Let me talk about an experience that took place on a cloudy Monday evening during reading break.

But first, let me give some background. When I was growing up, I was surrounded by my mother’s love of Van Morrison’s music. As a young teenager, I began to share her love, and songs such as “Real Real Gone,” “Moondance,” and, of course, “Brown Eyed Girl” found firm hold within my soul.

So when I heard that Morrison was coming to town this February, I jumped at the chance to see him live. To say that I had high expectations for this concert would be a gross understatement; I had been ready for the concert for as long as I can remember.

And so, on that cloudy Monday night, after a short ride on the SkyTrain my mom and I arrived at GM Place. GM Place may not have been the best venue for the transcendent sounds of a musical giant like Morrison, but I was sure it would do fine.

The crowds were gathering and the venue was filling up with an endless sea of well-dressed, middle-aged, upper-middle class fans ready to experience the legend that is Van Morrison. As we fought our way through the line-ups on the way to our seats, my mind began to consider the setting in which this concert would take place.

It struck me as almost profane that my musical idol, the man whose voice can lift my countenance and resonate inarticulate spiritual truths deep within my soul, would be performing surrounded by concrete, steel, and mass consumerism. Ads lined GM Place, including Rickards Red, Boston Pizza, and the omnipresent Coca-cola.

One lone kiosk was being mobbed by frantic adults who were forcing their way past each other, in an attempt to be next in line to purchase Van Morrison merchandise. I’m not going to lie to you. I jumped in and forced my way to the front, dropping $45 for a toque (for myself) and the new live CD (for my mother).

Everything up until this point was completely normal for a large concert.

Then everyone took their seats, the lights went down, the band started up, and Van Morrison appeared. Right from the start he did nothing to cater to the crowd. He didn’t say hello to the audience, he didn’t say a single word to us until he left the stage, gracing us with a “Thank you.” When he wasn’t singing, his back was to the audience; he seemed to be completely indifferent to what we thought of him. He just drank his water while the band played.

The songs were much different than I remembered them from his many albums. My mother constantly leaned over and commented how different they were. As for an encore—well, it didn’t happen. The audience was still on their feet clapping when the lights came on and the workers cleared the stage.

At this point, if you are thinking that I didn’t get what I had hoped for from my Van Morrison experience, you are absolutely correct. I got so much more. It is interesting how we, as consumers, are used to getting what we want. I wanted the Van Morrison that I knew from the albums that I had listened to hundreds of times. What I got was a relational experience with the man himself, not a packaged performance. Morrison did as he pleased despite what the critics and fans might say.

That night I learned three things: I can’t always have things my way, music is dynamic and constantly changes with the artist, and that music can be relational. Relationships can’t be controlled, bottled, branded, or sold; neither can Van Morrison.