I was a little hesitant to post this one because if you don't know this Sam Cooke song then there is absolutely no hope for you in regards to music, you can bet some 'ole Sam is going to be on this page very soon. Also, no matter how great of a job Van does here on this track it can never compare to Sam's entrancing version. BUT Van comes pretty close in this song just under five minutes long, I would say he lays it down as his life depends on it but it is obvious that music is much more important than life itself.
People think they know Van Morrison, they know the big ones: "Moondance", Brown-eyed Girl", and probably know "Into the Mystic" because it has been whored out to every Julia Roberts-type romantic film in the past two decades. Bullshit. Here's the real Van:
Born in Northern Ireland digging old Blues, Soul and Skiffle, did Them, did Brown-eyed Girl, moved to Boston and lost everything, spent his time playing small gigs, discovered again by Warner Brothers...Astral Weeks, Moondance, Tupelo Honey, Saint Dominic's Preview and legend status. Not bad for a drunk kid from Northern Ireland with stage fright (seriously, which is why he sings live most of the time with his eyes closed) even though he is the master of probably every instrument that can be played. If you don't believe me check out the liner notes to one of his albums. Van Morrison: Lead Vocals, Guitar, Piano, Saxophone....endless.
Van's songwriting ability is on par with the greats but just as some of the Dead's best songs are Dylan covers, it is in "Bring it on Home to Me" that we can really hear the voracious growl alive in that fat four hundred pound frame of his. There really is no way to describe in words how powerful, fuck you inyourface his sound is while still keeping an intimate, shallow persona somewhere under all that diesel. Van's voice isn't a Chevelle with straight pipes, nor a locomotive running through West Texas or the Concorde scraping the sky. It is all those things at the same time.
The song itself is bare bones, no need for ketchup when you have fillet, fuck Phil Spector, who is he? Some asshole who should be in prison. There is a John Platania guitar behind the beef, quick riffs filling in the gaps, there's a fantastic Jack Schroer sax solo...how do I know it's Schroer? Because right before he begins Van wakes him up by screaming "JACK!" Combine that with a fluttery piano background that sounds as if it was coming out of an old Western Saloon and you have the melody.
The Voice, well there's Van playing with words like he has been known to do on stage:
"I gave you all themoneyIhadinthebank"
"If you ever change your mindwa"
"Leavin-a me behinda"
But more importantly like many in the Blues and Soul genres, each song is a oration by a preacher. It begins almost spoken until it becomes time to testify and testify comes a happening bringing down all the fire and brimstone-soul fused groove down from the Gods. Van is a fucking God, there is no doubt since "and if you EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVER CHAAAAAANGGGGE YOUR MIIIIIINNNNNNDDA" could never come out of a mortal's voice box. In those words there's the hurt of every blown relationship in the world and the desperation of those whose lives have been destroyed by someone, there's Van passed out in a turkey bar up in Southie and Sam Cooke dead on the floor of the Hacienda Motel.
If you're one of the above mentioned, put the picture of that lost one in a place you can stare at it for awhile and throw this song on repeat, Go ahead and sing the song, no wait, scream this song just as Van has been doing for decades and dig down deep to find it. Down there is where that hurt is living and tearing away at your soul, once you let that sonofabitch out and into the ether it will be gone forever, Van is a modern day exorcist and that baritone has cured more than any crucifix or holy water ever has; he's four hundred pounds of sweaty, boozed soaked musical piety and his temple is open each and every day, "Bring it on Home to Me" is the Ave Maria of the cannon.
