I don’t really remember our first house on Stanmore Road. I think I have a memory of the bonfire that would get built on the cobbles outside by the families on the street. And I think I remember the Belfast sink in the kitchen. There are a couple of photos of me in the back garden, but it could be anywhere. The only clue it’s our garden is that the grass needs cutting and there are nettles growing in the hedge. Dad was never a gardener.
I do remember the house we moved to.
And I do remember some of the ‘hi fi’ that was almost constantly in use there. There was a Garard deck back then. I think it had what could have been concrete in it. That might be time and age playing tricks but I’m pretty sure one of the turntables he had owed its weight to that.
No matter which of the ever-more expensive systems was in use, they’d always be playing Van Morrison. From the moment I was aware of music being played, he was being played.
He’s been part of my musical life from day one.
Played often. And played loud.
I’ve never bothered much with playlists, but I’ve starting one called ‘Blaupunkt Memories’.
Whenever we got a new car, there were certain constants. The car would be a VW. Dad would tell them he didn’t understand how they worked so it needed to not break down. It would be the ‘C’ or the ‘L’ model. No leather seats. No nearside wing mirror. No fuel injection. No alloy wheels.
But a trip to the Trust Motors showroom on Gelderd Road would always find us stood in front of the Blaupunkt display of radio-cassette players. And the car when it came would always have a decent one in it. One even had some ‘extra’ speakers on the rear parcel shelf.
Once bought, over time BASF chrome tapes would fill the glovebox and door pockets and litter the floor.
And loads of those tapes would have Van Morrison on them.
The shelves at home had his LPs. And the house had his voice.
What a voice.
If you’ve been lucky enough to see him, you know.
When he’s good, Manchester Appollo decades ago sticks in the memory, he’s peerless. There’ve been some nights when his mood has killed that of the audience. But he’s forgiven because of those high points.
He’s like a conductor and a soloist in a soulful ensemble. His voice can go to so many places. The musicians around him are always good. Players with feel. They get it too. They have to when they’re playing with Van.
I chose this song as it’s one of the high points on the highest point of live albums, 1974’s It’s Too Late To Stop Now. He was untouchable at this point. Watch footage of him in the 70s. He’s just so good. The Caledonia Soul Orchestra sum up what I meant about his bands. Perfect.
This song comes at you in waves. The recording captures the brilliance. The crowd help make it what it is.
So we’d be out for a drive. We did that quite a lot. My parents split in ’79. Our situation was unusual as we stayed with my Dad. Looking back, I think he was dealing with a lot of demons. But he never burdened us with them.
‘Light us a cig’. He’d take it from me, smile and twist the volume up.
We’d have been waiting for it. We knew every note. Every phrase. Every pause.
‘It’s too late to stop now…..’
We’d scream out that last line. Not sure what we must have looked like. Air drumming and grinning like idiots in a VW Polo through a fog of cigarette smoke. We were a long way from The Troubador in LA. But, with the band exploding to the song’s finish, we were right where we needed to be.
