POP MUSIC REVIEW : A SELF-PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST IN VAN MORRISON

Van Morrison’s concert Sunday night at the Universal Amphitheatre was a compelling example of the difference between pop stardom and artistry.

In his first local appearance in six years, the Irish singer-songwriter opened with a brief medley of his classic singles from two decades ago, including “Gloria” and “Brown-Eyed Girl.” They remain among the most enduring hits of the ‘60s: deeply sensual expressions of the youthful exploration of sex and desire that is at the heart of so much rock.

So, it was only natural that the largely over-30 crowd Sunday sang along with a spirit that reminded you of the warm embrace associated with hugging a friend you haven’t seen in years.

For those who only know pop music through MTV and the current Top 40, the nostalgic medley helped show that Morrison did once come up with the hits.

By lumping the songs together, he acknowledged his past but also made it clear that there was more serious business at hand. The remainder of the frequently enthralling 90-minute performance demonstrated why Morrison is among the purest artists that pop music has produced.

Everyone in pop, for some reason, is referred to as an artist . Morrison is one of the few singers and writers who lives up to the term.

Even in his early days, he didn’t fit the rock stereotype. For one thing, he didn’t have the temperament for it. He was so nervous onstage that he was known to do whole concerts with his back to the audience. I also saw him walk abruptly off stage one night in San Francisco because he thought the audience was too noisy during a ballad.

But Morrison also identified more closely with the artists of this and earlier ages: figures from literature to pop music who, he felt, explored more meaningful issues than his contemporaries on the sales charts. In his songs, he has saluted both literary and pop artists, from John Donne and William Blake to Jackie Wilson and Jimmie Rodgers.

In the title track to Morrison’s new “A Sense of Wonder” album, he even defines the challenge of the artist when he sings:

It’s easy to describe the leaves in the autumn

And it’s oh so easy in the spring.

But down through January and February

It’s a very different thing.

On the album, Morrison sings that song with too much of the pastoral sensibilities that have characterized his recent work. The relatively gentle instrumental arrangement, too, all but downplays the revelation.

At the Amphitheatre, however, he sang with a power and commitment that made the song more realistically reflect the constant struggle of living up to the challenges of both the artist and of life itself.

Morrison’s music--from the fearless introspection of the massively influential “Astral Weeks” to the sheer rejoicing of “Tupelo Honey”--has always had its restless, searching side, but the “leaves” he has sought to describe have tended increasingly to touch on a spiritual quest.

“I’m waiting at the door . . . and I’m standing in the darkness,” he sang Sunday in one of his most dramatic re-creations of his spiritual awakening. “I don’t want to wait no more.”

In trying to overcome through music the “inarticulateness of the heart,” Morrison uses words (he’s among the finest lyricists of the modern pop era) and a classy blend of blues, country, jazz, rock and gospel strains. Mostly, though, he expresses those deep and universal feelings with his voice.

He still isn’t a natural performer. He walked on stage with no more flair than a bank officer returning to his desk to start a new week. Wearing a nondescript business suit, he stood stiffly at the microphone and didn’t even tap his foot as he sang. His only verbal break from singing was to bark instructions at the highly disciplined six-member band.

But the man can sing. Morrison, who accompanied himself on guitar, has power and command that enable him to move effortlessly from one tone to another with sudden--almost alarming--power. But the key is knowing when to make those moves, and Morrison is a master of phrasing. He growls and attacks when he needs to jolt or alarm, croons and caresses when he wants to disarm or comfort.

The evening’s most electric moment came when he and saxophonist Pee Wee Ellis combined vocally for a haunting echo effect that stepped beyond the traditional call and response, with Ellis repeating the lines a split second after Morrison sang them. This dramatic reinforcement underscored the message of the show, not just thematically, but artistically.

In that and other moments, Morrison--who was also backed by two female singers--made the artistic process seem alive onstage. You could sense that here was a man who constantly challenges himself. It’s not always easy to feel this eccentric artist’s growth and significance on his recent albums, where the material is uneven and the arrangements sometimes understated. Onstage, however, he brings together some of the best of his songs with the tension of a private person working in public.

Morrison’s opening act was veteran Mose Allison, whose music has been an influence on both Morrison and, especially, the colorful narratives of Tom Waits. Allison’s songs blend the humor and commentary of blues with an instrumental approach that has been called Bohemian jazz. Joined by an upright bassist and drummer, Allison also exhibits the integrity of one who believes that making music is an honor, not a job.