Warm love, that is. Lots of trouble and strife in this world. I hope you can find yourself a troubadour and a fire and a honey and get some warm love in your life. It’s decidedly underrated.
I have no idea who corralled who into doing what. Elvin Bishop is playing with Van Morrison. I assume that Van was available, and said, sure, I’ll be on your show, got a band handy? There are a few places where you can espy Van looking for something in the backing that isn’t there, and other places where something appears that he wasn’t expecting, but liked it. I love how he tries to hand the microphone to Elvin at the end, who’s not interested, and then drops it on the floor. Off duty is off duty, I guess.
I’ve played that song for money, and sang it, too. I stunk. We stunk. Didn’t matter. You can play that song with any old band, and it carries you along. It helps if any old band is Elvin Bishop’s, and Van sings it himself.
If you busted the seventies open like a big pinata — a pinata wearing flared pants and aviator sunglasses — I imagine the bizarre spectacle of Van Morrison with Elvin Bishop’s band backing him would about sum the decade up. Will they have Marvin Gaye fronting Black Oak Arkansas next? Rod Argent singing in front of the Isleys? Dobie Gray and Vickie Lawrence singing a duet with Redbone?
Obviously, I shoulda been a promoter.
Roaring drunk and carrying salt and iron in the pockets of my cothamore inside-out. No dice. He’ll come again.The soul of the man murdered walks the earth on Samhain when the faerie mounds vomit their wards. I haunt the pubs, a guiser with a mask of bonhomie, but to no effect. He will find me.
You can kill a man every which way. That’s the trouble. You think there’ll be some shade feigning Ellen Terry and holding out a crown and dagger dripping, but murther usually sneaks up on you in this world and haunts you from the next. Did I do that? Is a pillow over a face, sleeping, less a murder than a stick-em-up roscoe to the temple? Are there degrees to it? I don’t think so. I never laid a finger on, but that’s the point. If you put your hand in your pocket when a man reaches for it in familiarity he’s done for. He died alone, but no rutabaga will ward him off me now.
You can starve a man out and say that he died of inanition and who’s fault’s that? I moved his stone in the Samhain ring without touching it. The smoke off the bones from a stranger’s fire could not save him. It had to be me. I offered a cold shoulder and a deaf ear to him and he went away, and now he walks at my elbow like an usher.
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