When I saw the unexpected announcement that Bob Dylan had been given the 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature, I thought almost immediately of Leonard Cohen. It wasn't so much that I didn't think Dylan was deserving; that prize has gone to many I considered even stranger choices. It was rather that I've always considered Cohen a more literary figure, whose songs sometimes strike me as closer to literature than Dylan's. Then there is also Cohen's literary background; several books of poetry and two novels preceded his turn to a career in song writing and recording. In any case, I wasn't the only one to make the connection -- aided perhaps by the appearance of what has turned out to be Cohen's last album, You Want It Darker, soon after the announcement. There were several news stories making the connection between Cohen and Dylan, and as I read them I noticed references to Sylvie Simmons' recent biography I'm Your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen (2012). I suppose the time just seemed right to refresh my knowledge of Cohen and learn a little more about his life.
Like many others I first became aware of Leonard Cohen as the writer of Judy Collins' hit song "Suzanne." When his first album, Songs of Leonard Cohen, appeared in 1968 (actually released in late December of 1967), I bought it and was immediately a fan. Comparisons to Dylan were inevitable, both were singers with unorthodox voices, both lavished great attention on the words of their songs. But I soon learned that Cohen, who was already thirty-three when his first album was recorded, was already an established Canadian poet and novelist. I bought his book of poetry, The Spice-Box of Earth (1961), right away, and soon after found copies of his novels: The Favorite Game (1963) and Beautiful Losers (1966). To be honest, at the time I did not think these were literary masterpieces, but I thought they were good, well written and entertaining. Coming to them from the songs, I was not disappointed.
Leonard Cohen was also one of a very few musical performers I saw in live concerts several times over the course of his career. The first time was in 1969 or 1970 in Austin's old Municipal Auditorium. It was a memorable night, with Cohen joining many from the audience at the park on the shores of Town Lake after the show, singing and encouraging members of the audience to perform for him. He lingered quite some time, in fact long enough for his band and handlers to depart, leaving him alone with his adoring fans and no apparent way back to his hotel. It was about then that one of our friends spoke up and said we'd drive him back, which we did. As I said, it was a memorable night. Cohen was famous for engaging his audiences, connecting in ways that few other performers would have dared to attempt.
It was some years later, after we'd moved to Alexandria, Virginia, that we saw Leonard Cohen again, in November 1988, at the Warner Theater in Washington, DC. After nearly twenty years, Leonard and his show was a different experience, but no less memorable. Cohen was a more polished performer, and the music had evolved as well, but the connection with the audience was still there. That was the era of "I'm Your Man," and "First We Take Manhattan," songs that showed influences of Cohen's fascination with keyboards, synthesizers, electronic effects. But as with all Leonard Cohen shows, there was still a strong emphasis on the songs and the lyrics, and he always included some of those older, quieter songs that everyone still wanted to hear.
Our next Leonard Cohen concert was also in Washington, at the Lisner Auditorium at George Washington University in 1993. It was the during The Future Tour, and resembled the one we'd seen just five years earlier. Again, there were some new songs and some old songs and many of those that had come in between, but Cohen seemed even more at home on stage, and continued to engage his audience, telling stories and flattering us by insisting that all of the hardships of the road were somehow made worthwhile by the privilege of performing for us; that, he said, was their reward. Somehow he made us believe he meant it.
It seems fitting that the last time we saw Leonard Cohen perform was again in Austin, in the fall of 2012, shortly after we'd moved back to Texas. It was very like the shows he'd been doing over the last several years, very reminiscent of what we'd seen in the DVD of his concert in London in 2009. We went with friends, some of the same with whom we'd attended the other concerts. And even though we knew what to expect from having watched the DVD, we were not disappointed by the live performance. Although in his seventies, he was filled with energy on stage, and projected that magical presence of his out into the audience, as he had always done. Cohen's recorded albums are wonderful, but nothing compares to his live performances where he seems to connect with everyone on stage and in the auditorium. Some have compared it to a form of worship or communion, and that really doesn't seem too far off the mark.
Reading Simmons' biography helped me understand some of Cohen's appeal. His desire to make genuine connections to other people was a defining aspect of his personality and endured throughout his life. The magical combination of sensuality and spirituality also endured well into his later years. He wanted to explore existence and communicate what he learned. He was incredibly open to a wide variety of experiences and many levels of existence. The fact that he spent years living with his Zen master and was eventually ordained as a Buddhist monk, was something I was aware of. I was not aware of the years he later spent in India learning from a Hindu exploring a different approach to spiritual enlightenment, a time during which he felt the depression he'd been living with for many years suddenly lift and leave him in a state of happiness if not grace. But all that time, and through all of his seeking, he never actually abandoned his Jewish identity.
What has always appealed to me about Leonard Cohen's songs, and all of his writing, is the effort he makes to be honest: to recognize and sometimes even mock his own shortcomings as he seeks meaning in an apparently meaningless and mystifying existence. He writes of disappointments and disillusionment, but nearly always without bitterness, and more often with amazement and a sort of awe in the face of life's mysteries. He'll be remembered for many beautiful and profound songs, especially "Hallelujah," which seems to have taken on a life of its own:
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch,
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you.
And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah.
But there is also this refrain from "Anthem" that strikes me as his most penetrating observation and offering:
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
When I read this biography, I didn't know I was saying good bye, but I guess it turns out I was.
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