Forty-one albums into his storied career, Van Morrison remains one of rock’s most enduring studies in contrast, never changing and forever restless. Three Chords and The Truth is his sixth record in the last four years, the latest dispatch of a particularly productive period, and the first to feature all-new original songs since 2012’s Born to Sing: No Plan B (minus one co-write with lyricist Don Black). Though he sticks closely to the conservative R&B, blues, and jazz modes that have defined his ’00s discography, the LP’s 14 songs showcase his determination to wring profundity out of even the most common language. Songwriter Harlan Howard coined the phrase “Three chords and the truth” to describe the necessary ingredients for country and western music, but this isn’t a country record. Van’s talking about his desire to take simple rhymes and traditional song structures and imbue them with Caledonia soul heaviness.
As it has since his raging beginnings with Them, it’s Morrison’s voice that affords him such latitude. At 74, he sounds incredible, his voice deepened and richer with age, growling, cooing, and occasionally barking about familiar but resonant concerns. As always, he’s grouchy— sick of the powerful getting away with it all (the Brexit commentary “Nobody in Charge”), annoyed by notoriety and the complications of stardom (“Fame Will Eat the Soul,” which features a rousing call and response assist by Righteous Brother Bill Medley), and uncertain if goodness makes any difference in a compromised world (“Does Love Conquer All”).
But he’s equally nostalgic, riffing on the joy of sound on the title track and earnestly recalling the freedom and purity of youth (“Early Days,” “In Search of Grace”). There’s a warmth here that recalls his ’90s highwater marks, Hymns to the Silence and The Healing Game, and connects even farther back in time to 1971’s Tupelo Honey, which balanced the charms of domesticity with R&B raves. Credit the superb backing band for the record’s subtle but palpable drive. With Astral Weeks guitarist Jay Berliner in the mix, they support Morrison sympathetically. “It’s called ‘the flow,’” Morrison said in a recent interview, detailing his optimal conditions for making music. “I don’t know the mechanics of how that works. I just know when I’m in it.”
“The flow” makes Three Chords and The Truth a deeply pleasurable listen, but it’s the moments where Morrison sounds less settled that carry the most weight. The album’s third song, “Dark Night of the Soul,” never wanders as far out as epics like “Madame George” and “Listen to the Lion,” nor does it match spaced-out gloss of his ’80s albums with trumpeter Mark Isham, but it’s gripped by the same existential fervor. Its mellow heat has a lot in common with 1997’s “Rough God Goes Riding,” a gentle midtempo cut with apocalyptic visions hiding in plain sight. Revisiting the 16th-century Christian mystic St. John of the Cross’ poem about the unknowability of God, one he’s sung about a number of times before, Morrison showcases the way his twilight years haven’t dimmed his yearning for growth, his desire for a deeper understanding. Morrison concludes the song with passionate vocal riffing, treating his voice like a saxophone pushed nearly to its breaking point.
That tension, between the sublime and the terrifying, has always fueled Morrison’s best work. He’s always been split between the desire for complete freedom and a love of tight structure; He’s a guy who once shouted out L. Ron Hubbard in the liner notes to Inarticulate Speech of the Heart but also “wouldn’t touch [religion] with a 10-foot pole.” He’s been a prophet of metaphysical openness and also the chronicler, as author Steven Hyden has noted, of “an infinite number of grievances, both real and imagined.” There aren’t a lot of songwriters who can fit the word “skullduggery” into the lyric book, as Morrison does here with “You Don’t Understand.” Even fewer make the word sound so natural—in Morrison’s songs, griping and testifying are never separated by much.
Like his peer Bob Dylan, Morrison has found resonance in singing standards of a sort. This time around they’re all of his own design, and his fitful, relentless desire for cosmic fulfillment animates them. Comfortably appointed in his twilight years, he’s still chasing enlightenment, haunted by “the things I might not yet know,” as he puts it on “Dark Night of the Soul.” For Morrison, there are always mysteries left to articulate.
Buy: Rough Trade
