Van Morrison: Into the Mystique

That schism has been a Morrison trademark since his salad days. Just as Merseybeat hit big in the '60s, he stuck to the American jazz, blues, and gospel that had thrilled him as a kid. "When the Beatles came around, everyone wanted Beatles songs," Morrison says. "If you had horns, it was like 'Don't bring the horn players up.'" Sure, he broke out of Belfast with British Invasion barn burners like "Gloria," but his band's name was prophetic: Them. To Morrison, rock was always Their music.

It still is. These days, he fills discs like The Healing Gamewith the lost echoes of '50s doo-wop and roadhouse blues—"stuff that got buried in the Elvis Presley thing," as he puts it. If that frustrates the fans, so be it. "You can't please everybody," he says. "First, you have to please yourself, and then it might be interesting for other people. But if it's not interesting for you, then you're f---ed. You've got nowhere to go."

Even though Morrison's albums routinely go gold, he steers clear of the rigmarole—tour for months, go unplugged, butter up the press—that can goose sales into the stratosphere. If singing is just a job, he seems to resent it as much as your average desk jockey. Of course, that didn't stop Shana, his 25-year-old daughter, from applying for the same line of work (she and Dad have recorded duets on Days Like This and A Night in San Francisco). "I never thought she'd become a singer," Morrison says. "If it had been up to me, I would've advised her not to. I just think it's a very hard way to go in life."

In the bar at the Europa Hotel, Georgie Fame grabs the journalist's pint of Guinness, takes a chug, and offers his own view of Van. "He communicates," says Fame, 53, Morrison's organ player and longtime crony. "He communicates all the f---in' time. It's people like you got the wrong idea about him. He's a wonderful Irish poet and a great musician. What else do you want?"

Well, plenty. On stage, Morrison has been known to sneer at the audience, stumble through a lackluster set, walk out. Anything can set him off—a bum solo, a heckler. He's still steamed about the Haight-Ashbury loafers who packed a show at San Francisco's Fillmore Auditorium way back in the '70s. "I looked out, and there's all these hippies down there," Morrison sniffs. "And I thought, 'This is not what it's about at all.' I cut the set short. I just didn't want to be part of all that hippie crap."

There are times, though, when all of that malt vinegar turns to tupelo honey. Tonight in Belfast, it happens. Hours after the interview, Van the grumpy gnome is gone, replaced by Van the fire-breathing soul dragon. He drives his 11-piece band through a set so blustery and ecstatic it sends shivers up the spine. He roars through oldies like "Into the Mystic" and "Tupelo Honey"—songs he usually shuns. He takes the brand-new "Burning Ground" to a sweltering crescendo, leaping in place, hurling the microphone stand to the floor, and finally strutting backstage while a band member drapes a towel over his back, a la James Brown.

In other words, the last five minutes are heaven.

"You never know how it's gonna work out," Fame laughs. "But when he turns it on, he turns it on so heavy."