1997 Télérama interview
A voice of gold, an exemplary career. After thirty years, the monument of Irish rock has still got the blues. And he's still difficult. Van Morrison remains unchanged. However much he has repeated that you should be careful of myths, it's impossible to treat him as anything else. Reticent about giving interviews ; hostile to the media ; constantly at war with show-biz, the touchy Irishman looks after the legend. When, in a supreme effort to promote his latest album, The Healing Game, he agreed to meet a German journalist, he couldn't help kicking him out after two minutes. The unlucky chap had asked the question that he shouldn't have. Which question? That's a mystery... The incident is enough to stir up all the prejudice which had been heaped onto one of the greatest singers of the century. This miraculous voice, part drone, part curse, like a roaring tiger and injured lion, which transports the listener like no other singer operating in the binary sphere, coming out of the same larynx as the bear. A bitter monster, whose bad manners we excuse because of the constant excellence of his music for over thirty years. Who else can boast of having written the classic "Gloria" in 1964, the prodigious Astral Weeks in 1969 ; the album which (together with Dylan's Blonde on Blonde) is quoted most frequently as the greatest record in the history of rock music, then in 1974 It's Too Late to Stop Now, the live recording which has served as a model for all other live recordings? And who else can boast of practically never having disappointed his fan with the vast number of recordings which he has made since then? Van Morrison is right. You should be careful of myths. Because when, slightly worried, you go to meet him on the sunny terrace of a hotel in Palma, Majorca, you find out that the holy terror in question is in fact nothing but a chubby little chap, with furtive gestures and an anxious look. The tone is soft, like his Irish accent, just a little cautious. But Van Morrison appears more timorous than aggressive. "Everything is in my music" he always says. Exactly. How could you not want to know more about the author of music which talks to us like that, which touches us at the very deepest level? From the red-headed bundle of energy singing out his guts with Them in the 1960s, to the severe grandfather who continues to go back to his first musical loves, Van Morrison has hardly changed. He has never stopped making us pace up and down the streets of Belfast and the highways of Ireland, telling us about the blues and jazz musicians of his childhood and the poets who contributed to his self-taught education, taking us along the mystical paths of his spiritual quest. Untameable, throughout his career he has come up against the merchants in the temple of rock who wanted to turn the Irishman full of magic into a money-making machine . But Van didn't give in. The cost of his intransigence has been the freedom which is so dear to him. The freedom to record what he wants when he wants, which is often, and to express himself in the media when it suits him, which is practically never. That day in Palma, the weather and perhaps the thought of the concert he would give that night which would turn out to be electrifying, the usually untalkative Morrison was almost loquacious. TELERAMA: You have just recorded an album with John Lee Hooker... VAN MORRISON: He's a friend. We see less of each other now that I no longer live in the United States but we speak on the phone. I didn't start out singing folk or country music. From an early age, it was the blues that captivated me more than any other type of music. The bluesmen were the first people I wanted to meet. In a way, they are my musical ancestors, my godfathers. I met John Lee Hooker in London in the 1960s. He was the first person to say that the blues had nothing to do with the colour of your skin. One word sums up the essence of the blues: truth. After that, you can always call this truth the soul or the spirit. TRA: Is it because of these roots that you always show a certain contempt towards rock'n'roll? VM: Hold on - I've never denied rock'n'roll. My roots are also in rock'n'roll and rythym'n'blues. They are my musical family. I've always denounced what was called rock after that. Rock'n'roll is Fats Domino ; Little Richard ; Carl Perkins. This music was a liberating force for body and soul. You only have to listen to Jerry Lee Lewis or Little Richard literally liberating themselves by singing. But rock is nothing like that any more. It's company music, run along very strict lines. The original spirit has been wiped out. It's simple. When rock lost the roll; there was nothing more of interest for me. TRA: Your father was a blues fanatic ... VM: It seemed normal to me. When I was small, I thought everyone listened to this music. It was only talking to people of my own age later on that I realised that it was something out of the ordinary. So yes, I was certainly lucky to have grown up surrounded by such a musical environment. Elsewhere ; people were educated in music by listening to the records in the hit parade. TRA: Do you think that your musical sensitivity is the result of this background? VM: All I know is that it's the records by these blues musicians that I have inside me whenever I listen to them. But it's like painting. You can't always says exactly why you like one picture more than another. People always ask me questions as if I'm some sort of musical expert, but I've never really stopped to analyse it. It's a question of feeling... TRA: But you have very firm opinions about music ... VM: Rock is based on myths and fantasies created by several journalists at the end of the 1960s. They started seeing all sorts of deep and hidden messages in songs which didn't have any at all. The only analysis I have carried out is of this phenomena. I've tried to understand how this lie was born. In any case, when I have turned to my writing to try and find out where I get my inspiration from, I've never come to the same conclusions as they have. For me, it's a sort of therapy. I try to put together my personal puzzle. One day I was talking to Allen Ginsberg and he said to me "It's normal that you're touched by Kerouac. All that is Celtic". Slowly you come to realise that you don't like artists by sheer chance. Kerouac; it's Beat; poetry, Celtic origins. Some kind or logic slowly appears. TRA: And were you inspired by Dylan? VM:From the beginning of his career, Dylan was a very pertinent figure. He's an artist who speaks from the soul. When we have the chance, we swap impressions and ideas. But this doesn't happen very often; because both of us tend to work a great deal and prefer to express ourselves in our music. He's always on tour and I hardly ever stop. In two years I've recorded several albums ; mine and those of other people on which I have participated. And then there are the concerts now and then. I need to keep a balance between the work of creation, writing and performing, where my voice is the most important thing. My group is always on the alert. It's vital to be driven by a desire, a need ... TRA: How did you discover your voice as you started out playing saxophone? VM: It's the result of many years of hard work! People always think - and it's another myth - that you wake up one day with a brilliant voice. I'm always being told how lucky I am. I must admit that I did have a certain predisposition but that's all. God gives us a bit of talent but it's nothing if you don't work at it. People don't believe me when I say that it's just like any other job. I'm very hard working. The tool of my trade is my voice. Listen to my recordings with Them ; you wouldn't believe it's the same person singing. TRA: You inherited your mother's taste for things spiritual ... VM: Um, I wouldn't describe my mother as religious. I think that would annoy her. She's a free thinker. My father was an atheist. My religious sense doesn't come from the Church, it comes from music: Mahalia Jackson, Sister Rosetta Tharpe; gospel music. It's a much more universal spirituality. After that, I did some research on religion by myself. If my family had been very religious, I doubt whether it would have interested me. I'm more likely to reject things which people try to impose on me. When I was young in Belfast, I saw so many Catholics and Protestants for whom religion was a burden. There was enormous pressure and you had to belong to one or the other communities. Thank god, my parents were strong enough not to give in to this pressure. I'm interested in different religions out of curiosity, because I have a thirst for knowledge. As soon as you're seen with some sort of book on religion in your hand, people reckon that you have embraced such and such a church. In a society where curiosity and knowledge are praised, for most people, you are what you read. TRA: Contrary to most of your contemporaries, instead of being an expression of revolt, music for you is a culture... VM: I don't know because I still saw revolt. I did see music very much as a means of expression which was unique and different. When I started playing rhythm'n'blues in the 1960s with the Monarchs and Them, it was a form of music which channelled its energy into rejecting institutions. The musicians were outsiders, loners. This brut force really existed and was the driving force behind the musical movement. Unfortunately this rebellion was digested, slim-lined and marketed. Music itself became an institution. I think that it's America that stole the soul of music. TRA: You had to go to America to become disenchanted ... VM: I didn't discover America by going there. I had already met the american artists I admired in Europe. The blues were always much received better here than in America. All these guys used to hang about in London, that's where they found work. When I was discussing my first record with Bert Berns (he had worked with black artists like the Drifters or Solomon Burke) he told me that he was not interested in people like Sonny Boy Williamson. He's nothing. In the States, people don't even know who he is. That's how I learned about the gap between the business and the music. Berns, who had produced big soul records, only thought in terms of sales and contracts. When I left for the States at the end of the 60s, I didn't have any illusions. TRA: You often adapt the songs of others but not recent ones. Do these songs always have to take you back to the past? VM: I do tend to dive back in history. I need to go back to the source of what I hear. I can't help it if old songs and jazz numbers do a hundred times more for me that rap or modern pop. It's a terrible thing to say but I don't think anyone will surpass the likes of Miles Davis or John Coltrane. I don't have much patience with music which is just a rehash of something old. I don't think an artist necessarily progresses by soaking up all that's currently happening. For me, progress means going further in what I love, in what touches me. TRA: How does it feel to have written "Gloria", one of the few authentic classics, at such an early age? VM: Look how you can rewrite history. Gloria is spoken of as a master work; the spontaneous birth of a classic. It was never even a single! It was a B-side. Secondly, Gloria was never a rock'n'roll or rock song. For me, it was rythmn'n'blues, a homage to Muddy Waters and Bo Diddley. Quite simply; we had entered a period in 1964-65 when any young music which had a raw quality was considered to be rock. I'm lucky enough to exist for other things than just "Gloria". It is only one out of the 250 songs I've composed. I'm more interested in what I'm writing today that in songs which are over 30 years old. I'm not like those singers who are condemned to survive by playing the nostalgia card. TRA: You often deny the autobiographical aspect of your work ; as if you are embarrassed by the fact we listen to the lyrics ... Should we listen to your records like those of someone like Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, just for the voice? VM: It's not up to me to decide how music should be perceived. People listen to records for different reasons. To my mind, "Gloria" is dance music. Back then, that was all dance music was for - having a good time by dancing. We were DJs as well as musicians. When I started performing in the United States, it was a completely new exercise. For the first time I sang for people who were sitting down! They didn't dance, they listened to me! It took me a long time to get used to it ; because it had never been my intention to play in order to be listened to, watched, examined... TRA: You recorded an album of traditional Irish folk music with the Chieftains in 1988, Irish Heartbeat ... VM: This record had nothing to do with nostalgia. It was a militant act. It was to shake up the Irish recording industry. Before that, Irish popular music was just pop soup. No-one tried to sing in Gaelic or use traditional instruments. Irish Heartbeat had an enormous influence on the Irish music scene. After this album, everyone wanted the Chieftains to play on their records. TRA: You have often said that you would like to write or teach. Is the great number of records you have made a way of compensating for the fact that you haven't been successful in other areas? VM: Not at all. I've never tried to be famous and create attention around my name. But at one time I didn't have the choice. During the period of Them, we were at the mercy of our manager or record company. We obeyed orders or else we didn't get our pittance at the end of the week. We followed a programme that was forced on us, from exhausting tours to tiring promotion sessions. Thirty years later, I can do what I want Perhaps that's why I'm not invited to conferences. Business men don't want to hear me telling the truth about them. I just want to share my experience. But who wants to listen to someone who knows what they're talking about ? They'll always prefer the myth, the MTV vision of rock. Today people want sequins, dreams and illusion. That means that I'm immediately confined to the role of an old moaner. TRA: You're not worried about getting old? VM: Not at all. But that's an idea that people find hard to accept in the rock world where there is this ridiculous myth about eternal youth. That's why once again I don't feel that I belong to this family. Someone like David Bowie could come from another galaxy. I have nothing in common with this 50 year old adolescent. In any case, we don't do the same job. I don't think that you change in your lifetime. The packaging of skin may be modified but you basically stay the same person deep down inside. What's important is to remain enthusiastic. I don't want to be blasé. Part of the van-the-man.info unofficial website |