An evening with Stevland Morris

I grew up listening to his works, the much-ignored "A journey through the secret life of plants" being one of my first purchases. And this Sunday, at around 9.30 pm, I got to be 'ringside' with my wife as the living musical icon walked onstage for his only concert in Norway this year.


The preceding 'gigs' in Copenhagen and Berlin had certainly whetted my appetite, since the critics were in unison about the unwaning qualities of this performer, multi-instrumentalist and composer of a bewildering plethora of songs; his career now having spanned close to five decades. Priced at a hundred dollars per ticket, this live event had better be good, but, then again, to me reward for the two and a half hour of waiting came in handsome provision the moment the sixty-year old shuffled gingerly, yet rhythmically,  towards his keyboard, placed centerstage - playing what looked like a guitar-keyboard hybrid.


After all, a cold could easily have forced him to cancel this (probably) only opportunity for me and my wife to see and hear this top-notch artist in action. But, thankfully, no virus or bacteria came in the way for one of my all-time favourites to unleash his army of musical evregreens on our welcoming faculties of hearing.


For a full two hours, Mr. Stevland Morris and his thirteen-man strong band completely spell-bound us by songs that were quite familiar to most of the 6000 adult fans. But brimming with energy Stevie and his 13 musicians all managed, as it were, to add new qualities to sequences of sound that, by virtue of having been played thousands of times, should by now appear slightly coated with the dust and deterioration of increased age. But staleness was nowhere to be sensed. And songs kept pouring out of the loudspeakers as vigorously and playfully as if they were a litter of newly released puppies readied to charm and captivate.


The musicianship was truly astounding, and for a time we all forgot solidly that Stevie Wonder arrived in our city in the dead of our worst summer for many years. It rained ever so slightly during the second part of the concert, but luckily the clouds retained most of their moisture - only to release it a few days later in full, unbridled measure.


Having delighted in this musical joyride through its entirety, the concluding song still didn't descend with the expected sense of regret or lack of fulfillment. The climaxes had been so many, the moments of sheer and utter enjoyment so frequent, that I never even considered participating in the litany of cries for encores. The blind man from Detroit had once again opened our hearts and minds to the pervasive and undying attraction of sonic beauty. And I was filled. And content beyond my previous expectations.


This was magic that will remain with me, and with my wife. This was Stevland Morris. And I won't forget it.