In the corner playing dominoes in drag

In the bedraggled mix of miscellany that is my mind, as I would guess is the case with many of you readers of these humble posts, there exists a list. It is a loosely constructed list, and one which is in something of a constant state of flux, but which serves as a mental reference point to my musical musings. It is of course that most tantalising of directories, namely my favourite albums of all time. Sometimes I try to narrow this down to a top ten, but it is also the case that the list expands and contracts like a slinky sliding down a staircase, and when I actually try to name the absolute certainties, find that my list of ten has somehow expanded to an unwieldy number.

Indeed such is the ultimate futility of the exercise that I don’t even know if it could be described as a list at all, a term which implies too solid a structure for such a moveable and fluid exercise. But yet I know we all do it, for to categorise and catalogue is, it seems, a natural human trait, and especially one for the obsessive music collector. And so I do the mental run down and find Biggie’s “Ready To Die” of course, at least two Prince albums (at the very least!), two Tribe Called Quests. Then I look for space for Nas, the Pharcyde, Dre, Robert Johnson, the Smiths, the Stone Roses, Gil Scott Heron, Stevie Wonder, Muddy Waters, Bob Marley.

I look again for other omissions. Where does Aretha Franklin come into this? Lauryn Hill must be in also. Marvin Gaye? Michael Jackson? Hendrix? Love? Radiohead? Tim Buckley? Outkast? Otis? Miles? Steel Pulse? Sizzla? Hortense Ellis? The Cure? D’Angelo? Erykah Badu? Terence Trent D’Arby’s “Hardline”? And these are only the headliners. It just goes on and on. Anyway, you see my predicament, no?

However, this preamble is important I think, because there is an album that I am always certain is never out of the elusive top ten, dare I say top five even. An album of such singular brilliance as to render description and categorisation almost obsolete itself, and which I simply never tire of hearing every single note of, which hangs together as a single piece of work so beautifully as to leave me as dumbstruck now, umpteenth listens on, as when I first heard it. The album in question is Van Morrison’s elegantly soulful masterpiece “Astral Weeks”, a record that I simply can’t leave alone, and which I know, if push came to shove, would simply always be on my desert island disc selection.

It is an album which is ahead of its time and yet also timeless, an album which is not folk, soul, jazz, blues or rock, and yet somehow all of them at once. It is proof that Morrison is an artist of incredible and singular talent, a piece of work which is startlingly mature, not to mention audacious, from a 22 year old revolting against the pop machine he was at the time being engulfed in largely against his will. A record that belies its composer’s tender years, as the great music writer Lester Bangs once wrote, because it contains “lifetimes behind it”. And it is also an improvisational masterpiece, a record that seems to channel music as a real and metaphorical force of nature, the pulses of which sit deep and resonate within your soul at each listen.

“Astral Weeks” is only eight songs long, and emerged from only two days of jamming in a New York studio, and yet there is not a wasted note on it, not one second or syllable which does not appear for a reason. And yet at times its lyrics are nothing more than stream of consciousness, repeated codas and words that float in and out of the beautiful and poetic narratives which it also strives to reveal. It is unique for its sound, but also because it is widely regarded as a true masterpiece and yet somehow does not really have an influence on popular music that it is possible to discern. It is simply an introspective moment in time, that rare type of record that defies its cultural context completely. But should also be an album that everyone has swum in, regardless of their tastes, such are the touchstones it hits upon.

The story of the recording, and the music it left us, can be easily found elsewhere, but it is worth commenting briefly on the personnel that Morrison chose for this project as they are hugely significant to the outcome. For the rhythm section was pure jazz excellence, with exceptional direction throughout from bassist Richard Davis (famed in part for his work on Eric Dolphy’s seminal “out To Lunch” set), the Modern Jazz Quartet’s drummer Connie Kay, legendary guitarist Jay Berliner, and vibes from Mile Davis’ cohort Warren Smith. Morrison also accompanies his vocal on acoustic guitar (itself well worthy of note from someone who is a brilliant multi-instrumentalist himself), and strings appear but dubbed on in retrospect.

But it is the jazz backing which allows the music to truly take-off, which gives it a freeform and yet structured elegance, gives the record its famed space and timbre, and yet allows for the cramming in of layer upon layer of beautifully crafted lyricism. It is one of the most passionate, most honest, tender and evocative records that I know of, and as stated earlier is proof to me that Morrison’s music emanates from a place that is pure soul. Caledonian soul he called it once. I would just call it astral, or simply out of this world.