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Can You Feel the Silence?: Van Morrison
This groundbreaking biography of a brilliant but disturbed performer explores the paradox of the man and the artist. Based on more than 100 interviews, this intelligent profile explores Morrison's roots; the hard times he went through in London, New York, and Boston; the making of his seminal albums Moondance and Astral Weeks ; and the disastrous business arrangements that left Morrison hungry and penniless while his songs were topping the charts. Detailed are the breakdown of Morrison's marriage, the creative drought that followed, and his triumphant reemergence. In addition, this biography attempts to explain the forbidding aspects of Morrison's persona, such as paranoia, hard drinking, misanthropy, as well as why, in the words of his one-time singing partner Linda Gail Lewis, Morrison's music "brings happiness to other people, not him." Also included is a Van Morrision sessionography that spans 1964 to 2001.
576 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2002
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February 27, 2023Van Morrison crept up on me slowly. I was unaware of him for a long time. Then, I don’t know how, I felt a presence near and turned around. He was there, still fat, short, bald and profoundly, I may say breathtakingly, unsexy, and before I could gather my wits he had dealt me a mighty buffet to the cranium. I went down heavily. He was kicking me and yelling “you’re the bastard who writes Amazon reviews which say that I haven’t done anything worth bothering about since Avalon Sunset! I’ve been following you! Okay, you like Avalon Sunset? I’ll give ye a sunset ye'll remember!” Whap! Whap! Yeeouch! Van didn’t push the river and he didn’t pull no punches. I was hurting. As I rolled around on the deck I managed to kick the little bastard in his soft hinderparts and he went down too. I jumped up and grabbed a chair (we were in a chair factory) and I was just about to put an end to the miserable tail-end of a great career when he starts with his pitiful wailing “Naw naw I didnae mean it, it wisnae me, don’t crush my skull, I’m a great artist and I need to write another twenty great songs about how difficult it is to write songs anymore”.
By this time his band members had gathered round the fracas as if we were in a schoolyard (but we were in a chair factory). “Gi’ et to em, jist pannel his heid when ye goat the chance sonnyboy, we’ll all keep the police awa’ likesay – naebody in this particular backup ensemble has any especial feeling of bonhomie fer yon miserable Celtic bastard” said the drummer in a broad Glaswegian accent, which was strange as I knew he was born in Atlanta and had been part of some Motown revival revue for years. Who knows? Life can be unusual. When I woke up that morning I had no notion of visiting a chair factory, and yet, here I was. So as I held the chair (elegant, faux Chippendale) above my head and Van hovered between life and death it suddenly occurred to me yet again that all my encounters with major popular musicians end in violence. And I was sad. But then I remembered the fat bastard himself had started it, he came after me, I was just telling the truth in my Amazon reviews, if he can’t take the fact that he’s a burnt-out case then he needs to hire a few more therapists.
Crash – the chair came down but by then the Caledonian soulster had rolled and scuttled away, he was faster than I thought, like a rat or a water vole. He hid behind a stack of wooden pallets where he began to hurl small harmonicas at me. Maybe he had a supply in his inside pockets, I didn't pause to enquire. As in most of these testosterone-fuelled egofests, the whole thing petered out in flatulent name calling – “I know where you live ye know” – “God’s gonna shine his light on you one day sonnyboy, if you take my meaning” – “anyone who calls you a poet has never read a poem!” – “shut ya mouth” - "mithering aresewipe" – that kind of thing.
So in the end this natty geezer in a suit came running up and said if I didn’t go to the press or the police and if I didn't twitter any of this whole sorry episode I could have complimentary tickets to the next gig and a free copy of every Van Morrison cd. Every one? I asked. Every one, starting with Them. Hey man, that’s great I said, and we shook on it. Two days later this great big package came and I’ve been listening to the whole lot of them. It was worth a few lumps on the head. The concert wasn’t bad either.
***
Note to all relevant parties : This book made me laugh and cry. I absolutely fell in love with the characters!
By this time his band members had gathered round the fracas as if we were in a schoolyard (but we were in a chair factory). “Gi’ et to em, jist pannel his heid when ye goat the chance sonnyboy, we’ll all keep the police awa’ likesay – naebody in this particular backup ensemble has any especial feeling of bonhomie fer yon miserable Celtic bastard” said the drummer in a broad Glaswegian accent, which was strange as I knew he was born in Atlanta and had been part of some Motown revival revue for years. Who knows? Life can be unusual. When I woke up that morning I had no notion of visiting a chair factory, and yet, here I was. So as I held the chair (elegant, faux Chippendale) above my head and Van hovered between life and death it suddenly occurred to me yet again that all my encounters with major popular musicians end in violence. And I was sad. But then I remembered the fat bastard himself had started it, he came after me, I was just telling the truth in my Amazon reviews, if he can’t take the fact that he’s a burnt-out case then he needs to hire a few more therapists.
Crash – the chair came down but by then the Caledonian soulster had rolled and scuttled away, he was faster than I thought, like a rat or a water vole. He hid behind a stack of wooden pallets where he began to hurl small harmonicas at me. Maybe he had a supply in his inside pockets, I didn't pause to enquire. As in most of these testosterone-fuelled egofests, the whole thing petered out in flatulent name calling – “I know where you live ye know” – “God’s gonna shine his light on you one day sonnyboy, if you take my meaning” – “anyone who calls you a poet has never read a poem!” – “shut ya mouth” - "mithering aresewipe" – that kind of thing.
So in the end this natty geezer in a suit came running up and said if I didn’t go to the press or the police and if I didn't twitter any of this whole sorry episode I could have complimentary tickets to the next gig and a free copy of every Van Morrison cd. Every one? I asked. Every one, starting with Them. Hey man, that’s great I said, and we shook on it. Two days later this great big package came and I’ve been listening to the whole lot of them. It was worth a few lumps on the head. The concert wasn’t bad either.
***
Note to all relevant parties : This book made me laugh and cry. I absolutely fell in love with the characters!
December 1, 2014
To say that Van Morrison is a complicated man is an understatement borne out during every twist and turn of this book. His artistry, his musical genius, his enigmatic demons, and his real life industry and "star' calamities make for a bubbly literary cocktail.
This apparently was a difficult book to write since Morrison was unwilling, for the most part, to contribute any insights directly. As a result it is an attempt to piece together the mystery of a difficult and talented man by tracing the events of his career, extracting bits and pieces from those willing to talk about him, and pouring over whatever was written in the media.
It makes the book often difficult to follow. The author extracts what he considers clues in Morrison's lyrics and in the history of music related events. There are so many players, literally, as bands and band mates are in a kind of unending game of musical chairs, that it's a challenge to keep everyone straight when sometimes, for the sake of the profile, they don't really matter.
It is a curiously fascinating read. It forces you to enter into this chaotic world and try to make sense of it, hopefully without having to take to Morrison's propensity to drink. As for his music, it's wonder speaks for itself.
This apparently was a difficult book to write since Morrison was unwilling, for the most part, to contribute any insights directly. As a result it is an attempt to piece together the mystery of a difficult and talented man by tracing the events of his career, extracting bits and pieces from those willing to talk about him, and pouring over whatever was written in the media.
It makes the book often difficult to follow. The author extracts what he considers clues in Morrison's lyrics and in the history of music related events. There are so many players, literally, as bands and band mates are in a kind of unending game of musical chairs, that it's a challenge to keep everyone straight when sometimes, for the sake of the profile, they don't really matter.
It is a curiously fascinating read. It forces you to enter into this chaotic world and try to make sense of it, hopefully without having to take to Morrison's propensity to drink. As for his music, it's wonder speaks for itself.
July 31, 2018
He did the best he could, didn't he? Given that he did not have direct access to Van the Man. So, I learned a lot. As Van himself admits - he is not a nice person. He seems to have a mental illness compounded by alcoholism. For reasons unclear he does not like to rehearse recordings, but rather record them spontaneously, often to the surprise of the ever changing group of supporting musicians. When he is not performing, he wishes that he were; when he is performing, he wishes that he weren't.
A pet peeve of mine is music books (like this one and most) that do not include the actual music. My god, it's the 21st century! At a minimum, put up a Spotify playlist so that we can listen to all of the phenomenal music discussed in this book. For me, the best part of this book was discovering "Summertime in England," which, somehow, I had missed. What a great piece of work.
A pet peeve of mine is music books (like this one and most) that do not include the actual music. My god, it's the 21st century! At a minimum, put up a Spotify playlist so that we can listen to all of the phenomenal music discussed in this book. For me, the best part of this book was discovering "Summertime in England," which, somehow, I had missed. What a great piece of work.
November 22, 2013
This is undoubtedly a piece of very serious and well documented music journalism. It's a deep and thorough journey into an extremely edgy character and his pretty complex music. All that said, I think the author is sometimes too bitter and makes harsh comments on the quality of some of Morrison's songs without giving full explanation. Yet most of the time the judgement is justified. Despite a bit of pedantry throughout the book and the trivial focus on Morrison's ridiculous spiritual adventures, this is a really good piece of professional, non-flattering work on modern music.
September 23, 2007
I am a MAJOR Van fan and this book was full of detailed information about his life and his work. I appreciated learning how he became a musician and the creation of his many albums.
That said, it was hard to read about some of his "challenging" personality traits. After learning about his curmudgeonly side, I felt disappointed and part of me wishes I had never read the book.
That said, it was hard to read about some of his "challenging" personality traits. After learning about his curmudgeonly side, I felt disappointed and part of me wishes I had never read the book.
April 24, 2016
Unlike Rogan's 2/5 and Hinton's 3/5, Heylin's is a very promising and critically perceptive biography of Van Morrison. I could tell right away. Maybe too early: maybe I just grabbed it as soon as I could, before becoming maturely wise all around. Or maybe exactly at the right time: while it's all still fresh, before all unnecessary piles of preparation can make you stale and removed. Is that it? Is that how it should be grabbed, or if it's grabbed like that maybe that's in the end just 'grasping for straws'? Grabbing, grasping, all belabored. Irish rock or stone, passingly interesting, hounded yet further. It's all right.
The beginning's quite interesting, zig-zagging all over his career; always quite quaint, from the early outside "And It Stoned Me" to the late inside "On Hyndford Street"! It'd be maddening if it weren't so carefully documented and shaped into good little pieces. Then of course is the dull grind of the early '60s, amateur musicianship to showband circuit to Them coherence, all the while finding a voice. Not song lyrics now, as digressions to color the research, but little slices quoting the people themselves (colleagues, etc.) or Morrison himself (during an interview, or in the between-song patter of some obscure-but-recorded concert, might pass a slight reminiscence). The shift between keeping mostly lyrics or mostly quotes from real people isn't as smooth as I might hope, but it ends up servicing the prose quite nicely for the most part.
I don't dig all of Heylin's music criticism, especially overblowing some Them stuff I could take or leave as well as giving short shrift to The Bang Masters (I think "Chick-A Boom", "It's All Right", and "Send Your Mind" are all A+ songs myself). He's appropriately reverent about Astral Weeks, though, and gives the songs a lot of critical high marks while chasing down all sorts of production trivia. It's an odd balance the music biographer sets for himself in general -- sorting through mundanities in quest of the sublime, so should these 'mundanities' who've done all the work have the spotlight they deserve or the rougher 'sublime' itself? -- but usually a worthwhile one anyway.
There are some very strange and welcome Morrison quotes too, which Heylin has compiled for us. After Blowin' Your Mind!'s disgraces, Van the Man said an album was "roughly forty minutes of music, that's all" (158). What a curious way to neutralize a problem, by making even-more-problematic just about every other thing you've done in your life. And later, no longer musical but personal, he mentions during a break from performing "It's All In The Game" (imprecisely fixed by Heylin to "a quarter of a century later" than all the acrimony surrounding suit, counter-suit, split with Janet, etc. in the early '70s): "By the time solicitors get involved, it doesn't matter whose fault it is" (268). 'Doesn't matter' in that way, though, sounds as if it had used to matter or would matter if there were some other condition met: unconvincing.
Or as Van the Man reflected in 1985 about the events of more than a decade earlier, when Saint Dominic's Preview had come out, in a certainly longwinded but always rather intriguing way, "Then you have a couple of albums out and you get these reviews, and these people are saying, 'Well, this means this about that, and he was going through that when he wrote this.' You read these things and you go, 'Who are they talking about?'... So you get to the point where you're afraid to write anything, because you know somebody's gonna make something of it" (259). Well, ouch, I must say. But if you can't take the criticism (when someone 'makes something of' something else), then don't originally make anything, especially if it's inside a la-la, critic-happy world where everyone's apparently a critic.
Or as a similar reflection follows (quoted in 1987, about the events of 1973 or so): "...So you have to pretend that there is something you are searching for [even if not], or... an idea that you take somewhere. So it seems like you're searching, but in fact you're just telling little stories" (279). Pretending you are yourself searching equals not searching. Well, the most I've read about 73's Hard Nose the Highway in quite a while, as well as the sabbatical to Ireland, Veedon Fleece, and plenty of others; but the attention to this or that manager or promoter or publicist, and the falling out that usually results from testing Morrison's surliness, starts to feel unnecessary. Sure, you're allowed, but is it one-sided gossip or watery and many-sided Rashomon-like wastes? Humongous collection, fact-checked and pruned all day, but to what end?
Christianity investigation, in the years starting around '79 and in the pages starting around 350, is in my opinion a much better outlet for Heylin's investigation. Into the Music may have hinted at a beginning, and the next few albums developed it, but it wasn't until Inarticulate Speech of the Heart name-checked L. Ron Hubbard that he really seemed lost. But maybe he wasn't lost (as much as Dylan in those same years) but just searching in a New Age way? And when there's disposable income and few ties, Scientology might not be the worst?
Very disillusioned he became, though: "Van said to them, 'Tell me what the secrets are and I'll tell you whether it's worth a few million. Give me a clue. I don't know what I'm getting.' The guy said, 'Look, it's either done it for you up to this degree or it hasn't. If it's done it, you're in and you'll want it. If it hasn't done it, it's time for you to move on.' And Van goes, "Ok, time to move on'" (375). Sounds pretty healthy actually. Throw a few thousand down the drain of a money-sucking cult started on a dare by a hack, and when it doesn't work walk away and don't throw any more down. Ok.
Or the same about an actual Christianity: as friend Clive Culbertson recalls, "Paul [Jones with whom he'd been discussing religion] said, 'Van, here's the deal. God sent a son, he died for you, you can be saved, you can go to heaven, I will not discuss it further.' And Van said, 'But I want to discuss...' 'But Van, either he died for you or he didn't. If he didn't, we've nothing to talk about. If he did, then you're already free.' That's the Christian shape. And that drove him mad... [In the end] he still walked away as [unhealed] as when he came in" (426). I sometimes wonder what Heylin's brackets and ellipses are changing/excluding -- for instance, was something said after 'mad' that would amuse me, like 'absolutely frickin balls-out mad'? Or was there are a word or a phrase synonymous with 'unhealed' said that I could know about? 'decent' maybe or 'thoughtfully conscientious'? I suppose such mysteries will rage still.
I agree that the album Enlightenment doesn't have much, but "Real Real Gone" is pretty fun. I certainly don't expect the author to always exactly mirror how I've taken the music, but his hottest takedowns seem to touch the songs I think least deserve heat. Or maybe that's how I'd see it, you know, in the weak and sappy 'would'-heavy tendency of a Christian beat. "like a series of shopping lists from the id" is I suppose a serviceable enough critique of Hymns to the Silence, I won't say it isn't, but finding a better target isn't the hardest.
Rogan in a sense declared Morrison 'no poet' (just a working musician, petty, no mystery) and Hinton in a sense declared him 'poet' (not just a working musician, somebody great, with troubling ideas, a misfit), so wouldn't it be just perfect if Heylin declared him 'kinda poet'? That would be very great, but I don't think it works quite like that. Heylin leans a bit too hard for my taste into Rogan's 'no poet' conclusion for instance, and a 100% middle-of-the-road balance between all three doesn't seem sustainable at all, so maybe 'not really a poet' would better fit than 'kinda'. Disappointing in a sense that the conclusion is the drab, cynical one; but I won't complain much.
No one's clarified yet, though, how a person can work for years and years -- getting more and more watery, objectively (some like water, but I think almost everyone would agree it's watery), with each new output -- and still be pretty rich and well-supported. It doesn't make sense. Sure, not every record will be Moondance, but how many Beautiful Visions will be tolerated before at least a Veedon Fleece? There might be some absurd Faustian bargain deep down there somewhere. I don't know.
The beginning's quite interesting, zig-zagging all over his career; always quite quaint, from the early outside "And It Stoned Me" to the late inside "On Hyndford Street"! It'd be maddening if it weren't so carefully documented and shaped into good little pieces. Then of course is the dull grind of the early '60s, amateur musicianship to showband circuit to Them coherence, all the while finding a voice. Not song lyrics now, as digressions to color the research, but little slices quoting the people themselves (colleagues, etc.) or Morrison himself (during an interview, or in the between-song patter of some obscure-but-recorded concert, might pass a slight reminiscence). The shift between keeping mostly lyrics or mostly quotes from real people isn't as smooth as I might hope, but it ends up servicing the prose quite nicely for the most part.
I don't dig all of Heylin's music criticism, especially overblowing some Them stuff I could take or leave as well as giving short shrift to The Bang Masters (I think "Chick-A Boom", "It's All Right", and "Send Your Mind" are all A+ songs myself). He's appropriately reverent about Astral Weeks, though, and gives the songs a lot of critical high marks while chasing down all sorts of production trivia. It's an odd balance the music biographer sets for himself in general -- sorting through mundanities in quest of the sublime, so should these 'mundanities' who've done all the work have the spotlight they deserve or the rougher 'sublime' itself? -- but usually a worthwhile one anyway.
There are some very strange and welcome Morrison quotes too, which Heylin has compiled for us. After Blowin' Your Mind!'s disgraces, Van the Man said an album was "roughly forty minutes of music, that's all" (158). What a curious way to neutralize a problem, by making even-more-problematic just about every other thing you've done in your life. And later, no longer musical but personal, he mentions during a break from performing "It's All In The Game" (imprecisely fixed by Heylin to "a quarter of a century later" than all the acrimony surrounding suit, counter-suit, split with Janet, etc. in the early '70s): "By the time solicitors get involved, it doesn't matter whose fault it is" (268). 'Doesn't matter' in that way, though, sounds as if it had used to matter or would matter if there were some other condition met: unconvincing.
Or as Van the Man reflected in 1985 about the events of more than a decade earlier, when Saint Dominic's Preview had come out, in a certainly longwinded but always rather intriguing way, "Then you have a couple of albums out and you get these reviews, and these people are saying, 'Well, this means this about that, and he was going through that when he wrote this.' You read these things and you go, 'Who are they talking about?'... So you get to the point where you're afraid to write anything, because you know somebody's gonna make something of it" (259). Well, ouch, I must say. But if you can't take the criticism (when someone 'makes something of' something else), then don't originally make anything, especially if it's inside a la-la, critic-happy world where everyone's apparently a critic.
Or as a similar reflection follows (quoted in 1987, about the events of 1973 or so): "...So you have to pretend that there is something you are searching for [even if not], or... an idea that you take somewhere. So it seems like you're searching, but in fact you're just telling little stories" (279). Pretending you are yourself searching equals not searching. Well, the most I've read about 73's Hard Nose the Highway in quite a while, as well as the sabbatical to Ireland, Veedon Fleece, and plenty of others; but the attention to this or that manager or promoter or publicist, and the falling out that usually results from testing Morrison's surliness, starts to feel unnecessary. Sure, you're allowed, but is it one-sided gossip or watery and many-sided Rashomon-like wastes? Humongous collection, fact-checked and pruned all day, but to what end?
Christianity investigation, in the years starting around '79 and in the pages starting around 350, is in my opinion a much better outlet for Heylin's investigation. Into the Music may have hinted at a beginning, and the next few albums developed it, but it wasn't until Inarticulate Speech of the Heart name-checked L. Ron Hubbard that he really seemed lost. But maybe he wasn't lost (as much as Dylan in those same years) but just searching in a New Age way? And when there's disposable income and few ties, Scientology might not be the worst?
Very disillusioned he became, though: "Van said to them, 'Tell me what the secrets are and I'll tell you whether it's worth a few million. Give me a clue. I don't know what I'm getting.' The guy said, 'Look, it's either done it for you up to this degree or it hasn't. If it's done it, you're in and you'll want it. If it hasn't done it, it's time for you to move on.' And Van goes, "Ok, time to move on'" (375). Sounds pretty healthy actually. Throw a few thousand down the drain of a money-sucking cult started on a dare by a hack, and when it doesn't work walk away and don't throw any more down. Ok.
Or the same about an actual Christianity: as friend Clive Culbertson recalls, "Paul [Jones with whom he'd been discussing religion] said, 'Van, here's the deal. God sent a son, he died for you, you can be saved, you can go to heaven, I will not discuss it further.' And Van said, 'But I want to discuss...' 'But Van, either he died for you or he didn't. If he didn't, we've nothing to talk about. If he did, then you're already free.' That's the Christian shape. And that drove him mad... [In the end] he still walked away as [unhealed] as when he came in" (426). I sometimes wonder what Heylin's brackets and ellipses are changing/excluding -- for instance, was something said after 'mad' that would amuse me, like 'absolutely frickin balls-out mad'? Or was there are a word or a phrase synonymous with 'unhealed' said that I could know about? 'decent' maybe or 'thoughtfully conscientious'? I suppose such mysteries will rage still.
I agree that the album Enlightenment doesn't have much, but "Real Real Gone" is pretty fun. I certainly don't expect the author to always exactly mirror how I've taken the music, but his hottest takedowns seem to touch the songs I think least deserve heat. Or maybe that's how I'd see it, you know, in the weak and sappy 'would'-heavy tendency of a Christian beat. "like a series of shopping lists from the id" is I suppose a serviceable enough critique of Hymns to the Silence, I won't say it isn't, but finding a better target isn't the hardest.
Rogan in a sense declared Morrison 'no poet' (just a working musician, petty, no mystery) and Hinton in a sense declared him 'poet' (not just a working musician, somebody great, with troubling ideas, a misfit), so wouldn't it be just perfect if Heylin declared him 'kinda poet'? That would be very great, but I don't think it works quite like that. Heylin leans a bit too hard for my taste into Rogan's 'no poet' conclusion for instance, and a 100% middle-of-the-road balance between all three doesn't seem sustainable at all, so maybe 'not really a poet' would better fit than 'kinda'. Disappointing in a sense that the conclusion is the drab, cynical one; but I won't complain much.
No one's clarified yet, though, how a person can work for years and years -- getting more and more watery, objectively (some like water, but I think almost everyone would agree it's watery), with each new output -- and still be pretty rich and well-supported. It doesn't make sense. Sure, not every record will be Moondance, but how many Beautiful Visions will be tolerated before at least a Veedon Fleece? There might be some absurd Faustian bargain deep down there somewhere. I don't know.
July 6, 2019
Love him or hate him, Van is a legend. The book doesn't hold back the punches and criticism, when deserved is cutting. Having said that, so is the praise and there is plenty of that for a man who has made approaching 50 top class albums. The story of his life follows the young Van from his birthplace in Ireland and winds through his relationships and career. The people he has met and worked with is like a who's who of popular musicians, each has their own tale to tell. Morrison is notoriously private { he even bought the house either side of where he lives so that he wouldn't have any neighbours} but this book delves about as far as anyone has ever penetrated the enigma that is Van Morrison,
December 21, 2018
I like Van Morrison's music. Well, a lot of it. I'm not really conversant on the discography and what what behind what he did and why. So, I purchased this biography to learn more. After reading it, I can say that I did learn more, so that's good.
I did get the sense that the man is an enigma. A Jeckyl and Hyde kind of fellow. The why of it remains elusive. Overall, I would say this is one of the least enjoyable musical bios that I've read.
I did get the sense that the man is an enigma. A Jeckyl and Hyde kind of fellow. The why of it remains elusive. Overall, I would say this is one of the least enjoyable musical bios that I've read.
July 13, 2022
I am a Van Morrison fan. Clinton Heylin is not. And while am not opposed to engaging with those holding different opinions, the author’s bias and style of documenting the singer’s life made this book a chore to finish. Still, the book opened my eyes to a portion of Van’s catalog that I had previously overlooked. For that I am thankful.
January 20, 2020
An interesting look at to me is a great writer and singer
July 14, 2022
So, apparently, Van M is a moody bastard.
July 29, 2008
I learned that the Weber County Library has 23 CDs with songs by Van Morrison and I checked them ALL out and have been playing them continuously for about a month now while reading this FASCINATING, well-documented, portrait of tormented genius at work.
"I never, ever said that I was a nice guy." --Van Morrison.
Verbatim transcripts of interviews with more than 100 people reveal the dark side of a wandering pilgrim. He's more like a tormented mystical seer than a rock star and that's why his message is so mixed.
"I never, ever said that I was a nice guy." --Van Morrison.
Verbatim transcripts of interviews with more than 100 people reveal the dark side of a wandering pilgrim. He's more like a tormented mystical seer than a rock star and that's why his message is so mixed.
April 2, 2008
Fascinating read about a fascinating man with incredible talent who never seems to stop searching for spiritual fulfillment. Van Morrison is a complicated dude -- he can be vicious and cruel, but what an artist. One of the most soulful guys singing. Interesting to learn more about his relationship with Janet Planet and the writing of TB Sheets. This one sticks to you.
January 1, 2015
After reading this book it emphasises the separation between the man and his art. Van the man is an unlike able curmudgeon while Van the artist is a one of a kind soulfull genius.
Displaying 1 - 14 of 14 reviews