It was about halfway through the closing show at the New Orleans Jazz Festival Gentilly Stage on Saturday (April 23). Master musician and songwriter Van Morrison asked his guitarist to “give me a G.” He modulated his voice to match the chord then launched into a jaunty version of “Jambalaya.” Who knows, the Hank Williams tune may be a regular part of Morrison’s repertoire, but the Bayou State crowd accepted it as a tailor-made gift, cheering and bobbing to the first few bars.

The ability of Morrison and his impeccable five-piece ensemble to incorporate a loping, country classic seamlessly into the jazzy, R&B flow of their set is a tribute to the team’s flexibility. Flexibility is key, because, stylistically speaking, there are several Van Morrison’s to accommodate. There’s the pop radio Van Morrison of “Brown Eyed Girl,” the Christian mystic Van Morrison, the romantic balladeer, the Ray Charles devotee, and the sultry jazz instrumentalist. All of whom shared the stage Saturday.

It would be hard to praise the 70-year-old’s vocal skills enough. When Morrison sings, and particularly when he scats, his voice is as saxophone-like as his saxophone.  Instead of tiring as the concert progressed, he always seemed to be able to reach down for yet more power and emotional depth in his delivery. He handled “Baby Please Don’t Go,” “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child,” “Wild Night,” and “Days Like This,” with muscular, mature authority. There was no mistaking that this show was crafted for adults.

Even “Gloria,” Morrison’s 1964 love anthem that has become the bouncy go-to crowd-pleaser of every bar band in the land, had a more serious, serrated tone in Saturday’s performance that breathed life back into the old warhorse.

It was unfortunate that when the band deliberately dropped the volume on the jam that followed “Moondance,” to achieve a sort of musical whispering, sound bleed from another stage — or stages — ruined the effect.

Despite the gorgeous weather, the notoriously deadpan Morrison appeared, as is his custom, dressed for summer in San Francisco, with a suit jacket, felt fedora, and ascot. He never frowned, nor did he crack a smile. Except, perhaps, once. As the perfectionistic Northern Irish knight began singing the comically bawdy lyrics to “Don’t You Feel My Leg,” he may have, just may have, guffawed with laughter.

As the last notes of the closing jam faded away, an audience member quietly opined: “Fabulous, fabulous, fabulous.”

Agreed, agreed, agreed.

– Doug McCash