Van Morrison is famously prickly. If you’ve ever seen him live or read an interview where he’s clearly over the whole "fame" thing, you know he doesn’t suffer fools. But there’s one song in his massive, sprawling catalog that feels like a direct punch to the gut of the entire entertainment industry. It’s called Wonderful Remark.
Funny thing is, most people didn't even hear it on one of his studio albums first. It actually gained its biggest audience as the closing theme for Martin Scorsese's 1983 masterpiece, The King of Comedy. If you’ve seen that movie—which basically predicts the era of the "crazed influencer"—you know how uncomfortable it is. The song fits that vibe perfectly. It’s haunting. It’s a bit cynical.
Honestly, it’s one of those tracks that makes you wonder what Van was going through when he wrote it. Turns out, the story behind the lyrics is way more personal—and petty—than you might think.
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The Brutal Meaning Behind the Lyrics
So, what is the actual "wonderful remark" he’s singing about?
There’s a legendary story in Van-lore involving the famous manager Albert Grossman. Back in 1969, Van was looking for management. He went to Grossman’s house and played some of his new material, probably pouring his soul into every note. After Van finished, Grossman allegedly sat there for a second and then just said, "Burn it."
Two words.
That was the "wonderful remark."
Van, being the man he is, didn't just forget it. He did what any songwriter with a grudge would do: he wrote a song about how much the industry sucks. When he sings, "How can your empty laughter fill a room like ours with joy / When you’re only playing with us like a child does with a toy," he’s not just being poetic. He’s calling out the power players who treat artists like disposable objects.
It’s about that specific kind of betrayal you feel when people who are supposed to help you actually just want to see you fail. Or worse, they just don't care. He even said in an interview later that the song was about a rough financial patch in New York where nobody showed up to help. It’s a song about being lonely in a crowded room of "professionals."
Why the Song Took Forever to Come Out
The timeline of Wonderful Remark is a mess. That's just how Van Morrison works.
- 1969: He first records it during the Moondance sessions. It doesn’t make the cut.
- 1972: He tries again during the Saint Dominic's Preview sessions. This version is long—like, eight minutes long. It stays in the vault.
- 1983: Robbie Robertson (of The Band) is producing the soundtrack for The King of Comedy. He digs up the song, and it finally gets a release.
- 1990: It becomes a "hit" of sorts when it’s included on The Best of Van Morrison.
Because it was a "soundtrack song" for so long, it didn't get the same respect as tracks on Astral Weeks. But for many fans, it’s the definitive Van Morrison performance. His voice is in that "mid-era" sweet spot—raspy but powerful, hitting those high notes with a kind of desperate energy.
The version most people know features Nicky Hopkins on piano and Richard Tee. It sounds massive. It sounds like a man who has finally realized that the world is a bit of a sham, but he’s going to keep singing anyway.
The Connection to John McCarthy
One of the most moving parts of this song’s history has nothing to do with movies or music managers. In 1994, when Van won a BRIT Award, a man named John McCarthy spoke. McCarthy had been held hostage in Beirut for five years.
He talked about how Wonderful Remark was a lifeline for him and his fellow captives. They would recite the lyrics to each other: "Clinging to some other rainbow / While we’re standing waiting outside in the cold." When you hear that, the song stops being about a mean manager in 1969. It becomes a song about survival. It becomes about the "lies we tell ourselves" just to get through the night. That's the magic of Van's writing; he starts with a grudge and ends up with a prayer.
How to Truly "Get" This Song
If you want to appreciate Wonderful Remark, don’t just play it as background music while you're doing the dishes. It doesn't work that way.
First, watch the end of The King of Comedy. Watch Robert De Niro’s character, Rupert Pupkin, and see how the song’s lyrics about "cheap talk" and "empty laughter" mirror the hollowness of fame. It’s a perfect marriage of film and music.
Second, go find the eight-minute version on the 1998 compilation The Philosopher's Stone. It’s a completely different beast. It’s jazzier, looser, and you can hear Van exploring the melody in real-time. It feels less like a polished pop song and more like a spiritual exorcism.
Here is what you should do next:
- Listen to the 1983 version first to get the "official" vibe.
- Compare it to "Joe Harper Saturday Morning," a song Van recorded in 1967. The melodies are almost identical—Van was literally "remixing" himself before that was a thing.
- Read the lyrics while listening. Pay attention to the line "I told a million lies to myself." It’s the most honest thing he’s ever written.
Van Morrison might be a difficult guy to deal with, but when he hits a vein like he did with this song, all the grumpiness in the world doesn't matter. It’s just pure, raw truth.