Van the Man delivers his best gig in years

Review: A reinvigorated Van Morrison superbly mixes fundamentals and favorites at L.A. show.

We know he's unpredictable. That's why we come.

Actually, that's half the fun of checking in with Van Morrison whenever he and his expert band roll into one of our local venues, which they seem to do just about every other year anymore, each visit finding the black-clad bunch virtually unchanged. Even Van, almost always spotted in his crime-noir cool suit and hat, looks more or less the same at 61 as he did at 51.

Wednesday night at Gibson Amphitheatre he appeared to have shed a few pounds, that's all, and he was punchier because of it. No shoulder-high kicks revived from his younger days, of course, but at times you could detect a revitalized bark in his playful delivery.

These days more a consummate bandleader than St. Van the Seeker or the spirit-channeling spitfire of yore, he admittedly can seem detached. During solos he'll sit on the edge of organist John Allair's bench with his back to the crowd, or he'll wander to the wings to give quiet instruction to guitarist John Platania about a coming bridge. And he rarely says more to the crowd is "thank you"; this night he added "here's another from the country album" and "wanna do a little Sonny Boy Williamson tune for ya now."

But though the fire has never fully gone out of his mighty roar, there was renewed and palpable heat to his vocals here. It makes sense that sax is his instrument of choice these days, for he sings like Coltrane blows, jazzy runs and improvised asides coloring and restructuring familiar melodies.

He remains a singular, if outwardly subdued, force of nature, one whose ongoing excavation of the music he grew up with – the roots of R&B and country – has become crucial. Though only loyalists and critics have taken notice of his late-career transformation into supreme keeper of the flame, Van Morrison has become arguably the pre-eminent authority on the fundamentals of rock 'n' soul. Even more so than Dylan, perpetually off on his own trip.

All of that said, there was still no telling what Van would present at Gibson. His last proper album was the warm, wonderful "Pay the Devil," a country homage issued by Americana label Lost Highway. But that came out nearly a year ago. His most recent release, in fact, arrived just last week, and it's exactly what it claims to be: "Van Morrison at the Movies," a compendium of classics that have turned up in pictures over the years.

He's never worried much about promoting whatever album is most fresh, but would he offer a fusion of those two titles anyway – part country affair, part memory-lane stroll? Would this set mirror the hits-and-remakes one from last year's Austin City Limits Festival, which was on sale in a tour-exclusive double-disc package at the merch stand?

Indeed, would the sign posted there and elsewhere – that Van starts promptly at 7:30, has no opening act and takes no intermission – turn out to be inflexibly true?

Yes to the first two queries, and just about to the third.

At 7:34 the lights dimmed, his band entered for a warm-up, including a take on "Into the Mystic," one of his best songs, for which his vocalist daughter Shana proved no match. And roughly 10 minutes later Van was on, huffing into his harmonica as he sauntered on singing "Bright Side of the Road," mellifluous ad-libs and a Satchmo impression tumbling from his tongue.

And for the next 90 minutes he was more vibrant than he's been in at least his past five SoCal stops, his voice deeply edifying above the contoured, robust sound of his band, a superb group that (no doubt through Van's guidance) deftly combines every element he's currently exploring.

Country held some prominence, sure, notably in the fiddle work of Tony Fitzgibbon and the remarkable pedal-steel swoons from Cindy Cashdollar, who brought both a modern touch and nostalgic charm (like a taste of "Theme From 'A Summer Place' ") to the weeping instrument. But though a handful of "Devil" dollops featured in the set – alongside a sharp cover of Ray Charles' "I Can't Stop Loving You" – this was no hootenanny lark. Like Lyle Lovett and His Large Band, Van's ensemble encompassed the full spectrum of mid-20th-century American music; it would have sounded as at-home at the Grand Ole Opry or Radio City Music Hall.

And it was sprinkled with marvelous little surprises: a funky "Cleaning Windows" with a "Be Bop-a-Lula" finish; a gently menacing Mancini-esque arrangement of "Moondance"; a snippet of Sam Cooke's "You Send Me" to conclude "Real Real Gone"; a pairing of the jump blues "Don't Start Crying Now" with the delicious double entendres of Sonny Terry's "Custard Pie" that cooked almost as much as the ripping rockabilly of "Playhouse"; the Cab Callaway creep of "Saint James Infirmary"; a winning "Wild Night" even Shana's wan style couldn't dampen.

Then there was the crowd-pleasing encore: "Brown Eyed Girl," which I haven't heard him play in years, and the usual roar of "Gloria." And by 9:20, when most headliners elsewhere were just about to go on, he was gone, having put to bed his best local performance in I don't know how long.

This, you see, is why we come. We never know when a great gig like this will occur