FINAL HOURS- A MEDITATION ABOUT THE SEA

 

I saw a photo recently that captured my attention. An elderly woman lies on a bed in an art gallery- as it happens it is the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. She is mostly obscured, but the viewer can see the tell-tale wires and medical supporting paraphernalia attached to the bed. The sheets and pillow are of that creepy blue hospital colour. She is flanked by medical people and a woman who looks a bit like a gallery guard or curator. Their backs are to the camera and they are looking intently at a famous Rembrandt self-portrait. There are floorboards on the ground and the painting sits on a barren slate-grey wall. The woman’s bed is organised in the way hospital beds can manage it, with the back half of the bed raised so the woman can receive a good view of the picture.

The article tells us that the woman is visiting the exhibition as part of a final wish that has been granted to her. A Dutch charity has been helping people realise their final wish before they die. In the case of the woman in the picture, she has terminal cancer.

It got me thinking about final wishes. I think the idea of seeing great pictures for the last time is a great idea, or would be for me. I would choose a final visit to the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, or the Munch gallery in Oslo, or perhaps the Mauritshuis in The Hague.

Maybe for me it wouldn’t be about pictures at all. It might be to meet a famous person I admire, if they would allow it. Drinking tea in Joni’s kitchen in Bel Air Los Angeles, or beer with Van Morrison in a pub in Orangefield. Visiting a place I have always wanted to see. Where Lawrence lived in Taormina, Sicily. Perusing the Sylvia Plath manuscripts at the Lilly Library in Indiana. Closer to home, Katherine Mansfield’s treasures at the Alexander Turnbull Library in Wellington, New Zealand.

I went away this last weekend with the family. It was to a YMCA camp at Anglesea. I thought about the picture when I went for a run. I ran down to the main back beach at Anglesea, just at the back of the big car park there. I was almost alone. The weather was cool but invigorating. Not swimming weather, but great running weather. There were two forlorn life-saving flags at one end of the beach, mostly uninhabited. Some people wandered along the coastline taking photos with their dog. A few people were scattered in the water wearing wet suits. I ran along a stretch of soft white sand at the east side of the beach. The landscape curved around there a bit like the mouth of a bay does. The tide was coming in, fast. I had to jump the incoming water after the waves crashed. I watched the water unfurl as it landed on the flat, like a flower slowly turning. The sky was grey and slightly moody, and it was reflected in its coldness by the surface colour of the sea. I thought briefly of the famous picture of ‘A Monk By The Sea’ by Caspar David Friedrich, and then that photo with the Rembrandt painting again. Standing there, breathing heavily and filled with sweat, I was also thinking about the Van Morrison song ‘Coney Island’, and how it ends with ‘Wouldn’t it be great if it was like this all the time?’  Here is one of the great views of our time, as good as anywhere in the world, and it is only about two hours from my home. I stood marvelling at that encroaching water, that cool blue-grey sky, and the surf endlessly unfolding, the pale yellow sand, the colours and music of the sea, and felt so much in awe and so incredibly free.

 

  

BOARDING SCHOOL NIGHTMARE

 

Melbourne author and editor, Rebecca Starford, has published her first book, based mostly on her memories of the year she was a fourteen year old boarder at an elite private girls’ school. She calls the country school Silver Creek, and the account is a horrendous one but very compelling. Someone said it is a bit like a female Lord of the Flies, albeit with mostly hapless teachers roaming around instead of a total absence of adults, and I can see the comparison. Rebecca comes across as no saint- nor either Simon or Ralph-like, but there are rivals to Jack and Roger. Miraculously, in Starford’s memoir, no-one gets killed.

Besides detailing  the most vivid memories of being a boarder in Red House with 14 other girls, Starford’s account is also mixed with other autobiographical side narratives to do with rites of passage and ‘coming out ’, life on holidays with her largely non-supportive family, and more recent years of navigating her way through female friendships and relationships.

The most interesting, and compelling aspects of the account, however, are the chapters about Silver Creek. The reader feels like a guilty voyeur- well,  that’s a bit like how I felt, anyway- eagerly turning page after page to see what other forms of cruelty can be applied to fellow human beings. Portia and her cronies are the main culprits. Starford offers a good account of what the main bullies are like. I imagine them going to their local bookshop and reading about themselves in thinly veiled pseudonyms, saying to no-one in particular ‘did I really do that? was I really that bad?’  To her credit, Starford hardly comes out of it all a saint herself, often complicit in the aggressive and cruel behaviour that is going down, seemingly lacking the confidence not to take part, being coerced, bullied or even being a willing participant in every effort to try and fit in. There is a touch of the smell of blood about it all- that once something weird is going on, it’s hard to detach yourself and be a passive observer.

 A girl called Kendall bears the brunt of most of it. She is a fairly shadowy figure whom Starford barely gets to know. It’s a fairly flattering portrait of someone who is stoic, tough and unbroken, despite the myriad abuse that is piled on top of her. The aforementioned Portia comes out of it very badly. The intensity of her bullying is shocking. Like any hardened, despotic leader, she has her cronies who act cruelly in unison or at her prompting, cowards all of them- Briohny, Alexis, Sarah, and a fascinating girl called Ronnie who somehow seems to fade out of the narrative. Starford herself seems to get her moral compass back again towards the end, but there is still this ongoing hint of rebellion, anti-social behaviour which frustrates her teachers who recognise real potential in her, more so than perhaps all the others. It’s very much a feeling that the whole crazy year has scarred the way she sees herself and therefore the way she acts, from her frustrations at being in such a wild and unforgiving jungle environment, to only ever rarely receiving letters from her parents and the difficulty she has in making friends.

So what do these awful girls do? There are some disturbing physical acts of violence or threat, some of it sort of psycho-sexual in nature. It is, as Starford describes, ‘a giant, human turd’ that ends up in Kendall’s suitcase. Portia didn’t do this, she merely dared Sarah, which somehow makes Portia think she is absolved from the whole thing- ‘Sarah did a shit in the suitcase, not me. It was a joke, a dare. I never thought she’d actually do it.’ Some of the more innocent sounding pranks might appear in any number of boarding school memoirs- running around dorms late at night naked, stealing alcohol from a hall, horrible nicknames, peer pressure to break rules, telling girls where they can and cannot sit… and then there’s events like this one, perpetrated against Rebecca- ‘They hoist me up by my underwear, lifting me clean off the ground. The pain is awful, burning between my legs. I start thrashing, arms and legs flying about, and I manage to kick Portia in the shin. They drop me.’ Later that night Rebecca feels ‘icy fingers at the band of my pyjamas’ as she climbs into bed’, the seriously disturbed culprit being Portia. In some ways the act of violence perpetrated against a teacher’s young daughter is the most shocking when she is padlocked inside a tiny crate…

 

The tile ‘Bad Behaviour’ obviously applies to Rebecca, Portia, Sarah and in fact the large majority of girls. It could also apply to how Starford’s parents feel about her emerging sexuality, the way she keeps being transported to the hell hole at the end of each holiday at home, a couple of the teachers whose attitudes and performance leaves question marks, but ultimately the school or governing body itself, that allows an institution like this to exist, where so many girls can become drunk with their own power and unashamedly inflict harm on other people. Silver Creek is the sort of place that should have been shut down at the start- or at least, its enrolments better screened to ensure that maniacs with personalities like Portia never get near the front door. Starford leaves the reader wondering about what sort of permanent psychological stain the whole experience may have left on her. And as for what Kendall is like now, God only knows.

There are a number of changes in narrative throughout the memoir- the action at Silver Creek, Rebecca at home with her family and on holidays, Rebecca in more recent times dealing with her sexuality, going back to Silver Creek after the events, filled with trepidation… the list goes on. The shifts are welcome to add variety to the telling of events, but they are sometimes incorporated awkwardly. When the boarding school experience is all over, you feel an immense sense of relief for a number of ‘characters’, as you do at the end of ‘Lord of the Flies.’ But the memoir continues with a kind of post-Silver Creek narrative which to me doesn’t really seem necessary. After everything that’s come before it, Starford’s latter experiences, including breakups with girls, trying to make friends, problems in share accommodation, struggling to connect with parents, and navigating the adult world, all of it seems sort of normal and underwhelming, like  it should have stayed in her personal diary. It’s the first two thirds of the book I will remember more, even the positive glimpses into camp life and rural settings, and her love of nature that inform us that boarding school could actually be a worthwhile thing:

‘What an exquisitely beautiful place we live in. I sit back, suddenly teary, overwhelmed by this mountain and this dishevelled land. I never expected this- this love. I take a deep breath, the crisp, clean air filling my lungs, and it feels like I’m also washing away all the grit and sweat and dust.’

 

 

Meaning amidst chaos- a Myron Bolitar novel

 

DARKEST FEAR, by Harlan Coben (2000)

I HAD the good fortune to win a book prize recently at the local library. When you win books you don’t usually get the chance to choose which books you’d like to have. These were paperbacks and most of them didn’t look interesting at all.

The chunkiest was a book that featured a city street scene on the cover. Cars travelling along a busy highway driving into a rich, golden sunset on the horizon and at the top of the book. In big letters ‘Harlan COBEN’, and near the tabloid title- ‘DARKEST FEAR’, the words ‘A Myron Bolitar Mystery’ underneath.

There’s at least two schools of thought. One says it’s not worth reading fiction like this- it takes up too much precious time and alternatively you could be reading something important or life changing- like a ‘Catcher in the Rye’, this kind of book, which is more or less what a friend said as we walked through the gates at work one morning last week. For some, this would be a snobby, or bourgeoisie response.

The other school of thought says, ‘no, give it a go- it’s good to read something different- you might find it’s more interesting and better written than you thought. You might even find that you are more involved in this, than you are with books like ‘Catcher in the Rye’, or ‘The Grapes of Wrath’, or whatever it might be. This seems to be a more daring and fresher and more exiting approach to reading.

Well I finished it the other day, realising pretty quickly that Harlan Coben is a popular crime author in America who sells a lot of books. The Guardian called his last one a ‘thriller to stir the heart.’ So I knew what I was in for and happy to take the plunge. Then I discovered that ‘Myron Bolitar’ is a well-known protagonist that has featured in other Coben books. It didn’t seem to matter, but this book is a sort of sequel as it charts the life of this wacky and inventive sports agent.

In this particular book, Myron finds out he is the father of a young man from a previous relationship several years ago. What’s more, the young man is dying and desperate for a bone marrow transplant. The former girlfriend has asked Myron and his eccentric team to track down a missing donor, which proves to be much more difficult than it may sound. His party use all their wile and ingenuity to track this person down, and along the way get caught up in a kidnapping spree, dealings with the FBI and dangerous criminals and an unhinged wealthy family.

I enjoyed the story, implausible as it is, for the most part. It rarely takes itself too seriously and there is a lot of laid back humour and interesting cultural references, as well as verbal sparring that is witty and inventive. In fact, Coben does dialogue very well, and he probably knows that because there is a lot of it. The plot itself is engaging and the action is fairly frenetic.

There lies the rub. I got sick of it. How frustrating it is to kind of enjoy a book for the first 200 pages or so, but become a bit sick of it, so the last 60 pages or so drag so you find yourself skipping bits and in the end you don’t really care what happens- not to Myron or his loony associates, not even the young sick boy called Jeremy Downing. Feeling lukewarm about all the characters does not help much. And the plot became a bit stupid and convoluted, with its snaky twists and turns everywhere, which might be a hallmark of modern crime fiction but is not for me (I have just realised how much I enjoyed the more subtle Agatha Christie as I grew up).

Only really two bits grabbed me forcefully enough so I might remember them. For a good novel- and Alex Miller’s ‘Coal Creek’ is the last good novel I read- there might be 20 or 30 bits.

Two thirds into the story Myron visits his ageing father: ‘His father put his head back down, the gray wisps upright in the humidity, his breathing tool-work heavy, and Myron again felt something open up his chest and grab hold of his heart. He looked at this man he’d loved for so long, who’d gone without complaint to that damn muggy warehouse in Newark for more than thirty years, and Myron realised that he didn’t know him. He didn’t know what his father dreamed about, what he wanted to be when he was a kid, what he thought about his own life.’

This is the kind of stuff worth reading and remembering. Not the FBI car chase, the race against time, the avoidance of the bullets.

A bit later Myron says goodbye: ‘When he hugged his father goodbye, Myron again noticed that his father felt smaller, less substantial. Myron held on a little longer than usual. For the first time he felt like the bigger man, the stronger man, and he suddenly remembered what Dad had said about reversing roles. So he held on in the dark. Time passed. Dad patted his back. Myron kept his eyes closed and held on tighter. Dad stroked his hair and shushed him. Just for a little while. Just until the roles reversed themselves again, returning both of them to where they belonged.’

Wow. Talk about a little too close to the heart. It’s funny how good fiction can hit a nerve somewhere. So you can see Harlan Coben can write. It’s just that the thriller/ mystery/ clever twists part of submerges a lot of the poignant stuff.

The end is also interesting and pretty sad. Myron has been to such great lengths to rescue his boy from certain murder, including putting his own life in the firing line on many occasions, just because he feels this fatherly pang, even though he didn’t even know his own son. Myron absolutely wants to be a big part of this boy’s life and make up for years of something far worse than estrangement. He digs away, only to receive this reaction:

‘You’re not my dad,’ he said simply. ‘I mean, you might be my father. But you’re not my dad. You know what I mean?’

Myron managed a nod.

‘But’- Jeremy stopped, looked up, shrugged the shrug of a thirteen-year-old- ‘but maybe you can still be around.’

Coben captures the difference in depth of feeling beautifully. You could say that he has the potential to be a remarkable writer.

 

 

 

Resisting The Urge

 

                          

Social media. It’s hard to know how to take it. You don’t want to appear old and reject anything that’s new and popular with young people. Then again you feel like there’s better things to do than ‘speak’ to a bunch of people on Facebook, get into a chat room or begin an Instagram.

Sometimes I think to myself, ‘am I possibly missing out here?’

I went out the other night with a friend of mine. We ate a pizza in Lonsdale Street in the city. He had his phone within easy reach all night- a special expensive Apple one. In fact, he used it a lot of the night. He sent his wife a picture of his dessert and she promptly texted him to ask for him to save some for her. He took a photo of the two of us and posted it on Instagram, and within twenty minutes over a dozen people he knew sent him a message saying that they ‘liked’ the photo (which gave him a real buzz). Next he talked about some items he recently sold on eBay, as well as some items he bought, including a plastic Barbie kit for his young daughter which shipped from somewhere near Sacramento. After  conversations and laughter, or even during conversations and laughter, he scrolled down his phone to check whether or not any ‘friends’ had posted anything,  people within his own immediate circle, as well as female models who happen to be partners of Australian rugby union players.

I spoke to a teenage girl recently- she is about fifteen- and asked her if she read anything during the recent holidays. She said she was busy reading all the time- (encouraging) - and told me it was in the form of text messages- literally about a thousand of them (discouraging). And then I thought about how social she must have been, and how being in a stuffy room brooding in your pyjamas and staying up all night reading or playing computer games would be decidedly less healthy.

I sometimes hear people say ‘I will chat to you later tonight’ and wonder what they really mean by ‘chat’, and whether or not that term has totally changed meaning. People of all ages on public transport get sore necks from bending their head over their phone for hours on end. They almost crash into you on the footpath because they are not looking where they are going.

I know adults who are on Facebook and would never want to give it up. It keeps them in touch, they say, with all sorts of people they would never normally be in touch with, and it serves the purpose of quenching their curiosity about what these people on their margins of their social world might be up to. Instagram seems to be popular with almost everyone. I can see how it might give you a real buzz to see where famous people might be in the world, or what Cindy wore to the races at Caulfield racecourse last weekend.

Then there is tweeting, or in other words the ‘twitter sphere’, which has always seemed to me to be too ridiculous for words. Then last night I became curious and impatient for a new MJ Hyland novel, so I looked at her website, and saw she is tweeting about this and that. For all I know, Sylvia Plath, at the age of 83, might be doing the same thing if she hadn’t decided to commit suicide all those years ago. Jim Morrison and John Lennon, too, and Melanie, who is still alive, does do it, although I’m pretty sure Joni Mitchell doesn’t.

So tweeting is definitely not for me. But there are days when I am sitting around looking at my lovely books, or going for a run, or driving the car somewhere, or reading The Age online, when I think to myself ‘am I missing out on something here? Am I so totally disconnected to the ‘real world’ that it is at a personal cost to me and preventing me from living a more fulfilled life?’  I wonder about this, and there are days when I would like to invite myself into the world of cyber gossip and see what all these people everywhere are up to. I could throw away the old clumsy and outdated Nokia phone I rarely ever use, the one where it is getting ridiculously difficult to read the smudged numbers and letters, and replace it with an Apple 6, 7, 8 or 9, with instant internet access.  I might suddenly increase the number of ‘friends’ twenty, thirty, even a hundred fold.

Aaahh, but what’s the use? When would I ever get anything real done?

 

 

 

Can You Feel The Silence? The lyrics of Van Morrison

 

                                                           

 

THERE is a new book by Van Morrison, and, at least as far as he is concerned, it is a book with a difference. It’s by him. That is, a book of his words with a guest introduction. It has been published by Faber & Faber (what would T.S. Eliot think?), and it’s called (appropriately) ‘Lit Up Inside.’ I haven’t seen it anywhere, otherwise I would have bought it. There is a signed limited edition that looks fabulous, but it’s very expensive. So I don’t really know what is in the book- it is ‘selected’ lyrics only, not all of them- but I’m sure I can guess some of the song/ poem titles. I know enough of Van’s music to know that when I do find it, it will make a great collection. Not ‘painterly’ like Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen, but more raw, and often about emotions and thoughts about the past and some occasional social criticism, especially about the music business scene. I have found myself lately thinking about Van’s words in connection with other artists I greatly admire, especially Lennon and McCartney. If one had to compare them, Van is definitely more Lennon than McCartney. Lennon has the raw emotion, although probably not as spiritual. McCartney liked to make up people and make up scenarios- like Desmond and Molly Jones, a ‘Paperback Writer’, poor Eleanor Rigby, the lonely woman who suffers in ‘Another Day’, the woman ‘protected by a silver spoon’, and the naughty boy who goes to court with his silver hammer- the list is endless. Van seems, most of the time, to be writing about himself, and for me the best songs deal with this spiritual, sometimes religious journey, often evoking gardens and water and rain and mountains and the spiritual benefits of music.

As I said I haven’t come across a copy of Van’s book of lyrics as yet, but following is what I would put in there as a showcase of his best, most beautiful, most meaningful work. I’m starting with the album ‘Astral Weeks’ simply because of I’m fairly ignorant of ‘Them’ and what went on before. And I’m ending as early as 1993 and ‘Hymns To The Silence.'

1.       ASTRAL WEEKS (ASTRAL WEEKS)    

                

The first solo song then (if we discount the unfortunate mess that is ‘Blowin’ Your Mind’) is the title track of ‘Astral Weeks’, and musically and lyrically a lot of people would say it is one of his greatest songs:

‘If I ventured in the slipstream
Between the viaducts of your dream
Where mobile steel rims crack
And the ditch in the back roads stop

Could you find me?
Would you kiss-a my eyes?
To lay me down in silence easy
To be born again, to be born again

From the far side of the ocean
If I put the wheels in motion
And I stand with my arms behind me
And I'm pushin' on the door

Could you find me?
Would you kiss-a my eyes?
To lay me down in silence easy
To be born again, to be born again

There you go standin' with the look of avarice
Talkin' to Huddie Ledbetter
Showin' pictures on the wall
Whisperin' in the hall
And pointin' a finger at me

There you go, there you go
Standin' in the sun darlin'
With your arms behind you
And your eyes before
There you go

Takin' care of your boy
Seein' that he's got clean clothes
Puttin' on his little red shoes
I see you know he's got clean clothes

A puttin' on his little red shoes
A pointin' a finger at me
Standing in your sad arrest
Trying to do my very best

Lookin' straight at you
Comin' through, darlin'
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah

If I ventured in the slipstream
Between the viaducts of your dreams
Where mobile steel rims crack
And the ditch in the back roads stop

Could you find me?
Would you kiss-a my eyes?
To lay me down in silence easy
To be born again, to be born again
To be born again, to be born again

In another world, darlin'
In another world
In another time
Got a home on high

Ain't nothing but a stranger in this world
I'm nothing but a stranger in this world
I got a home on high in another land
So far away, so far away

Way up in the heaven, way up in the heaven
Way up in the heaven, way up in heaven, oh
In another time, in another place
In another time, in another place

Way up in the heaven
In another time, in another place
In another time, in another place
In another face

 

Here is the unusual method of describing the way someone can get inside your mind. It’s mostly sweet and romantic but the muscular images of ‘steel rims’ and the ‘ditch in the back roads’ harden this. The bits about Leadbetter, and whispering, and being ‘born again’, as well as the reference to ‘silence’ are all so very much what Van Morrison is about. He will repeat these themes again and again, but usually in different ways each time. The ‘born again’ is about transcendence which Van loves, the ‘silence’ is a beautiful motif appearing in a number of songs, the’ Leadbetter’ is an early example of the way he shows respect or homage to the singers who influenced him and the imagery associated with the pictures and what’s going on in the hall are like dreamscapes that are lovely in their vagueness but paint a picture of strong connectedness with another person. It is the sense of meaningfulness in the connection which somehow seems impressive. The ‘nothing but a stranger in this world’ reminds me of something Van Gogh once wrote. John Densmore tells a story about the genesis of this song which is worth reading. It is about sitting on the couch with Van at some sort of party or get together, and Van sits totally detached from what’s going on around him and is writing the words that begin this song on a notebook and Densmore, looking over his shoulder, is probably wondering what it will come to be.

 

2.       BESIDE YOU (ASTRAL WEEKS)

The next song from Astral Weeks, is about pure love or pure affection for somebody else who could in reality simply be somebody’s brother or sister. It’s as simple as that, and this explains to a fair extent why for me the lyrics are so successful:

‘Way over on the railroad
Tomorrow all the tippin' trucks will unload
Every scrapbook stuck will glue
And I'll stand beside you
Beside you child
To never never never wonder why at all
No no no no no no no no
To never never wonder why at all
To never never never wonder why it's gotta be
It has to be
Way across the country where the hillside mountain glide
The dynamo of your smile caressed the barefoot virgin child to wander
Past your window with a lantern lit
You held it in the doorway and you cast against the pointed island breeze
Said your time was open, go well on your merry way
Past the brazen footsteps of the silence easy
You breathe in you breathe out you breathe in you breathe out you breath in
you breathe out you breathe in you breathe out
And you're high on your high-flyin' cloud

Wrapped up in your magic shroud as ecstasy surrounds you
This time it's found you
You turn around you turn around you turn around you turn around
And I'm beside you
Beside you
Oh darlin'
To never never wonder why at all
No no no no no
To never never never wonder why at all
To never never never wonder why it's gotta be
It has to be
And I'm beside you
Beside you
Oh child
To never never wonder why at all
I'm beside you
Beside you
Beside you
Beside you
Oh child.’

 

So here then is an early example of Van’s repeated phrasing which is often very magical as it is in this case, but doesn’t particularly look like much on the printed page. I have always been drawn to the trucks unloading ‘every scrapbook stuck with glue’ like people’s dreams are being thrown away. I don’t know if this is what it is about, but it hardly matters. It is the vagueness of the image that I am drawn to. There is the ‘silence easy’ of the previous song and the statement so beautiful in its simplicity, stated over and over- ‘to never, never wonder why at all.’ How many of us have had the overwhelming emotion of gratefulness simply for sitting right next to someone that we feel connected to? In this situation there really is no need to wonder.

 

3.    SWEET THING (ASTRAL WEEKS)

 

This one is all pure, unadulterated joy:

‘And I will stroll the merry way
And jump the hedges first
And I will drink the clear
Clean water for to quench my thirst
And I shall watch the ferry-boats
And they'll get high
On a bluer ocean
Against tomorrow's sky
And I will never grow so old again
And I will walk and talk
In gardens all wet with rain
Oh sweet thing, sweet thing
My, my, my, my, my sweet thing
And I shall drive my chariot
Down your streets and cry
'Hey, it's me, I'm dynamite
And I don't know why'
And you shall take me strongly
In your arms again
And I will not remember
That I ever felt the pain.
We shall walk and talk
In gardens all misty wet with rain
And I will never, never, never
Grow so old again.

Oh sweet thing, sweet thing
My, my, my, my, my sweet thing
And I will raise my hand up
Into the night time sky
And count the stars
That's shining in your eye
Just to dig it all an' not to wonder
That's just fine
And I'll be satisfied
Not to read in between the lines
And I will walk and talk
In gardens all wet with rain
And I will never, ever, ever, ever
Grow so old again.
Oh sweet thing, sweet thing
Sugar-baby with your champagne eyes
And your saint-like smile....’

 

It is the closest thing to a simple love song on the album, and the images are incredibly fresh and joyous and romantic. It is a great song to run to because it is so uplifting. There is the first reference (as far as I know) of gardens wet with rain which is a signature Van Morrison image of freshness and vitality. The cool clear water comes up many times in his songs as well, as an image of rejuvenation, but for me the image that really nails it is the one of the chariot being driven down the street with the exalted lover shouting ‘Hey, it’s me and I’m dynamite/ And I don’t know why.’ The chariot is an ancient image that somehow seems more fitting than, say, ‘car’, and the disarming way the lover cries out is also charming. Again, there is no need for introspection- just ‘dig at all’ and don’t ‘read in between the lines.’ Just infatuation and exaltation; no melancholy moody love here.

 

 

4.    INTO THE MYSTIC (MOONDANCE)  

 

Lyrically, Van’s second album is a complete departure- more simple, less impressionistic, more raw lyrically, and musically for that matter too, less jazz and more blues. This one is the pick. Van writes about boats and the sea really well. They can act as an escape for him:

‘We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won
As we sailed into the mystic

Hark, now hear the sailors’ cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic

And when that fog horn blows
I will be coming home
And when that fog horn blows
I wanna hear it, I don't have to fear it

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
Then together we will float into the mystic

When that fog horn blows
You know I will be coming home
And when that fog horn whistle blows
I gotta hear it, I don't have to fear it

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
And together we will float into the mystic

Come on, girl

Too late to stop now…’

 

Besides finishing with the lyric that provides the title for his first big live album, Into The Mystic provides us with the image of long ago seafarers. It might be about sailors coming home from war in WW2- Van was born at the end of the war. The woman at home is anticipating the fog horn possibly on the Belfast docks. It’s beautifully sensual- ‘’smell the sea and feel the sky’- and the long absence provides a union that becomes a mystical experience which is lovely and uplifting.

 

5.    ST DOMINIC’S PREVIEW (ST DOMINIC’S PREVIEW) 

 

                  

Shammy cleaning all the windows,
Singing songs about Edith Piaf's soul.
And I hear blue strains of no regredior
Across the street from Cathedral Notre Dame.
Meanwhile back in San Francisco
We're trying hard to make this whole thing blend,
As we sit upon this jagged
Storey block, with you my friend.

And it's a long way to Buffalo.
It's a long way to Belfast city too.
And I'm hoping the choice won't blow the hoist
'cos this town, they bit off more than they can chew.

As we gaze out on, as we gaze out on
As we gaze out on, as we gaze out on
Saint Dominic's Preview
Saint Dominic's Preview
Saint Dominic's Preview

All the orange boxes are scattered.
We get to Safeway's supermarket in the rain.
And everybody feels so determined
Not to feel anyone else's pain.

(You know that) No one's making no commitments
To anybody but themselves,
Hidin' behind closed doorways,
Tryin' to get outside, outside of empty shells

And for every cross-cuttin' country corner,
For every Hank Williams railroad train that cried,
And all the chains, badges, flags and emblems
And every strain on every brain and every eye

As we gaze out on, as we gaze out on
As we gaze out on, as we gaze out on
Saint Dominic's Preview
Saint Dominic's Preview
Saint Dominic's Preview.

And the restaurant tables are completely covered.
The record company has paid out for the wine.
You got everything in the world you ever wanted
Right about now your face should wear a smile.

That's the way it all should happen
When you're in, when you're in the state you're in;
You've got your pen and notebook ready,
I think it's about time, time for us to begin.

And we're over in a 52nd Street apartment,
Socializing with the whino few,
Just to be hip and get wet with the jet set.
But they're flying too high to see my point of view.

As we gaze out on, as we gaze out on
As we gaze out on, as we gaze out on
Saint Dominic's Preview
Saint Dominic's Preview
Saint Dominic's Preview.

See them freedom marching,
Out on the street, freedom marching.
Saint Dominic's Preview.’

We can see the preoccupations - Edith Piaf, cleaning windows (unearthed again later on, on Beautiful Vision), the ‘Troubles’ in Northern Ireland, as well as the vagaries of the music industry. But what I like most is the vision that the singer perceives, almost like it’s from a rooftop, of this protest about the events going on in Belfast that was apparently being held in this San Francisco church.

 

6.    ALMOST INDEPENDENCE DAY (ST DOMINIC’S PREVIEW)

 

I can hear them calling way from Oregon
I can hear them calling way from Oregon
And it's almost Independence Day
Me and my lady, we go steppin' (we go steppin')
We go steppin' way out on China town
All to buy some Hong Kong silver
And the wadin' rushing river (we go steppin')
We go out on the, out on the town tonight

I can hear the fireworks
I can hear the fireworks
I can hear the fireworks
Up and down the, up and down the San Francisco bay
Up and down the, up and down the San Francisco bay
I can hear them echoing
I can hear, I can hear them echoing
Up and down the, up and down the San Francisco bay

I can see the boats in the harbor (way across the harbor)
Lights shining out (lights shining out)
And a cool, cool night
And a cool, cool night across the harbor
I can hear the fireworks
I can hear the people, people shouting out
I can hear the people shouting out (up and down the line)
And it's almost Independence Day

I can see the lights way out in the harbor
And the cool, and the cool, and the cool night
And the cool, and the cool, and the cool night breeze
And I feel the cool night breeze
And I feel, feel, feel the cool night breeze
And the boats go by
And it's almost Independence Day
And it's almost, and it's almost Independence Day

Way up and down the line
Way up and down the line...

 

Two songs later, on the same album, and a kind of companion piece, this is an early version of Van’s wonderful rambling, scat approach to singing, filled with imagery that connects to how he was feeling at the time. At any rate It is very optimistic and very moving to hear of the symbols of liberation- the fireworks, the marching, the shouting, and the beautiful and mysterious breeze and lights and harbor noises. It takes you right to San Francisco, and has echoes of being restless and homesick for your country (a common VM theme), and might even be a kind of beckoning towards the singer’s own sense of personal liberation as he was becoming more confident as a songwriter and musician. As often with Van, the repetition of lines signals something close to ecstasy or a sublime moment.

 

7.      HAUNTS OF ANCIENT PEACE (COMMON ONE)

 

 

‘Beside the garden walls
We walk in haunts of ancient peace
At night we rest and go to sleep
In haunts of ancient peace

The love and light we seek
The words we do not need to speak
Here in this wondrous way we keep
These haunts of ancient peace

Let us go there again
Oh, when we need some relief
Oh, when I can't find my feet
When I need rest and sleep

The Sunday bells they chime
Around the countryside and towns
A song of harmony and rhyme
In haunts of ancient peace

The holy grail we seek
On down by haunts of ancient peace
We see the new Jerusalem
In haunts of ancient peace

Oh, when I can't find my feet
Oh, when I need, I need some relief
I want to go there one more time again
You know I want to go there one more time again
Be still in haunts of ancient peace

Be still.’

The first song from a greatly underrated album, the first of a golden decade of great records for VM. I’m no Bob Dylan expert, so I’m not sure what the 80’s was like for Dylan, but I know for Joni it was (according to these ears), her worst decade. The title of this song is apparently from a poem by a reasonably obscure poet called Alfred Austin. The ‘Jerusalem’ reference is probably connected with William Blake, but it is the yearning at the end that I find the most impressive- ‘I want to go there one more time again…’ The words in this song are optimistic and soothing, and it brings in a new, sustained phase of reflective moods and ongoing search for fulfillment. The rhyming in the ‘Sunday bells’ stanza is the only clunky, unconvincing aspect of the song. Van’s long song/ poem called ‘Summertime in England’ also appeared on this album, and introduced my favorite phrase of his, repeated shortly after- ‘Can You Feel The Silence?’

 

8.      CELTIC RAY (BEAUTIFUL VISION)   

 

 

'When Lewellyn comes around
And he goes through Market Town
You'll be on the Celtic Ray
Are you ready?

When McManus comes around
On his early morning rounds
Crying "Heron 'a' lay"
You'll be on the Celtic Ray

Ireland, Scotland, England and Wales
I can hear the mothers' voices calling
"Children, children, children"

When the coal brick man comes 'round
On a cold November day
You'll be on the Celtic Ray
Are you ready? Are you ready?

Ireland, Scotland, England and Wales
I can hear the mothers' voices calling
"Children, children, children"

Listen Jimmy, I want to go home
Listen Jimmy, I want to go home
I've been away from the Ray too long
I've been away from the Ray too long

All over Ireland, Scotland, England and Wales
I can hear the mothers' voices calling
"Children, children, come home children"

"Children, come home on the Celtic Ray"
In the early morning, we'll go walking
Where the light comes shining through
On the Celtic Ray

Come home children
Come home on the Celtic Ray…’

This song appears to be about the diaspora of people living in exile in various parts of the world away from Great Britain, mostly, I suppose, from Ireland. I love the section about the poor mothers’ voices calling for their children, who in some cases may never return to their homeland. I listened to this song with great joy and melancholy when I was sad and alone on the Isle of Wight during my first trip away from Australia. I guess I was missing home. Romantically, I was imagining mother calling my name and wanting me home.

9.      IRISH HEARTBEAT (INARTICULATE SPEECH OF THE HEART)

 

‘Oh, won't you stay
Stay a while with your own ones
Don't ever stray
Stray so far from your own ones

For the world is so cold
Don't care nothing for your soul
You share with your own ones

Don't rush away
Rush away from your own ones
One more day
One more day with your own ones

Yes, the world is so cold
Don't care nothing for your soul
You share with your own ones

There's a stranger
And he's standing by your door
Might be your best friend, might be your brother
You may never know

I'm going back
Going back to my own ones
Back to talk
Talk a while with my own ones

This old world is so cold
Don't care nothing for your soul
You share with your own ones

This old world is so cold
Don't care nothing for your soul
You share with your own ones.’

Another ongoing theme of Van’s- his connection to Ireland and his past- and a theme that I think resonates in a lot of others people’s lives, and certainly my own. The idea that it is your own people who care for your soul and care the most about you, is very simple and very beautiful. The fifth stanza (or bridge),  has a number of sources, but particularly the bible. Let this person who is knocking on your door in- you never know who it might be that you are turning away.

 

10.  INARTICULATE SPEECH OF THE HEART NO. 2 (INARTICULATE SPEECH OF THE HEART)

‘Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart
Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart

Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart
Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart

I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder

Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart
Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart

I'm just wild about it
I can't live without it
I'm just wild about it
I can't live without it

Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart
Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart

I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder

I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder.’

This is ISOTH No.2, because there is a No.1 which is an instrumental. It’s a mouthful to say, but strangely it works, and is very melodic. This is Van at his most spiritual. The words lift me up incredibly. The concept of being a ‘soul in wonder’ is so beautiful partly because it is so simple. Is it love of another human being? Or poetry? Or music? Or all of these things?

11.  OH THE WARM FEELING (NO GURU, NO METHOD, NO TEACHER)

 

‘Oh, the warm feeling
As we sat beside the sea
Oh, the warm feeling as I
Sat by you

Like a child within the kingdom
As we sat beside the sea
Oh, the warm feeling as I
Sat by you

And it filled with devotion
And it made me plainly see
And it healed all my emotions
As I sat by you

As we sat inside the sunshine
And we sat beside the sea
Oh, the warm feeling as I
Sat by you

And it filled me with religion
And it gave great comfort to me
Oh, the warm feeling as I
Sat by you

Oh, the warm feeling as
We sat beside the sea
Oh, the warm feeling as I
Sat by you.’

From the mid-80’s, and from arguably the best two or three albums VM ever produced, another simple song but so effective in its storytelling. It hearkens back to Astral Weeks’ ‘Beside You’, but adds another religious or spiritual element that is touching.

 

12.  A TOWN CALLED PARADISE (NO GURU, NO METHOD, NO TEACHER)

‘Copycats ripped off my words
Copycats ripped off my songs
Copycats ripped off my melody
It doesn't matter what they say
It doesn't matter what they do
All that matters is my relationship to you

Gonna take you out, get you in my car
We're going for a long long drive
We're going down to a town called Paradise
Down where we can be free
We're gonna drink that wine
We're gonna jump for joy in a town called Paradise

We're going up the mountainside
Child, you can look for miles
And see the vision on the west
We're gonna swing round
And look from north to south
Swing round from east to west
And go round in a circle too

And we're gonna start dancing
Like we've never done before
I'm gonna take you in my arms
I'm gonna squeeze you tight
Everything will be alright

We're gonna get that squealin' feelin'
Gonna take you down to a town called paradise
Down where we can be free
It doesn't matter what they say
It doesn't matter what they do

All that matters is my relationship to you
By the river we will linger
As we drive down to be free
We're gonna ride all night long
All along the ancient highway
Gonna be there for the mornin' comes.’

The mood begins a little bit sour, even bitter, with its reference to ‘copycats’ (echoed again on the last track, ‘Ivory Tower’ with its reference to ‘don’t you know the price I have to pay just to do everything I have to do’), but strangely enough becomes incredibly soulful and joyous thereafter: ‘We’re gonna ride all night long/ All along the ancient highway.’ This is a song about the desire to escape, and reaping the benefits of getting away from everything, especially, I am guessing, the music business where the copycats reside. Another lovely expression of unbounded joy.

 

13.  IN THE GARDEN (NO GURU, NO METHOD, NO TEACHER)

‘The streets are always wet with rain
After a summer shower when I saw you standin'
Standin' in the garden, in the garden wet with rain

You wiped the teardrops from your eye in sorrow
As we watched the petals fall down to the ground
And as I sat beside you I felt the great sadness that day
In the garden

And then one day you came back home
You were a creature all in rapture
You had the key to your soul and you did open
That day you came back to the garden

The olden summer breeze was blowin' against your face, alright
The light of God was shinin' on your countenance divine
And you were a violet colour as you sat beside your father
And your mother in the garden

The summer breeze was blowin' on your face
Within your violet you treasure your summery words
And as the shiver from my neck down to my spine
Ignited me in daylight and nature in the garden

And you went into a trance, your childlike vision became so fine
And we heard the bells within the church, we loved so much
And felt the presence of the youth of eternal summers in the garden

Alright, and as it touched your cheeks so lightly
Born again you were and blushed
And we touched each other lightly
And we felt the presence of the Christ
Within our hearts in the garden

And I turned to you and I said
"No guru, no method, no teacher
Just you and I and nature
And the Father in the garden"

Listen, no guru, no method, no teacher
Just you and I and nature
And the Father and the Son
And the Holy Ghost in the garden wet with rain

No guru, no method, no teacher
Just you and I and nature
And the Father and the Son
And the Holy Ghost in the garden
In the garden wet with rain

No guru, no method, no teacher
Just you and I and nature
And the Father in the garden.’

This is one of those complete songs, where you imagine the writer/ musician has put their pen/ instrument down and looked back on it and felt completely satisfied. It is possibly Van’s most perfectly realised statement of tranquility, transcendence and enlightenment. The line about being a creature ‘all in rapture’ is the most vivid for me, but all of the images, from petals, and breezes, and bells are beautiful. The line about gardens being wet with rain is a favorite of Van’s.

 

14.  CONEY ISLAND (AVALON SUNSET)

 

 

‘Coming down from Downpatrick
Stopping off at St. John's Point
Out all day birdwatching
And the craic was good

Stopped off at Strangford Lough
Early in the morning
Drove through Shrigley taking pictures
And on to Killyleagh

Stopped off for Sunday papers
At the Lecale District
Just before Coney Island

On and on, over the hill
To Ardglass in the jamjar
Autumn sunshine, magnificent
And all shining through

Stop off at Ardglass
For a couple of jars of mussels
And some potted herrings in case
We get famished before dinner

On and on, over the hill
And the craic is good
Heading towards Coney Island

I look at the side of your face
As the sunlight comes
Streaming through the window
In the autumn sunshine

And all the time
Going to Coney Island
I'm thinking, wouldn't it be great
If it was like this all the time?’

This song reminds me a little of a later song about Van’s own neighborhood, but it’s not as good as this latter day one. Still, it evokes some lovely images and I can’t help being drawn to it because of a romantic attachment. It was around 1993 when I drove around Downpatrick in search of all these villages mentioned in the song. They are all in a similar area, and the most surprising aspect of the journey was Coney Island itself. Here, the poet provides his full imagination to his memory of a locale (as McCartney did with Penny Lane), as the whole song is built around the destination and the pleasure it provides. However, to me, as a tourist and outsider, Coney Island was just this little hamlet that was very ordinary and non-descript, and here I was expecting something completely magical. I also found the fish shop in Ardglass, a famous fish shop, that sells potted herring and mussels, so that was a buzz. The final image in the poem is lovely and personal- you can’t help imagining the features of this compelling face in the sunshine.

 

15.  SO QUIET IN HERE (ENLIGHTENMENT)

 

‘Foghorns blowing in the night
Salt sea air in the morning breeze
Driving cars all along the coastline
This must be what it's all about
Oh this must be what it's all about

This must be what paradise is like
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here

The warm look of radiance on your face
And your heart beating close to mine
And the evening fading in the candle glow
This must be what it's all about
Oh this must be what it's all about

This must be what paradise is like
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, yeah, so peaceful in here

All my struggling in the world
And so many dreams that don't come true
Step back, put it all away
It don't matter, it don't matter anymore
Oh this must be what paradise is like

This must be what paradise is like
It's so quiet in here, so peaceful in here
It's so quiet in here, so peaceful in here

A glass of wine with some friends
Talking into the wee hours of the dawn
Sit back and relax your mind
This must be, this must be, what it's all about
This must be what paradise is like

Oh this must be what paradise is like
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here

Big ships out in the night
And we're floating across the waves
Sailing for some other shore
Where we can be what we wanna be
Oh this must be what paradise is like

This must be what paradise is like
Baby it's so quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, you can hear, it's so quiet.’

Yet another VM song about freedom and escape and the search for fulfillment that I am helplessly drawn to. The images are simple but powerful- the ‘evening fading in the candle glow’, the ‘talking to the wee hours of the dawn’, but my personal favorite is near the end- the ‘big ships out in the night’, and especially ‘sailing for some other shore…’ and the restlessness that is implied. We are often thinking about some other shore and wondering if it might be better. The baggage of all those things connected with ourselves and our profession stops us from really being ‘what we wanna be.’ To escape all of that, even for a short time, is often a relief.

 

16.  HYMNS TO THE SILENCE (HYMNS TO THE SILENCE)

 

‘Oh my dear, oh my dear sweet love
Oh my dear, oh my dear sweet love
When I'm away from you, when I'm away from you

Well, I feel, yeah, well, I feel so sad and blue
Well, I feel, well, I feel so sad and blue
Oh my dear, oh my dear, oh my dear sweet love

When I'm away from you, I just have to sing my hymns
Hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence
Hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence

Oh my dear, oh my dear sweet love, it's a long, long journey
Long, long journey, journey back home
Back home to you, feel you by my side
Long journey, journey, journey

Yeah, in the midnight, in the midnight, I burn the candle
Burn the candle at both ends, burn the candle at both ends
Burn the candle at both ends, burn the candle at both ends
And I keep on, 'cause I can't sleep at night
Until the daylight comes through

And I just, and I just, have to sing
Sing my hymns to the silence
Hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence
My hymns to the silence

I wanna go out in the countryside
Oh, sit by the clear, cool, crystal water
Get my spirit, way back to the feeling
Deep in my soul, I wanna feel

Oh, so close to the one, close to the one
Close to the one, close to the one
And that's why, I keep on singing baby

My hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence
Oh, my hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence
Oh, hymns to the silence, oh, hymns to the silence
Oh, hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence

Oh my dear, my dear sweet love
Can you feel the silence? Can you feel the silence?
Can you feel the silence? Can you feel the silence?

Hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence
Hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence
Hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence
Hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence.’

I still remember buying this record and being so excited to listen to it- a VM double album! This one is one of my favorite latter day VM songs. A lot of repetition- ‘burn the candle at both ends’, the lovely ‘clear cool crystal water’ again, the emotional pull of the word ‘silence’ which sums up VM more for me than any other word, especially combined with the majestic phrase ‘can you feel the silence?’ which, when I hear it, I want it to go on forever.

 

17.  PAGAN STREAMS (HYMNS TO THE SILENCE)

‘And we walked the pagan streams
And searched for white horses on surrounding hills
We lived where dusk had meaning

And repaired to quiet sleep, where noise abated
In touch with the silence
On honey street, on honey street

What happened to a sense of wonder?
On yonder hillside, getting dim
Why didn't they leave us, alone?

Why couldn't we just be ourselves?
We could dream and keep bees
And live on honey street

And we walked the pagan streams
In meditation and contemplation
And we didn't need anybody, or anything

Then, no concepts being free
And I wanna climb that hillside again with you
One more time

As the great, great, great, great, great, great, great
Being watches over
And we repair, repair, repair, repair, we repair
To honey street, to honey street.’

Freedom, escape, ‘meditation’, ‘contemplation.’ And a sense of being watched over. A sense of wonder. And silence. ‘Why couldn’t we just be ourselves?’ Once again it’s all there. And very dreamy.

 

18.  ON HYNDFORD STREET (HYMNS TO THE SILENCE)

‘Take me back, take me way, way, way back
On Hyndford Street
Where you could feel the silence at half past eleven
On long summer nights
As the wireless played Radio Luxembourg
And the voices whispered across Beechie River

In the quietness as we sank into restful slumber in the silence
And carried on dreaming, in God
And walks up Cherry Valley from North Road Bridge, railway line
On sunny summer afternoons
Picking apples from the side of the tracks
That spilled over from the gardens of the houses on Cyprus Avenue

Watching the moth catcher working the floodlights in the evenings
And meeting down by the pylons
Playing round Mrs. Kelly's lamp
Going out to Holywood on the bus
And walking from the end of the lines to the seaside
Stopping at Fusco's for ice cream

In the days before rock `n' roll
Hyndford Street, Abetta Parade
Orangefield, St. Donard's Church, Sunday six bells
And in between the silence there was conversation
And laughter, and music and singing
And shivers up the back of the neck

And tuning in to Luxembourg late at night
And jazz and blues records during the day
Also Debussy on the third programme
Early mornings when contemplation was best
Going up the Castlereagh hills
And the cregagh glens in summer and coming back

To Hyndford Street, feeling wondrous and lit up inside
With a sense of everlasting life
And reading Mr. Jelly Roll and Big Bill Broonzy
And "Really The Blues" by Mezz Mezzrow
And "Dharma Bums" by Jack Kerouac over and over again
And voices echoing late at night over Beechie River
And it's always being now, and it's always being now

It's always now
Can you feel the silence?
On Hyndford Street where you could feel the silence
At half past eleven on long summer nights
As the wireless played Radio Luxembourg
And the voices whispered across Beechie River
And in the quietness we sank into restful slumber in silence
And carried on dreaming in God

 

Here, then, is Van’s most poetic ‘song’- that is, the one that most closely resembles poetry, mostly because it is merely spoken, with just a lovely crooning guitar in the background. As in the case of Coney Island, the real thing, to an outsider, seems completely underwhelming. Cyprus Avenue, around the corner, is a lot nicer.  I remember, on that same trip in ’93, standing out the front of Van’s old house on Hyndford Street, and meeting a longtime neighbor, incredulous that Van would have a fan visit his home from a place as faw away as Australia. I told her about this song, and she laughed at the Mrs Kelly reference, and she told me about how the kids would run around Mrs Kelly’s streetlight next door. Something as innocuous as that! These are all magical memories, probably heightened by the distance of memory, full of music and poetry and God and all the places nearby. Many of those early songs from the Astral Weeks period are involved. And the silence. ‘Can you feel the silence?’