: in the former, the poignant and somewhat Cohen-like dialogue between acoustic guitar and violin is enhanced by a flute that seems to wander into free spaces; in the latter, a vague image of a woman worthy of Dylan's female icons, the attraction is due to the almost constant punctuating of a typically jazz vibraphone. Another jewel is the long "Cyprus Avenue": here, the task of capturing us is carried out by an unusual harpsichord, which starts with simple triplets, increasingly dense, to an accompaniment of baroque richness, as befits this instrument, typical of seventeenth-eighteenth-century music.
The deepest journey into the unconscious is "Beside You," a real vortex created by the clear notes of the acoustic guitar, the magical plays of a snake charmer's flute, and Van Morrison's desperate vocalizations, drawing us ever deeper into the depths of human sorrow. You cry and you enjoy. The tension is barely broken by two more naive episodes, more '60s, yet still rich with preciousness: "Sweet Thing" and "The Way Young Lovers Do"; particularly the latter flaunts brilliant soul horns.
Another brief gem closes the album: "Slim Slow Slider." The voice seems lost in an unreal void, gradually filled by the arabesques of a splendid flute, once again a great protagonist. The somewhat abrupt closure of this last magic leaves us speechless, with a fierce desire to listen to this sublime album again.