Forget the vaccine roll-out, forget the final days of lockdown – the pandemic didn’t really end until Van Morrison went skiffle. In 2020 this legendary polymath of Celtic soul, folk and R&B made headlines by releasing anti-lockdown singles which placed him at the forefront of music’s anti-authoritarian fightback alongside Eric Clapton, Ian Brown and Right Said Fred. His Clapton collaboration Stand and Deliver attacked fear-mongering politicians and the “police state”; the science-baiting No More Lockdowns – basically Toby Young gone blues – was a musical Eat Out to Help Out.
Two albums full of Covid denialism and mind control conspiracies followed, until this year’s Moving On Skiffle – his 44th album – saw Morrison abandon politics to cover traditionals and evergreen classics by the likes of Hank Williams and Lead Belly in the style he’d last extensively dabbled in on 2000’s The Skiffle Sessions.
Last night’s Albert Hall show might have frustrated fans after any hits of his own – the entire set was drawn from the new album – but there was a tangible sense of relief to have him back, however briefly, from the depths of pandemic paranoia. This, thankfully, wasn’t a gig fit to launch The Julia Hartley-Brewer Sessions.
In trademark pork pie hat and shades, and backed by a band featuring the cheeriest washboard player you’ll see this side of 1954, Morrison – as is his nature – applied his sumptuous skiffle set-up to a broad range of styles: country, blues, gospel, jazz, even spots of languid Hawaiian hula. And though his band of fiddle, ukulele and bouzouki players often soloed freely, no slack was permitted.
The Viper Skiffle Group’s Streamline Train rattled by with locomotive pace. Sail Away Ladies reached a hoedown momentum. And his upbeat jive-blues arrangement of Dixieland standard Careless Love sounded like the jauntiest revenge murder ever enacted.
Much to the relief of anyone who has watched any recent Glastonburys, Morrison’s voice is remarkably silken for a singer of his vintage. His sax and harmonica solos remained punchy; his ability to bring plush gospel songs like This Loving Light of Mine to barnstorming climaxes undimmed. He did, however, request assistance from some unexpected old muckers.
Skiffle veteran Joe Brown joined on mandolin and The Rolling Stones’ Ronnie Wood scuttled from the wings midway through the set to a rapturous reception, in his element despite his guitar being inaudible for a song or two. Sixties blues rocker Chris Farlowe became something of a comedy foil. “I went down to the station, couldn’t find no train,” Van complained. “British Rail,” Farlowe intoned in bluesman baritone.
For a notoriously cantankerous character, Morrison was a generous host. Though he used his introduction to Gov Don’t Allow – his lyrical rewrite of the traditional Mama Don’t Allow and the new album’s one overt political moment – to decry Partygate, he stripped out lines like “Gov don’t allow no freedom of speech in here” and repurposed the number as a vehicle for solos from anyone who fancied one. As retro tributes to an artist’s root inspirations go, this was a refined and joyful display; Morrison certainly seemed happier saluting Woody Guthrie than berating Bill Gates.
