I love the New Yorker, my parents always subscribed, I admit the cartoons were my major focus. Van Morrison was in NYC last week and the New Yorker did a piece on him:
Drive-by Dept.
Listening Party
Lakeside
Lounge, on Avenue B, is known for many things: close quarters, cheap
drinks, a photo booth, but most of all for its jukebox, which is full
of raw R. & B., country, and early rock and roll. Last Monday
afternoon, a short man in his sixties wearing oversized sunglasses and
a black fedora cocked his ear toward the speaker overhead. “Joe
Turner,” he said. “Big Joe.”
The song was “Honey Hush,” a No. 1
R. & B. hit in 1953 for the Kansas City blues shouter. The man was
Van Morrison, the Irish singer and songwriter, who was in town to play
a pair of shows that week at the WaMu Theatre, at Madison Square
Garden. The concerts were recitals of an old record, the 1968 album
“Astral Weeks.” But Morrison wanted to talk about even older records.
“There was a place in Belfast called Atlantic Records,” he said, his
accent strong, his speaking voice lighter than his singing voice. “They
imported the stuff from here, actually: jazz records and blues records.
I’d go with my father from when I was three.”
Joe Turner had
stopped coming out of the jukebox. Now it was the founding fathers of
rock and roll, in quick succession: Jerry Lee Lewis singing “Sixty
Minute Man,” Chuck Berry with “Tulane,” Bo Diddley’s “Dearest Darling,”
Little Richard on “Rip It Up.” Morrison acknowledged each song with a
nod. He looked slimmer than he has in the past, and he had long red
hair of a hue reminiscent of Sumner Redstone. He sipped tea from a mug,
and his press agent brought him a bagel with tuna salad. “The first
Little Richard song I heard was ‘Tutti Frutti,’ ” he said. “No, it was
the one from the movie ‘The Girl Can’t Help It.’ Little Richard was
doing rhythm and blues, but with horns,” Morrison went on. “It was
different than Elvis Presley, and so I preferred it. Why would you like
Elvis if you had the real stuff? I also preferred Carl Perkins and Gene
Vincent. Vincent was different. He was rock and roll, dangerous.”
Morrison
mentioned Wynonie Harris, the ribald singer of the late forties and
early fifties known as Mr. Blues: “I heard one of his on the radio, on
a daytime show. Someone probably played it by accident.” He held forth
on Leadbelly: “He did everything from children’s songs to cowboy songs
to show tunes.” He talked about the blind harpist Sonny Terry (the
first record he ever bought was one of Terry’s), the powerhouse
vocalist Bobby Bland, and the skiffle pioneer Lonnie Donegan. When
someone grouped Donegan with other practitioners of “pre-Beatles rock
and roll,” Morrison pulled up short.
“That’s a cliché,” he said,
adjusting his sunglasses. “I don’t think ‘pre-Beatles’ means anything,
because there was stuff before them. Over here, you have a different
slant. You measure things in terms of the Beatles. We don’t think music
started there. Rolling Stone magazine does, because it’s their
mythology. The Beatles were peripheral. If you had more knowledge about
music, it didn’t really mean anything. To me, it was meaningless.”
Continued