Hang-ups from Hard Nose the Highway did not last long. Van Morrison was in a state of reactive processes. The want of returning home, the desire to remain in a city which had pulled at his heart with asphalt and smoke. Veedon Fleece is a culmination of loggerheads, a stripped-back affair which hears Morrison head back into those moments which inspired Astral Weeks from his subconscious. It could never be repeated, but it could be sidled up to and tapped for a few bits of influence. Divorce, disaster and a return to Northern Ireland are three contenders for reasons Veedon Fleece sounds so immaculate. Acoustic moments following a roaring tour which drained its leading man, a personal turmoil and a reconnection with his homeland after the doubts of Saint Dominic’s Preview. It is a perfect storm people forget he sailed through.
Acoustic beauties and a voice which could still hold those heavy messages, the mellowed heartbreaks and all those tales of country-like living merge on the hard slabs of New York pavement. Such a blur is where Morrison finds his best works. Opener Fair Play blurs all those tones of romance in the big city with the effective calmness which comes from being far away from the bustling city, the brick towers no more. This is as fundamental as it gets for Morrison, whose change comes not from the tone of his writing but the delivery. Powerful, truly phenomenal works from Linden Arden Stole the Highlights – a flash of perfection from an album which has slipped from the best-of conversation because of what preceded it. Make no mistake, though, Veedon Fleece is up there with Moondance. There are tones of mistrust, tender tales of learning from mistakes on Who Was That Masked Man, which reveal a fragility in the perseverence Morrison is keen to paint with.
Those reservations heard in his previous albums, the back-and-forth between feeling out of place in the United States and the flight home that rekindled him, continually fight for attention on Veedon Fleece. Streets of Arklow is a perfect example of the sound-defining Veedon Fleece. What began as straight acoustics is bombarded by a series of strings and piano workings which rip attention away from Morrison. And yet it remains beautiful. Morrison was once more following in the footsteps of his great influence, Bob Dylan, and trying to match the legendary songwriter with lengthy efforts like You Don’t Pull No Punches, But You Don’t Push the River. These are journeyman songs, occasions where the lyrical quality is not so much the focus but truly the point of the track. It works here, for Veedon Fleece, because it feels like the subconscious turning in its grave, recalling the horror and flinching at the juxtapositions preceding and following.
Yet he takes it too far on Bulbs, the dog bark-like interjections Morrisons has here do little to mask the loose lyrical structure. He falls to pieces. Cul de Sac feels much the same, losing the charm of his instrumental fury as he uses his mouth as a trombone, interjecting where instrumentals should be free. But the B-Side falls apart. Very relative stuff from Morrison, whose interjections, growls and parping are laughable moments. At least the closer, Country Fair, hears him return to form. Slice off the second half of the album and you have a borderline perfect piece of work from Morrison, a return to form irrespective of its lower moments which would see him form credible artistic attempts in the decades to come.
