A bit of everything he’s forged as trademark concerns over the years—invocations of the past, laments of near-Celtic dismay, Dublin blues, the obligatory shot at the music-biz, some swing covers and an abrasive swagger folding more than a bit of attitude into melodic sweetness. A collection that, like Morrison, is bittersweet and ornery. His ripe alto sax lets us know he’s stranded, but he longs to see us again, on the phone, on Bourbon Street or at least some time in the Celtic New Year. It’s a fight every day to keep mediocrity at bay, and although he’s been sold out, his litany is: Never stop looking or singing, till it sticks.
Magic Time
