GOOD FORTUNE indeed, if at least once in your life you happen upon a piece of music so magnificently beautiful and unique that it completely overwhelms you, writes David Adams
You are immediately lifted up by it and swept away on a wave of deep-found, previously untapped emotion.
The sense of wonderment is so great, and the sensations unleashed so profound, that you are incapable of any reaction beyond open-mouthed speechlessness and tear-filled eyes.
Insofar as it is describable at all, that is how I felt when I first listened to the Van Morrison album, Astral Weeks.
I had known of Van when he was the lead singer with Them, a Belfast band that had made the upper reaches of the British singles chart on a few occasions, but I hadn't heard any of his solo work.
It is ironic then that circumstances had me resenting Astral Weeks even before I had listened to it.
One of my many flatmates in a sweaty, overcrowded bedsit in England had borrowed a favourite album of mine, Let it Bleed by the Rolling Stones, to take to a party.
By party's end the Stones album had disappeared, so he helped himself to Astral Weeks and brought that home instead.
I was annoyed at having lost Let it Bleed, and my mood didn't improve when presented by way of replacement with something that has one of the most unattractive covers I have ever seen.
With a circular photograph of Morrison superimposed over some indeterminate greenery and all enclosed within a broad black border, the sleeve gave the appearance of having taken about 20 minutes to design.
I thought it looked like something straight out of the discount bin at a Woolworths' record counter.
A few nights after acquiring it, I put Astral Weeks on the turntable and braced myself for the worst.
How can I begin to describe the music that then emerged to envelop me? It was a wondrous fusion of jazz, rock, folk and blues, with an extra something magical added to form a distinct genre all of its own.
Sometimes-mystical lyrics of hope, dismay, joy, sadness, introspection, reflection and much, much more were wrapped up in melodies to die for, and delivered in perfect harmony by Morrison and his occasional supporting vocalists, in faultless marriage with superb instrumentation.
Here too was the guttural and, to a stranger's ear, often barely intelligible Belfast accent, unashamed and defiant, not hidden or masked as we had been taught was best, but proudly given full authentic voice, and yet somehow forged anew to be a thing of beauty.
The songs evoked such colourful imagery that the overall sense was of impressionist art set to music, with a kaleidoscope of characters, situations and emotions all piled on top of one another to create a disjointed yet at the same time perfectly coherent narrative, sprinkled throughout with nostalgic snapshots of Belfast.
To top it all, Morrison's singing was a masterclass in vocal intonation, with him sometimes repeating a single word or a phrase over and over again, yet never failing to infuse it with different meaning on each rendition.
I almost cried when I first heard Madame George and Ballerina - those tracks still have the same effect on me today.
It is 40 years and many brilliant Van Morrison albums since Astral Weeks, but he has never managed its equal.
There is no shame in that, for neither has anyone else.
Bob Dylan is my favourite artist of all time, but if I had to choose my favourite album, it would undoubtedly be Astral Weeks.
A few weeks ago, Declan Lynch of the Sunday Independent wrote a lovely column in praise of Van Morrison.
He described him as the greatest artist of any kind that Ireland has ever produced, and wondered why he has never had the appreciation he deserves.
I agree with every point he made.
Morrison's home town of Belfast hasn't even named a street or a building after him, much less thought to offer him the freedom of the city.
Painfully shy, even brusque at times, Morrison has few friends outside of the music industry, and possibly very few inside it as well.
Much to the chagrin of the media, he has always steadfastly refused to play the part of the archetypal "rock legend" or, God forbid, act the celebrity.
A determinedly private individual, he has steadily maintained that his music does the talking for him: quite simply, he has nothing of any importance to add.
This attitude has certainly not endeared him to the types that lobby on your behalf for awards to be presented or statues erected.
Still, Morrison has every right to be as reclusive as he likes; it really is none of our business, and certainly should have no bearing on how we view his art.
We are entitled to buy his music, but not his soul.
It would be fitting in this, the fortieth year since Astral Weeks was released, if Ireland, North and South, were to honour Van Morrison.
It is high time we paid proper tribute to this colossal genius of ours.