When Fantasy Dies
In 1967, when “Brown-Eyed Girl” was on the airwaves of our transistor radios, my neighborhood friend Julie and I would fall into a rapture every time the song played. We both had brown eyes. The song was meant for us!
We were too young to date, yet we really wanted boyfriends. The lyrics to this song persuaded us to transfer our longing for love to Van Morrison, the composer and singer of our favorite song. We knew the lyrics and sang along rapturously each time it played.
Van Morrison was a prolific and multi-genre songwriter and performer, so at all the stages of my subsequent life, there he was, singing some timeless song. These songs kept the fires in my heart burning. My crush never died.
In the disco era, he had a song called “Wavelength” that I played on repeat on my record player. On the cover he looked like a bad boy, long red hair, brooding, tight white jeans on muscular thighs. He sat with his legs wide, exuding sexual energy. My soul still connected to him.
Decades passed and Van was to play in an Austin music festival. I told my husband we had to go. We bought festival tickets and booked a room at the Four Seasons hotel. When we arrived, I learned that many of the acts for the festival were staying in our hotel. Security was heavy and the lobby was filled with entourage types, scurrying about self-importantly. The scene was electric.
We went down to the swimming pool mid-afternoon and snagged one of the coveted corner cabanas for shade. Shortly, a man dressed in head-to-toe black came and walked the perimeter of the pool, scanning our faces. My husband tried to flag him down to order a drink. I stopped him quickly. “If Johnny Cash were alive and walked around the pool, would you yell a drink order because he was in all black?” I asked him. I was almost certain this man was a security guard.
Moments later I looked over and saw an older, different version of Van Morrison walking our way. He was heavier, hard-rock-living visible in his expression, a weariness about him. He didn’t radiate love or passion. He had on shorts and wore black socks.
He walked right to the end of my chaise longue and looked in my eyes. I couldn’t help myself. Fire flamed from my eyes as I managed a soft “Hi.” His shocked deer-in-headlights look signaled that I caused him alarm. I got no response. I sensed that I frightened him. The security guy would be chastised for missing me, the crazed fan. This was not how my dreams had played out.
I was relieved I had not used his name. I decided right then to pretend I didn’t know who this super famous person was. I sat royally under my giant umbrella, in the seat that surely should have been his.
That night we walked a mile and stood in a dirt field to hear Van play. He wore a black suit and fedora, looking like the cool musician he was. He played a new country album, unexpected, great music.
The next morning, we ate breakfast in the hotel. During our meal, the host seated a group behind us. It was Van Morrison and three members of his entourage. Van’s shoulder practically touched mine. I feigned non-recognition of this musical god. My youthful adoration had cooled.
I surprised myself yesterday. The Pandora app was playing an old Van Morrison song, “Queen of the Slipstream.” I walked to my phone and hit the thumbs-up icon. I may have dropped my fantasy, but his music is still magic to me.
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