Before he was a genius, Van Morrison was a professional, and he’d probably take the latter as a higher compliment. Morrison came up in the world of Irish showbands — a regionalized variant on the jazz big band, a relic of a time when there was more money in live music than today, and a commitment that entails practice as a lifestyle. This work ethic is the most useful way to explain how he was able to write perfect songs like “Here Comes the Night” as a teenager — and, if the legends are true, improvise the songs on 1968’s masterpiece “Astral Weeks” more or less on the spot.
Anyone who knew the first thing about Morrison knew they were unlikely to hear any of those songs at his exclusive engagement at San Francisco’s Chapel on Monday. This was the launch party for his new album, “Somebody Tried to Sell Me a Bridge,” which is entirely in a blues idiom; Morrison’s father had one of the biggest record collections in Ireland, and the eventual Van the Man grew up immersed in blues, R&B and classic soul. This is still the music dearest and truest to his heart, and though he’s an infamously erratic live performer, the chance to be immersed in this music allowed him to coast on a kind of cool professionalism.
The setlist leaned obscure, and he sounded best on faster numbers like Eddie Vinson’s “Kidney Stew Blues” and Marie Adams’ “I’m Gonna Play the Honky Tonks.” The most unconventional cover, a slowed-down version of Fats Domino’s “Ain’t That a Shame,” gave him an opportunity to indulge in the perverse repetitions of words that so enthralled rock critics in the 1970s, when Morrison was in his live prime. On recordings like “Listen to the Lion” from 1974’s definitive live album “It’s Too Late to Stop Now,” these repetitions felt like his way of channeling a universal, Bardic Celtic subconscious. These days, it feels more like one of his moves.
“I used to live here,” he repeated at one point, emphasizing his Bay Area roots, but the rich vein of Marin new age and Theosophic thought that came to full flower on his ‘80s records was not relevant to this set. Here was the Belfast boy, drunk on blues.
A more evident connection to Morrison’s Marin years was the presence of John Allair, one of Marin County’s earliest rockers and one of the few people alive today who can be said to have played with Fats Domino in his prime. Now in his mid-80s, he’s a damned good organist, and not just for his age. Rising from his seat to solo, he was often more visible than Morrison, who stalked among his musicians, giving stage directions and generally seemed more comfortable at the center than at the front.
Allair’s presence also reinforced the idea that this show was a living link to a pre-Beatles era when putting on a great show was more important than being a genius, when musicians came to the blues through Sonny Boy Williamson rather than Led Zeppelin, when the average artist would put more of a premium on practice than on the druggy surrendering to cosmic visions that became associated with great rock music in the mid- to late ‘60s. An announcer began the set by announcing, “Ladies and gentlemen, Van Morrison.” When was the last time you went to a set with an announcer? Usually rock bands dim the lights, trudge glumly onstage and hope you’ll cheer. A lot was gained when rock ‘n’ roll became art rather than dance music, but a lot was lost.
Morrison is 80 years old, thinner than the pink-suited popinjay who graced the Band’s “Last Waltz” stage with Rockette high kicks. If there wasn’t much of the “Astral Weeks” wonder boy in Morrison’s set, there wasn’t much of the cantankerous side, either; aside from a brusque request to turn the mic up, his bubble of contentment remained un-popped throughout the show. When he encored with the garage-rock standard “Gloria,” just in case you forgot he wrote it, it felt like a gift from this most uncompromising artist: a rare glimmer of genius amid the professionalism, and maybe a reward to the audience for not shouting for it.
Morrison performs at 7 p.m. Monday and Tuesday at the Palace of Fine Arts at 3301 Lyon St. in San Francisco. Admission is $277 and up. Go to palaceoffinearts.org.