Van Morrison is a bit of a mystery. Honestly, even his most dedicated fans struggle to keep up with the sheer volume of music the man has pumped out over the last sixty years. But if you really want to understand the engine room of his creativity, you have to look at The Philosopher’s Stone. This isn’t just another compilation. It’s a massive, double-album treasure chest of "lost" recordings that somehow stayed in the vaults for decades while lesser tracks made it onto his official studio albums.
It's weird, right? Most artists hide their outtakes because they're subpar. Van Morrison hid his because he was moving too fast to look back.
The Alchemy of a "Lost" Masterpiece
Released in 1998, The Philosopher’s Stone serves as a bridge between the different "Vans" we’ve come to know. You have the gritty, R&B-obsessed Van of the late 60s, the ethereal mystic of the 70s, and the jazz-inflected philosopher of the 80s. The album covers a staggering period from 1971 to 1988. It's 30 tracks long. That is a lot of music to digest in one sitting, but the flow is surprisingly cohesive for a collection of leftovers.
Think about the context. By the late 90s, the "box set" craze was in full swing. Everyone was releasing "Rarities" collections. Most of them were filled with grainy demos or alternate takes that sounded like they were recorded in a tin can. But the stuff on The Philosopher’s Stone sounds finished. Polished. Intentional. It makes you wonder what the hell was going on in his head when he decided not to release songs like "Wonderful Remark" or "The Street Only Knew Your Name" at the time they were written.
The title itself gives you a clue. In alchemy, the philosopher's stone was a legendary substance capable of turning base metals into gold. It was also linked to the elixir of life. For Van, the music is the alchemy. He’s taking the raw, mundane experiences of life—walking down a street in Belfast, feeling a breeze, or dealing with the "business" of music—and trying to transmute them into something spiritual.
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Standout Tracks and Why They Were Cut
Take a song like "Wonderful Remark." It was originally recorded in the early 70s, during the era of Saint Dominic's Preview. It’s a stone-cold classic. It’s got that soulful, soaring horn section and a vocal performance that feels like a gut punch. Most songwriters would give their left arm to have written it. Yet, it sat on a shelf until the King of Comedy soundtrack in 1983, and then finally found a permanent home here.
Then there's "Flamingos Fly." You might know the version on A Period of Transition, but the version here—recorded in 1973—is arguably better. It’s looser. It breathes.
- "Really Free": Recorded during the 1977 Period of Transition sessions. It’s funky. It’s raw.
- "The Street Only Knew Your Name": This one shows up later in a more "produced" form on Inarticulate Speech of the Heart, but the 1975 version included here has a certain grit that the 80s synth-heavy version lacks.
- "Twilight Zone": Not the TV show. It's a 1974 track that captures that specific, hazy Americana-meets-Irish-soul vibe Van perfected at his Woodstock retreat.
Why cut them? Well, Van Morrison is notoriously impulsive. If a song didn't fit the specific "vibe" or "spiritual arc" of an album like Veedon Fleece or Common One, he just tossed it aside. He wasn't thinking about his legacy or his bank account. He was thinking about the "now." It's a level of artistic arrogance that you kind of have to respect.
The 1970s: A Peak of Creativity
The bulk of the best material on The Philosopher’s Stone comes from the mid-70s. This was a transition period. He had just moved back to Europe from California. He was searching. Songs like "Not Supposed to Break Down" show a vulnerability that he often masked with grumpiness in his later years. It’s a song about the fragility of the human psyche, and it’s heartbreakingly beautiful.
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It’s also interesting to hear the early versions of songs that would become hits later. You get to hear the skeleton of the music. You hear the mistakes. You hear the moments where the band almost loses the groove but catches it at the last second. That’s where the magic is. It’s not in the perfection; it’s in the pursuit of the "transcendental feeling" that Van talks about in almost every interview he’s ever done.
He once told Rolling Stone that he doesn't even remember recording some of these tracks. That tells you everything. The music was pouring out of him so fast that he couldn't keep track of the bottles he was filling.
Dealing with the "Music Business"
You can’t talk about Van Morrison without talking about his legendary disdain for the industry. Several tracks on this collection deal with that head-on. "Drumshanbo Hustle" is a perfect example. It's a bitter, cynical, yet incredibly groovy look at the mechanics of the record business. It’s basically him saying, "I’m making this art, and you guys are just trying to sell it like soap."
He’s always been an outsider. Even when he was topping the charts with "Brown Eyed Girl," he felt like he didn't belong. This album reinforces that. It’s the work of a man who is essentially working for himself. The fact that these songs are just as good—if not better—than the ones he was "supposed" to release proves that his internal compass was always pointing toward the music, not the market.
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The Spiritual Connection
The 80s tracks on the second disc of The Philosopher’s Stone start to lean into his "Inarticulate Speech of the Heart" phase. More synthesizers. More repetitive, mantra-like lyrics. Some people hate this era. I get it. It can feel a bit cold. But listen to "High Spirits." It’s a collaboration with The Chieftains that predates their Irish Heartbeat album. It’s joyous. It’s a reminder that beneath the crusty exterior, Van is someone who deeply values the communal power of folk music.
How to Listen to This Massive Record
Don't try to listen to all 30 tracks at once. You'll get "Van fatigue." It’s a real thing. Instead, treat it like a series of short stories.
- Start with the first five tracks. This is the 1971-1973 era. It’s the most accessible.
- Skip to "The Street Only Knew Your Name" (1975) and let that era wash over you.
- Save the 80s stuff for a rainy Sunday afternoon when you’re feeling contemplative.
The Philosopher’s Stone isn't just for completionists. If you only own Moondance and Astral Weeks, this is the next logical step. It fills in the gaps. It shows you the sketches behind the paintings.
Why It Matters Today
In a world where music is often over-engineered and "optimized" for TikTok, listening to The Philosopher’s Stone is a palate cleanser. It’s human. It’s messy. It’s a testament to the idea that some of the best art is the stuff that was never meant to be seen. Or, in this case, heard.
Van’s search for the "stone"—that perfect moment of musical enlightenment—is ongoing. He’s still touring, still grumpy, and still occasionally hitting those notes that make your hair stand on end. This album is the best evidence we have of that search.
Your Next Steps for Exploring Van Morrison
If you've digested The Philosopher’s Stone and want to go deeper into this specific "vault" style of listening, here is how to proceed:
- Listen to "The Prophet’s Message": Track this specific recording down and compare it to the version on Inarticulate Speech of the Heart. Notice how the tempo changes the emotional weight of the lyrics.
- Track the "Caledonia" Theme: Many songs on this collection reference "Caledonia" (the Latin name for Scotland/highland identity). Map out how this theme evolves from his 1971 recordings through the late 80s.
- Check out "Back on Top": Since this rarities collection was released right before his 1999 album Back on Top, listen to them back-to-back. You’ll hear how cleaning out the vaults seemingly "cleared his head" for a late-career commercial comeback.
- Compare with "It's Too Late to Stop Now": If you want to hear how these studio outtakes translated to the stage, listen to his 1974 live album. Many of the musicians on the early Philosopher's Stone tracks are the same ones on that legendary live recording.