Just like his mate Bob Dylan, Van Morrison has long since ceased to sound in concerts like he does on his recordings.
Listening to him singing live these days is like hearing a foreign language in which you can only pick up the occasional words here and there. Not so much 'Van the man' as Morrison the mumbler. Fortunately, though, he's written some great music to go with those brilliant but sadly now largely incoherent lyrics.
It's a measure of his genius that Morrison can still pack out any venue in the World - Portsmouth's quaint old Guildhall included - despite what can either be interpreted as increasing experimentation or laziness in the vocal department. And, even with foreknowledge of that shortcoming in the modern-day Morrison, the opportunity to review a living legend live was an offer I couldn't refuse.
So it was amusing to witness, after a sleepy 10-minute instrumental intro by his band, Morrison waddle on stage looking every extra inch the double of Marlon Brando in 'The Godfather'. Not only was he sporting the Mafia uniform of dark hat, suit, shirt and shiny shoes but, when not on microphone, he'd stand a few feet back in a minder's pose: one hand over the other in front of his crotch. You couldn't help but wonder if he'd also stuffed his mouth with cotton wool for dramatic effect, because that might have explained the mumbling.
It is fascinating to watch the extent of Morrison's vocal contortions, particularly on lyrics known the World over. Van off-loaded a string of smashes very early on. First there was 'Moondance' - a song which any hot-blooded male who's ever seen 'An American Werewolf In London' will always associate with a lithe Jenny Agutter taking a shower. Then came 'Jackie Wilson Said' - a number which 80's music fans will always associate with the slightly less appealing sight of Kevin Rowland from Dexy's Midnight Runners in a beret and blue dungarees. 'Brown-Eyed Girl' inspired a spell of clap-along-a-Van. And those who were still bothering to work out the words by the time 'Whenever God Shines His Light' came up, were amused to hear Morrison substitute 'God' for 'Cliff' - a friendly dig at Mr.Richard with whom he recorded it as a duet.
The less familiar 'When The Leaves Keep Falling' saw the band at their best, most notably keyboards reminiscent of Ray Manzarek supporting another Morrison in 'Riders On The Storm'. Inexplicably that prompted some punters to shout out requests, to which Morrison murmured 'Just keep the hits coming, right?' as he launched into 'Cleaning Windows'. From then on the only hits he did were those of other artists, including 'Georgia' by Ray Charles, 'Stand By Me' by Ben E.King, and even 'Sex Machine' by a Godfather of the Soul variety, James Brown.
Underneath his Homburg hat and outsize suit, Morrison moves like the Duracell rabbit - jerky, twitchy and mechanical. He occasionally pauses to lift the hat and mop the brow and balding pate. It was hard not to notice that four of the seven members of Morrison's band are also follically-challenged, and that there was a similar ratio among the audience. But it would appear that no amount of reassurance, or sweat for that matter, will persuade Van to reveal his dome this Millenium. At least, along with the plain backdrop and unimaginative lighting, it helps concentrate attention on the music. Concentrating on the lyrics over an hour and three quarters, now that's a different matter altogether.
