Van in Waterbury and MGM Grand/Foxwoods

Say Goodbye to Madame Joy

I'd been looking forward to these two Connecticut shows since I walked out of the theater in Montreal a few weeks ago...two more chances to see Astral Weeks before it's gone for good and, in some ways, lets me get on with my life. It's been a great ride this past year, pure magic, this is where I always wanted to be since I was 14 -- listening to Astral Weeks live. After a year of it, I am officially AW supersaturated. Two more coming up is simply the glutton going for the supersize.

Foxwoods

Waterbury was lovely, and Foxwoods, well, it wasn't quite so lovely. There was some discomfort up on stage at Foxwoods. With Northern Muse noticeably cut short, it seemed like tonight was going to be tough on Van's voice. His cold was obvious as he sang, and other than Fair Play, which has everything in it to soothe the savage beast any time I hear it, the first set had a "get through this as good as I can" feel to it.

I'm sure there was a collective holding of breath among some of us after In the Garden, waiting to see what was coming next. The fact that he hadn't played AW the night before in Baltimore, even though it had been announced as an AW show, had me wondering if maybe the AW songs are harder to sing.

Harder or not, there was that voice over the loudspeaker announcing AW and we were off on our final flight of the year. Towards the end of Astral Weeks, as he was taking it down lower away from the mike, he started coughing; and I think it was about that time that he turned to Hayes and Ruggiero with his arms flailing up and down meaning something. It looked like he might have been wanting something different from the guitar, maybe he wanted something that would fit better with his physical constraints, but from that point on, it was as if Jay wasn't even there. Perhaps if all that had been figured out, we would have got an interesting show, but in the end it wasn't to be. The pill would have been harder to swallow if we hadn't had ourselves such a great little show at the Palace Theater in Waterbury four nights earlier.

Waterbury

I had been rushing to get to my seat in time for the 8 o'clock curtain call, but when I got there a few minutes to 8, Donna told me the usher had indicated that Van wasn't coming on until 8:15. That came and went too, and no Van on the piano until 8:24. Maybe the rain delayed him.

He was loaded for bear on Northern Muse, in what turned out to be surely the best version of it we've heard to date. He punctuates the first line with a "Come On!" done in that growly voice he does, and the growl is there to stay for the whole song, but it gets quiet too, with him moaning/crooning in his tongues, right through Tony's violin, then back to the last verse and after the chorus, the growl gets turned up, deep down on the solid ground, deep in the heart of Down and the growl grows into that gargle thing he does in Lion when he's really into the lion inside. Brilliant version, ending softly with It's alright, it's alright now. And I wonder how he gets his voice back to a whisper like that so fast.

Fun to see Van stay at the piano for Brown Eyed Girl, turning it into something a bit different. I've forgotten more than I remember about Fair Play this night except at the end of the round of solos, David has his bit on the bass, then Bobby a turn on drums, which is unusual in and of itself that the drums would get a solo, but then David comes back in and the two of them are playing jazz, then Jay and Van are doing a lovely guitar bit together that leads into a run of no prima donna, all change and hi ho Silver, and the thing comes to a crashing end. Pretty nice stuff. The Mystery slows it down for a bit, and then we're In the Garden. A little growling here too, but then he goes awfully quiet, almost plaintively singing no guru, no method, no teacher before taking it louder and then back down to a whisper again. I'm not sure how much the audience was into it with him -- it's hard to tell up here in the parterre, where the sound is good but not half loud enough. The distance from the stage is a distraction for me -- I didn't feel close enough to the music and some of the nuances were probably lost, leaving me feeling a bit outside the music. If this had been a powerhouse, blowing-the-roof-off concert, any seat in the house would have been good, but a show like this that's quieter, more complex with Van's voice, you just want to be up close. Or you do if you is me.

The AW set sounded just as fresh as it ever did -- another opportunity to revel in how great the band is, how wonderful the music sounds, how they've put it together for Van to work with. They've got the music down and that gives Van the freedom to go playing with things; at tonight's show in the first set, it's the deeper range where the growls live that he explores. But in AW, the exploration is in the music. When the music is driven by the guitar, both Jay's and Van's, as it is throughout, all those overworked words like trancelike, ethereal, and magic creep into the story. I climb up that mountainside and that's where I stay until he's back on the corner after leaving Madame Joy back there somewhere near Connolly Station. I'll take that trip anytime.

A gentle Astral Weeks, full at the end with Jay, moves into an even softer Beside You, lulling us into Slim Slow Slider, which he introduced with "Any reference to any living person is totally fiction." With that administrative detail out of the way we got down to the nitty gritty - lipstick writing on the mirror, fur coat strewn all across the floor, a note on your pillow that tells me you don't live here no more. I went to see the German doctor at Westpoint Grove just the other day, he gave me railway carriage charm, make my worries go away, make this pain go away, he say, son, make your memory pain go away. This has been a splendid year of listening to SSS grow into a worthy successor to TB Sheets in the "how to create a pall" genre. I love how Van made this song grow, the troubadour embellishing to keep his audience rapt. We sure got a powerful version of it tonight.

At the end of Sweet Thing he brings it right down -- there was Van playing blues harp and I remember David's bass behind it, the whole thing as low as you could go and getting quieter, the harp trading licks with "champagne eyes" until it's impossible to hear his final whisper. Cyprus Avenue leaves me a little melancholy, in a nostalgic way, mentally saying a quiet goodbye to a song I hope I am not saying goodbye to for too long. He serves it up to us quietly, and with each successively quieter in all your revelation, in all your revelation, on a golden autumn day, it becomes almost reverential until it gently fades into nothing.

Young Lovers Do changes the pace, gives me a chance to come up for a drink of water and watch the band for a while; they make it look so easy. Ballerina seems all new, Jay's doing something different with the guitar, more of a flamenco feel to it, tonight's ballerina is working hard tonight, Van exhorting her to keep on pushing, keep on pushing, get moving on up.

Then it's time to say goodbye to Madame Joy, tonight with the classical music all around the room, walking away from it all, so cool, and when he gets to the backstreet, he brings it down to just guitar and viola and his humming and a whispered "Be cool." All night long I was given no reason to believe this audience would have let Van get away with the subtleties, but they must have got it, because I think I could smell the rapture.

And the Healing Has Begun is a bit of a jaunt to start out but by the time we're listening to Jimmy Witherspoon in the backstreet, take this backstreet jelly roll, we're back in an alternate ending, but it feels like the same ending to Madame George, I can almost hear the train from Dublin up to Sandy Row, the violin mingling with the guitar, hold my hand, and then he's gone, clutching has hand above the guitar neck, perhaps the most introspective moment in the show.

The return for Gloria seemed almost mistaken, but it had a few people in the audience up on their feet; my impression is that, for the most part, this was not an audience cut out for subtleties, that the quiet bits left them a bit befuddled, not knowing quite what to make of it, not finding the energy in the sublime moments, leaving them with very little to give back for Gloria.

Of course, if what they needed was energy, what they should have done was immediately get in the car, drive the 77 miles to New York City, and be in time for tomorrow night's show at the WaMu. But for now they've got the band crashing away in Gloria long enough for Van to have made his getaway and be long gone before Ruggiero's drum flourish to signal that it was all over.

At this point it would be crazy to skip New York. The only obvious smart thing to do is follow Van down the road and see what we get. It's bound to be good.

Four Nights on the Eastern Seaboard (Northern Part)- Part 1

Sean's off in the other room, sorting through my stack of VHS Van and I've got some Van in the trusty aiwa and a few hours to put to constructive use, i.e., put myself back in my seat at the Palace Theater in Waterbury. Today's been a perfect autumn day in New Hampshire -- the rest day in the middle of our truncated version of Van's current four-night stand along the Eastern Seaboard -- Van's got Waterbury, New York, Baltimore and MGM Grand/Foxwoods on his schedule, but we went for the three-night special, and unfortunately, Baltimore drew the short straw. So, while the smart people are in Baltimore tonight, we are resting up for tomorrow, Van's last night of the tour and the last performing date on his calendar.

Three of us signed up for the three-night special: Donna, Sean and me; and the main thing about this particular special is it involves a fair amount of driving, which, when it comes right down to it, is simply another excellent excuse to listen to more Van.

Sean's here from Canada, without tickets to any of the shows, but determined to go to as many of the four as he can. By the time we set out for Waterbury on Saturday morning, we all had tickets for the two Connecticut shows, postponing the decision about going to WaMu until after the Waterbury show, when you just knew we'd be at our weakest. Anyone could see that WaMu was in the cards... and that's the mood I was in as Sean and I pulled out of the driveway at 10:40 Saturday morning, only forty minutes late by the artificial clock I'd set that would get us to Waterbury in time for a late lunch with a couple of girlfriends who I haven't seen in a couple of years. Donna was driving to Waterbury in her own car, so that at the end of the night, we theoretically could independently follow through on the option of turning around and going home.

Like that was ever going to happen.

The day started out picture perfect -- one of those typical late October autumn days in New England -- the leaves in the declining weeks of their fall; there's a chill in the air, but nothing a warm sweater won't cure. But by the time we got to Connecticut, the rain had started to spit, and by the time our GPS lady got us into town, it was starting to come down a little more seriously. Our little lady found a spot on the street right in front of the City Hall Cafe, home of the preshow, so we pulled in and were able to get in out of the rain in a hurry. My friends Robin and RoseAnne were holding down a table inside. The three of us played catch up over lunch, always a good thing to do. Dan showed up before long, glad to get out of the rain and I skipped out for a bit to collect Donna, who had arrived at our hotel, an exit down the road. When I left, RoseAnne and Robin were getting a bit of that nasty Van fever, thinking seriously about sticking around for the show; but, alas, by the time Donna and I got back to the bar, they'd decided it was better to be saving that money for the college fund, and they were off into the rain and the drive home. Leaving the rest of us to our own devices.

Inside the City Hall Cafe the powers that be were kicking us out, at least those of us who wanted something to eat. They were packed with folks who'd had the good sense to reserve a table. We were pointed in the direction of Zia Cucina -- easy, just go through the parking lot, up to the corner, turn left and then a right into an alleyway, and there it is. We found it on the first try. Diane and her three children are already there. It's a special night for the three of them -- this is going to be their first Van show, and I get a little bit envious, as I always do, of people getting to hear their first Astral Weeks live. Sometimes those nights are pivotal.

We've somehow managed to finagle our own area of the restaurant, which is probably just as well for the denizens. Tiny out-of-the-way Connecticut has drawn a sophisticated crowd, all the way from Belgium, Canada and San Francisco, along with the ragtag crowd of usual suspects from these here parts, where a five-hour drive is considered next door when it comes to Van. The food is superb, the drinks flow and the talk flows even more. Good to see Niall and Pat, and Robert's here from Ohio, refreshed from his six-city tour with Van three weeks ago. Lori and Mike are in from Detroit, and, like Wim and Kat, Dan, Art, Robert and Diane, this is the first night of two. The main course and the dessert... with the main course being served tonight in Waterbury with Astral Weeks in a beautiful theater -- one of those old theaters of the 1920s, with its ornate dome ceiling and plush red walls and dripping chandeliers, worn down through the decades of vaudeville, silent movies, big bands, until it simply wore out. But now it's refurbished and the perfect spot for a Van Morrison concert. We'll think about dessert later, but for now, we've got to get over to the theater. No point in being late.

Van in Montreal October 1, 2009

The lady's choice

When the light shines on Van at his now customary seat at the piano, the round of applause is thunderous, and I think, if I can feel it, then so can he. It felt so good to be in a room of people who genuinely seemed overjoyed to be there. So maybe Van was just catering to his audience this night. Whatever it was, it sure seemed that he catered to me.

We were treated royally in Montreal. I love a show when somewhere in the middle of the first song you realize you have long ago succumbed to the music and you realize it was somewhere back around the first note of Northern Muse that you sold your soul to the music one more time. There was more going on with NM tonight, which may be true of the whole tour, but hearing it in Montreal, at the time, it felt unique, sensing that he was really enjoying the music – and that can only mean to buckle up for your own safety. By the end of Northern Muse, he’s turned a classical sounding piece into an r’n’b tune, with David Hayes providing the beat, and I’m sure every foot that was alive in the place was tapping it out; and Van’s voice comes at us, out in front of the music, and the band simply playing this great music back there, and Van’s at the piano, thumping his foot on the floor a la Ray Charles. My cryptic note says it all, “Yum.” The music was like that all night long.

With my foot already tapping, I am in the minority in thinking Brown Eyed Girl is perfectly placed after a NM like that one. My foot was already going, so it was easy to get both of them into the act, and as I always do, I just count it as exercise, good for the heart. But when the opening notes of Fair Play begin, my eyes are closed again, and that turned out to be my favorite position of the night, one that I found myself in most of the time. I like those kinds of nights. A lot. So you want to know about the Fair Play in Montreal? Simply the best version of this song ever performed, to date. In terms of anything I’ve heard, at least. My cryptic note says, “STUINNING.” I’m sure I meant stunning, and that it most surely was. If what Van started off doing in Northern Muse was teasing you with what he could do, then Fair Play is the pied piper with his merry little lemmings, all willing to jump off the cliff, if that’s where we’re going. All change. No prima donna. The band, it bears repeating, is simply the best. The string section is down to Tony, Terry Adams and Michael Graham. The cellos, especially, have more sound at this show than we were hearing in the D.C. time period. I like it – they sound good. I have to admit that I didn’t think of Tony at all all night, which I take as a good thing. I enjoy his playing quite a bit, and I especially enjoy how much the music has grown in him while he’s been playing with Van – he’s great to listen to, but I always find him too high in the mix. I didn’t think about that all night, so my guess is I’ve either gotten used to it, or I like what it does for me that he’s been lowered a bit. Such beautiful music, it’s not meant to be screamed at us. Van was all over the place on FP tonight – it felt eternal – in the very best sense of the word. This version definitely is on my all-time fantasy setlist. I know you’ll agree.

Mystery is one of those songs that has never moved me. It seems more like half a thought, and sounds more like the throwaway song than BEG did. But in terms of show dynamics, I needed a bit of a break, catch my breath for the next go-round; and you never know, I might not be getting my next break until Young Lovers Do. Take a sip of water, and ready to go.

Philosopher’s Stone and In the Garden. Nothing wrong with those apples. It was a treasure to hear PS, literally giving me shivers up and down my spine. Garden once again had me tapping my feet, getting a little hand drumming going on my knees. This first set has had it all – classical, jazz, blues, celtic soul, r’n’b, and pure Van soul. This is one of those nights of alchemy, turning lead into gold.

And you’re convinced he’s doing it. Here’s Astral Weeks, and I would have thought by now, I’d be a bit inured to its charms, but no – at the end of the song, I am on my feet, thinking this has been one of the most glorious musical moments of my life. He had us down to nothing – his whisper and then nothing. And the audience was right with him. This was one of the most special moments. In a night when there were many such special moments.

Beside You is so sweet, especially in that part where it gets all soft and sticky. It’s like giving candy to a baby. Slim Slow Slider gives us a my nerves are so bad, my nerves are so bad, my nerves, my nerves. There is more desperation in his voice – or whatever one calls what he had been doing on his guitar on earlier nights, strumming it to a pulp – that was what he was giving with his voice to the song this time. He’s her boy tonight. The rest of AW was more of the same…nice surprises along the way. Sweet Thing has a different up tempo to it, the opening of Cyprus Avenue swept me off my feet with its beauty; Young Lovers Do no longer seems like an oddly misplaced song among the rest of AW. I’ve come to enjoy it for the chance to break the tempo of the show, bring it back, where our feet are on the ground again. Another bit of water and a few scribbles in my notebook.

I haven’t been one to well up too much during Van’s shows over the years – I am usually so filled with joy, there’s no time for tears, but in Ballerina, my tear ducts were the last bastion to give way. Madame Joy has a few new twists to it…I couldn’t tell if his “yea” was a nod to a member of the band or to himself, and later when he repeats Joy, Joy, Joy and then brings it to a storming ending…well, it was just all much more than I would have thought possible. It was like that all night. From one song to the next – each a layer to place over the last, so that in the end, the parts are indivisible.

And The Healing Has Begun has such a good time feel to it. He’s taking us up to Hynford Street with it, although we don’t know it at the time. By the end of Healing, I feel a grin on, going from ear to ear. I wasn’t in search of salvation tonight, so it wasn’t that some big weight was being lifted, but for the first time in recorded history, I was feeling quite bubbly at the end of it. I have no idea what that’s about; I’m just reporting the facts.

And all that was nothing compared to what became of On Hynford Street. It starts with those quiet guitar notes, building a mood, where the voices echo across Beechie River, listening to the wireless, the strings creating this most luscious of sounds; and then Van starts singing the verse…and every second it is something new. That’s not why I go to see Van, to hear something new, but when he does something like On Hynford Street, trying different intonations and wraps around the notes that are wrapped around the words that are usually spoken in this poem, it creates a sense of wonder; I know full well that he’ll never do it this way again; and that’s the kind of thing that sends the shivers up and down and back up and down again. Some of that singing felt tentative, other bits were spot on – all a work in progress, and tonight we get it unfolding right in front of our eyes. I’m looking forward to seeing how it gets incorporated in the shows ahead, should we get so lucky.

This was some powerhouse of a show. I find myself saying, or at least thinking, that a lot these days…and I suspect I’m sounding like a broken record. But a lot of people are saying that these days. Montreal was just one of the finest examples of it all. The fellow sitting beside me had been to see Van at Lafontaine Park in the early ’70s, and he was pretty much blown away by tonight’s show, and his friend Roger concurred. This is certainly his finest Montreal performance, and he’ll have left the adoring locals in his wake. If you missed the show in 2007, it has been an awfully long time since Van has come to town, and you have to go back to the ’70s to remember when. Including not a new, but a renewed, fan, Frederick, who had last seen Van in 1971 at the Capital Theatre and was left speechless by what he had witnessed inside. His friend Michael was at his first Van show tonight and thought it excellent. Which it was. It would have been hard to find a dissenter among the crowd.

Yes, all these shows weave a magical tapestry, but there is nothing like being there for one of the truly great ones, when Van turns it on, turns it up one notch for us to get a grand journey into the music. I was right – this music is eternal.

Topsfield Fair

It was one of those perfect fall days in New England. In these parts, you'll see the farmers harvesting their crops, apple picking, hayrides, and if it's October 10, there's always the last Saturday of the Topsfield Fair in Topsfield, Mass. The fair has been a tradition since 1818 - making it the oldest county fair in the country. It's been a few years since I last went, so time to make amends.

We, being fools, picked Saturday to go. You just had to know the lineups would be the killer. And so they were. From the drive in, starting about a mile or so out, it was jam packed everywhere -- the street, the parking lots, the crosswalks, and inside on the walkways, lineups at the concession stands, in the buildings, for the bathrooms, at every ride and at every event. We got in the line inching its way through the Fruits & Vegetables building. Everyone's there to see the first-prize winner of the biggest pumpkin contest this year (at 1,471.60 pounds, if you can believe it!), where it's standing room only. Essex County's version of the Mona Lisa. They keep the pumpkin under glass too.

There are prize-winning entries for everything that grows under the sun, and this is the place to be if you can make a good apple pie, paint a pumpkin or create a reenactment of the British retreat from Lexington out of gourds. The guy who was carving faces out of pumpkins probably had the best gig in the fair.

I got a crunk in my neck over at the Arts & Crafts building -- staring up the quilts hanging way above our heads. Much easier checking out the photographs and pictures along the walls - and every one of them's got a ribbon of some sort hanging next to it. This is the mark of an agricultural fair - lots of competition - from best caramel apple to longest carrot, to oinkiest pig to best cow - it's all here. Did you know that Mrs. Essex County is crowned at the fair each year? I think some years, the best pumpkin molasses cookies will get you the coveted spot. Quintessential New England.

Always on order is food -- and there is more than you can ever want - hot dogs, chicken, hamburgers, pulled pork, onion rings, fries, fried dough, fudge, fruit smoothies, apple crisp and ice cream, kebabs - food overload - but I settle on beef stew in a bread bowl that's being served by one of the Topsfield churches; Sean goes for their chili in the bread bowl, while Wendy gets a kabob. Just as I'm gobbling up the last of the stew-soaked bowl, I spot the Hallamore Clydesdale 8-Horse Hitch coming down to path en route to the Arena behind us. I think they're opening the show for LeAnn Rimes. Sean and I dashed around looking for the perfect angle -- to no avail -- but our sprint around the animal side of the fair brought us to the front door of the cow building. If you're me, a bit of moo time is always good for the soul.

There is music all around - little stages here and there, along with the grandstand and the arena - a perfect place to rest the weary legs and enjoy a coffee and fried dough. We leave Sean to the Eric Colville band, while Wendy and I head over to the Industrial Building, to see what latest products are being hawked. Cabot was doing a great business in cheese, but first-place ribbon has to go to the woman rubbing ladies' legs with her hair removal product. She almost had me convinced, but then I looked up while Wendy was getting her right calf smoothed down, to see a video display -- the image of a man's hairy chest getting rubbed over was enough to turn me on my heel. If we hurry, there's just enough time to catch the Flying Wallenda Brothers on the highwire. It's not every day you get a chance to see the Wallendas, and this looks like our day.

Night comes on quickly in October. There's a nip in the air when the sun goes down. When the chill sets in, it's either time to dig out the extra layers or head home for a hot cuppa. We got in the line behind the sugar-filled crying kids who'd had enough spinning and sugar for the day, not to mention goats and pigs ... leaving the fair to the kids arriving in droves for a night at the carnival.

Getting to the show in Montreal

I jumped in the car at 8:45 AM Thursday morning...my goal is to get to Montreal at 2:00. It should work, unless I hit a snag. Hats off to a snagless drive through the mountains and the leaves changing color in New Hampshire and Vermont, and on into Quebec. It should be a breeze.

First thing is stop for gas at the local, because I know this is the cheapest I'm going to see it for the next four days. Then it's onto 93, heading north. 93 is mostly about traffic in southern NH, but after I get onto 89 North, it's all about the scenery, with a little Van in the foreground. Bristol is my choice. The leaves are near the beginning of their change for the season in these parts, and I think, I'll come back in a week, 10 days. And I'll take pictures. No time for pictures today, though, I've got a time card to punch. The green hills of Vermont are my garden today. They have a very neat thing going on on 89 in Vermont -- rest stops every so often along the road, where you can go in for a pee, get coffee for a donation, and Bob's your uncle - quick pit stop, and you're out of there, unless you want to stay and do whatever little cultural thing they've got on display. But no time for that either. This is a working day; I've got a job to do.

By this time I've got RAH 2 on -- I want to hear a bit of AW. Listening to RAH, I am reminded why I am on my way to Montreal. These AW nights are incredible nights to spend with Van. All I have to do is sit down in my seat, and Van comes on and does all the work. I am forever grateful to Van, no time more so than this past year.

Crap - disc 1 has gone all skippy on the last song. But not before I've heard a nice Game, wishfully hoping that's the wild card song he picks for Montreal tonight, but knowing it's a real crap shoot. I've heard two nice versions in the car, and that's good enough. Mostly what I'm hoping is disc 2 doesn't have the same problem; but it does. ARGGH! I switch to something called Guest Spots & B Sides. I make my last stop on the U.S. side of the border, top up the tank, have a pee, don't get coffee.

I cruise through the Canadian border, with my new American passport - they're glad to have me, come to spend some money, not looking like I pose much of a threat. I slip in The Lion's Share to take me up through the Eastern Townships and into the streets of Montreal.

It hits me the minute I cross over into Canada -- gone are the wooded mountains of Vermont; here it's all flat, and you can count the number of trees on one hand. No wonder Americans think we all live in igloos -- we live above the tree line, for god's sake, it must be freezing. DUCK! HERE COMES AN ICEBERG!

The signs on the side of the road tell me how to convert miles into kilometres, but I've done this run enough times to know that all I have to do is get behind a Quebecois and follow the slipstream. It's gets me to Montreal in no time.

I get to Corinne's hotel and park the car in a 24-hour lot across the street, because it's the first place I see. Corinne's flown in from New Brunswick, and she's about to see her first AW show. In a way, I wish I was going to see my first too. But no, this is my 10th. Hard for me to believe.

We had a couple of hours to sightsee, and so we did. First stop, Ogilvy's, which I'd noticed one block down from Corinne's hotel. I'm on a mission to find a certain kind of teapot, and I thought there was an off chance Ogilvy's might have it. No such luck, and we were on our way down Ste. Catherine's - the main retail street - Montreal's version of Oxford Street. We quickly spot a Chapters bookstore. Perfect. I want to buy a Canadian English dictionary while I'm up here. I've got a list of things I want to get done while I'm here, and I think this is number 3 on my list. So, a major thing crossed off. The day is getting better by the minute. They have a Starbuck's. Definitely the best of the coffees I've had all day - those Vermont coffees were swill.

Back out on St. Catherine's, we took a left onto McGill College St., now heading north. Any time you head north in Montreal, you are heading up the mountain. But we're only going two blocks, and it's not really uphill here anyway. First thing we see is a display of 3-D photographs, with the 3-D glasses provided. Blown up photographs of Montreal scapes from days gone by, and you stand there, looking through these 6-feet-tall 3-D glasses and the pictures jump out -- there was one of a carriage coming out of the alley onto the street, the snow piled six feet high on the sidewalk. And you can tell by the way they're bundled up in the carriage that it's the kind of day the snow squeaks. The kind of day that makes you want to move south.

Two blocks up, at Sherbrooke St., is McGill College, but no time to dally in academia, we've got a preshow to get to, over on Crescent, so we should be picking up our pace. It's not that far, a handful of blocks, and Corinne and I feel quite virtuous about the exercise. Like somehow the walk will cancel out the sins to come. Smoked meat, bagels.

Bob has outdone himself again. The most gracious of hosts, and it is so good to be his guest. Smoked meat from Schwartz's, rye bread, yellow mustard; I've wolfed down one before I get my first beer. Which I nurse for an hour before it finally goes bone dry. Pamps and his daughter, Jessica, also in from New Brunswick, are already here along with Bob's daughter, Annie. I'm getting to be an old fart, I like seeing the younger generation get a taste of Van Morrison live, see what they think. A lot like me coming to John Lee Hooker later in his career -- both Van and John Lee have that foreverness in their music, so it doesn't matter when you hop on board. Later, both girls thought it was a great show, and you know, they were right.

Bum shows up, and we get the story about Toronto the night before -- it doesn't sound like it was a blow the roof off gig, but a fine show nonetheless. Robert, Nosey and Sean show up while I'm doing my little bit with Bill Brownstein of The Gazette, who's doing a story for the Sunday paper on the Van fans assembled in Montreal, a little something that Bob cooked up for us. Dan shows up, as do Mike and Laurie, David and Heather, Tony, as well as Corinne's boss, Brenda, and her husband, David, so two more from New Brunswick. Bob's son, Ben, and his friends, Ziggy, Clifford, Ray and Donna, all from Montreal, round out the party. Newfoundland, New Brunswick, Quebec, Ontario, Pennsylvania, Michigan, wherever Robert's from, New Hampshire, England, all hunting down the music in Montreal.

And if we're in Montreal, it's not all Van. Tonight is opening night of the NHL season -- Montreal is in Toronto, and the buzz is on. This is the kind of town where last night's game is plastered above the fold on the front page of today's newspaper. But for now, all we can do is anticipate and watch the hockey preshow on the big screen. And eat another smoked meat sandwich.

I outdid myself in ineptness in the photography department, which is no big deal, except I'm sorry the one of Pamps and Nosey doing the limbo on the back table didn't come out. It did in my mind, anyway. Cheers to you both. Excellent to spend at least a little bit of time together. There was a lot of caledonia soul running through the group. And it follows us up the walk to Place des Arts in the cool night air. Through the heart of Montreal - the rich part of Montreal and where you hear the most English. Place des Arts is to Montreal what the Lincoln Center is to New York The same venue Van played in July 2007 -- the night he premiered Blue and Green. Like 2007, he is playing at Salle Wilfrid-Pelletier -- one of the venues within the PdA complex.

The show is set for 8:00, and we're there long before. The first thing that hits you when you walk in is the carpet. I don't think they had this carpet when I was here two years ago, but this is enough to drive you dizzy. And to add insult to injury, the doors to the theatre weren't due to open for another 10 minutes. Dix minutes out on the carpet. I don't know where everyone else was; we were one large posse going up Ste. Catherine's, but we must have lost them in the shuffle, or maybe they were all upstairs.

There's a few of us, though...Dan, Corinne, Brenda and David are all huddled at the roped-off door; finally, at twenty to eight, they let us in. I was never so glad to get to my seat -- that carpet was killing me.

I had nice seat (major understatement) -- nine rows back, a little left of center. I've been on a bit of an austerity tour lately. It's hard for me to go to a slew of Van shows in North America these days and still be able to face my bank manager when I roll back into town. So, my first austerity move was to go to only one show on the tour that started on Sept 25 in Las Vegas, then Denver, Chicago, Toronto, Montreal, and Toronto again. Only one show in six -- I can sense my bank manager opening up the bubbly. Somehow I was able to convince myself that if I was only going to one show, I could splurge on the ticket. I have a twisted sense of economics. But who cares? I'm in my seat, entertained by the female singer coming over the sound system (does anyone know who that was?) and just thinking about what Dan and I were talking about on the way up to the show...

...the beauty of the music...how each time we get to experience it, it is just one more layer of something that was perfect the moment it stepped out of the gate. Each time is one more time, and that can't be anything but a good thing these days. Or at least that's what we thought, based on our experience.

Ah, the show is about to begin...