Hymns To The Silence, seeking higher planes, sometimes soars, occasionally strikes a flat note, but always repairs its errors with an offering pitch-perfect and ravishingly beautiful to the ear.

Though sorely tempted to let this review rest on that small (but perfectly formed) pronouncement, considerations regarding my general level of health and nutrition - shaped in no small way by the minor issue of receiving remuneration on the basis of quantity of written output - force me to expand their review beyond that which might gain favour in Van's camp. So - since I'm unlikely to gain admission to that happy (but presumably underpopulate) coterie I figure I may as well let loose, roll up the sleeves, dust off the microscope and see exactly what lies buried in this massive double album.

Well, for starters all of Side 1 and at least one or two tunes on Side 2 see Van on the psychiatrist's couch, complaining and generally cnámhsáling about lousy record companies, loathsome (and apparently thick) Joe Soaps and Irksome others, including members of the press, ('Why Must I Always Explain?', 'Professional Jealousy') who relentlessly prey on his time and talent. Evidently Van doesn't fall in with the Jim Tobin school of thought which sagely says that whatever else, singing's better than shovelling gravel.

What started with 'Ivory Tower' on No Guru... culminates here (hopefully) in an often vicious, frequently tiresome and surprisingly inarticulate diatribe against all and sundry.

OK, so I'm no Ivor Browne, but these extended lamentations sound suspiciously like a persecution complex that'd be far better displayed via some form other than vinyl, so in the interests of my own psychic well-being I've deemed it appropriate to dispatch the aforesaid to the music industry equivalent of limbo where they will languish indefinitely (or at least until I've finished this review).

Directing my energies and eardrums to the far pleasanter odes to true love as well as the odd couplet aimed in the direction of Van's Mainman, I find a plethora of elegiac lovesongs that whisper, sob, moan and sometimes shout their pleasure with beguiling honesty and charm. Take the title song. A paean to both earthly and unearthly love with echoes of 'In The Garden' lyrically and instrumentally as Kate St. John's coranglais (I think - but what is it?) coolly caresses the melody.

So too 'Hyndford Street': blessed with a Heaney-like ability for total recall, Van raves on in that wondrous bastard Belfast accent of Radio Luxembourg, Cypress Avenue and *the voices whispering across Beechie river*. Like a cartographer he maps out his territory allowing us to shamelessly travel piggy-back through his terrain, stopping here and there to gape at the crevices and marvel at the heights he's scaled.

And then there's 'Quality Street', not as one might imagine a ballad to a well-known chocolatier but another (hand on) heart-felt declaration of l'amour, and 'Carrying A Torch', full of clichéd proclamations that nobody else'd dare get away with (not even Tom Jones - whose messianic version suffers badly by comparison), but somehow Van pulls it off. I can't quite figure out how. Maybe it's that *ow* that arches the spine every time. Or Fiachra Trench's string arrangements (though I think not). Chances are it's the proverbial *X* factor that had me hooked a dozen albums or more ago.

And of matters spiritual? 'Be Thou My Vision' didn't have me crying out for absolution but neither did it prove aesthetically unpleasing to the ear. And 'By This Grace' had me guiltily tapping my (small) toe to a damn fine rhythm, reinforcing a long-held suspicion that inside every Van album lurks a black Van screaming to get out.

The band ably supports and extends the sound-scape already heard on Enlightenment. George Fame's presence may be less palpable this time round, although on 'All Saints Day' the recognisable Fame frame bestows an aura of Brighton Bach Memoirs/Andrews Sisters on the whole affair, a refreshing splash of throwaway bebop in the midst of so many other weighty offerings.

Kale Kissoon and Carol Kenyon make a welcome and indeed long overdue return as backing vocalists with soul and Candy Dulfer guests on alto sax, magnificently zigzagging her way through some pretty tricky territory.

Now if only he'd air that harmonica a little more often...