When most people think of Van Morrison, their minds instantly go to “Brown-Eyed Girl,” the upbeat, nostalgic anthem that became a fixture on radio stations and wedding playlists across the world. Released in 1967, the song is widely considered one of the most iconic pop hits of the 20th century. With its catchy melody, summery imagery, and signature “sha-la-la” chorus, Brown-Eyed Girl launched Morrison into the global spotlight and laid the groundwork for his illustrious solo career.
But behind the joyful melody lies a story of artistic frustration, legal woes, and deep personal regret. For Van Morrison, Brown-Eyed Girl is not a triumph—it’s a reminder of how one of his most beloved songs came to symbolize a loss of creative control and financial hardship. Though adored by millions, the song holds a bittersweet place in Morrison’s heart. Over the years, he has been surprisingly candid about why he has distanced himself from the track, and the truth is sadder than most fans realize.
A Breakthrough Hit With a Bitter Aftertaste
Brown-Eyed Girl was recorded in March 1967 at A & R Recording Studios in New York City, shortly after Morrison had disbanded his group Them and was attempting to establish himself as a solo artist. The song was part of a recording session arranged by Bert Berns, the founder of Bang Records, who had signed Morrison to a three-album deal. At the time, Morrison was relatively unknown outside of his work with Them—best remembered for garage rock staples like “Gloria.”
The session was brisk and businesslike. Morrison reportedly wrote Brown-Eyed Girl in a matter of minutes, under pressure to create something radio-friendly. Originally titled “Brown-Skinned Girl,” the song’s title and lyrics were later changed, likely to make it more palatable to American audiences in the racially charged climate of the 1960s. This change alone was one Morrison later claimed to regret, feeling it diluted the song’s original intent.
Despite being released as a single without Morrison’s direct approval, Brown-Eyed Girl soared up the charts. It reached No. 10 on the Billboard Hot 100 and became an instant classic. But as the song was climbing the charts, Morrison was dealing with some deeply troubling behind-the-scenes issues—issues that would turn his first big solo success into a long-lasting source of resentment.
A Contract That Cost Him Everything
At the heart of Van Morrison’s distaste for Brown-Eyed Girl is the draconian recording contract he signed with Bang Records. Unfamiliar with the American music business and desperate to begin his solo career, Morrison had unknowingly entered into a deal that gave him virtually no rights over his own music. The contract was infamously exploitative: Morrison relinquished all royalties and publishing rights to the songs he recorded during that time—including Brown-Eyed Girl.
In effect, Morrison would not earn a single cent in royalties from one of the most played songs in the history of American radio. To this day, Brown-Eyed Girl continues to be a moneymaking juggernaut, racking up millions of streams, spins, and sync placements in movies and commercials. But Morrison has never seen any of that money.
To make matters worse, Bert Berns passed away shortly after the song’s release, and Morrison became entangled in legal battles with Berns’ widow and the label. The turmoil pushed him into a prolonged period of financial insecurity, and at one point, Morrison was even at risk of being deported due to visa issues and his inability to work freely under the weight of his contract.
The enormous success of Brown-Eyed Girl only exacerbated his frustrations. While the world was celebrating his music, Morrison felt trapped by the very song that had made him a star. The injustice of the situation left a lasting emotional scar.
An Artistic Identity Overshadowed
Beyond the legal and financial woes, Brown-Eyed Girl became a thorn in Morrison’s side because of how it misrepresented him as an artist. The song’s bubblegum-pop sound stood in stark contrast to the spiritual, jazz-infused, and introspective music Morrison would go on to create in later albums like Astral Weeks, Moondance, and Veedon Fleece.
Morrison has long expressed discomfort with being associated primarily with Brown-Eyed Girl. To him, the song is simplistic, formulaic, and lacking the depth he sought to explore in his art. In interviews, he’s been known to call the song “a throwaway,” and has been visibly irritated when journalists bring it up as his defining work.
As his career evolved, Morrison pursued music with a much more profound emotional and spiritual core. He sought inspiration in Celtic mysticism, Irish poetry, jazz improvisation, and religious symbolism. Brown-Eyed Girl, with its breezy tone and commercial appeal, came to feel like a misrepresentation of his soul.
In many ways, the song became an anchor—one that kept pulling him back into a mainstream mold he had no interest in inhabiting. It was a crowd-pleaser, yes, but it was not him.
Still Playing It—for the Fans
Despite his well-documented disdain for Brown-Eyed Girl, Morrison has continued to perform it live over the years, often with a resigned sense of obligation. He understands the song’s place in pop culture and the emotional connection fans have to it. For many, it’s a soundtrack to their youth, their first love, or a cherished summer memory.
But for Morrison, each performance is a reminder of what he lost—control, money, identity. And that’s a heavy price to pay for a three-minute pop song.
In rare candid moments, Morrison has acknowledged that he appreciates how the song helped him gain exposure and build an audience. But even that acknowledgment is often laced with irony and detachment. The truth is, the song that gave him his start has haunted him ever since.
Legacy of a Song Loved by Millions—but Not Its Creator
Brown-Eyed Girl has been inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame, and in 2011, it was recognized by BMI for surpassing 10 million US radio airplays—a staggering achievement few songs in history have reached. It’s a cultural touchstone, a wedding staple, a road-trip anthem.
But for Van Morrison, it’s something else entirely: a symbol of exploitation, lost earnings, and creative compromise. It’s a bitter reminder that even the brightest success can cast a long shadow..
Would you like a shorter version or perhaps a Dutch translation too?
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