I was only a girl the first time I heard his voice — a deep, soothing, but somehow chilling voice. But it wasn’t just the sound. It was the words streaming through his voice. They spoke to my adolescent heart.
I’d tagged along with a friend that evening — a get-together in someone’s basement in my hometown of Redcliff, Alberta. We were all off school for the summer, and someone threw a party most nights. That evening, we arrived to a dimly lit, smoke-filled room. My stomach twisted from the acrid smell. A cluster of kids lay sprawled across the furniture like zombies. The teenagers in town had recently discovered marijuana. The new thing. Everyone was into it, but it changed the mood at parties. Put everyone in a stupor. No one laughed. No one even spoke.
I’d tried smoking it a few weeks earlier, but once was enough for me. It made my head and my stomach whirl, and the delirium had terrified me. So that night, shortly after arriving, I decided to slip out and head home. Not that anyone would notice. Then, someone put the album on… “Songs of Leonard Cohen.” His voice transported me. It made me feel like the other kids looked. I flopped into an easy chair, entranced. Thus began a fandom that I’d never before, nor ever since experienced.
I went out straightaway and bought the album. Learned all the words by heart. Sat cross-legged on my bed every afternoon that summer, singing along, over and over, loudly and terribly, to the song “Suzanne.”
Over the following years, I spent countless hours trying to decipher Leonard’s lyrics. I detected an undercurrent of wisdom in his words, something that penetrated on a visceral level. So very different from the pop music of the day. This was poetry and philosophy and love and sex wrapped up in a single shiny gift pack as a song. And it tied right in to my teenage obsession with philosophy. I’d spent hours during my grade 10 year attempting to read “Plato’s Republic” with little success. Here was a philosophy that was accessible and exotic. Thus began my lifelong worship of Leonard Cohen.
There’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.
from “Anthem” by Leonard Cohen – album The Future
Has any other philosopher conveyed this truth so well?
It’s said that Leonard was a perfectionist with his poetry. He wrote and rewrote, and then rewrote again, never satisfied until he found the perfect communion of words. I heard an anecdote about the first time he met Bob Dylan. I’m not sure if it’s based on fact, but it rings true.
Leonard asked Dylan, “How long did it take you to write ‘Like a Rolling Stone’?”
“About 20 minutes. How long did it take you to write ‘Hallelujah’?” Dylan asked.
I can imagine Leonard’s face. That serious, concentrated expression, lips twitching with slight amusement. “About eight years.” Then a pause. “No, maybe ten.”
Throughout the decades, I’ve followed other singers and groups, but my adoration of Leonard is the one that’s held strongest. Maybe it’s because he was first. Even now, sixty years later, if I’m feeling flat and uninspired, listening to a Leonard Cohen album never fails to cure. And his words still speak to my ageing heart.
My friends are gone and my hair is grey.
I ache in the places where I used to play.
from “Tower of Song” by Leonard Cohen – album I’m Your Man
Back in 1967, I was struggling with teenage hormones and writing dreadful poetry. Wishing for childhood to come back, and yearning to grow up. Eager to get on with life but dangling in self-imposed limbo. And after years of poring over Leonard’s poetry, this is how I imagine he must’ve felt much of the time and most of his life.
In September 1999, my friend Irv and I travelled to Greece. On my insistence, we hopped on a catamaran in Athens and spent a few days on the island of Hydra. This was where Leonard Cohen had lived in the early 60s with his lover and muse, Marianne. He owned a house there, and rumour had it that he visited often. What if we ran into him? As a Canadian, of course, I would sneak a peek, then turn away and leave him be. But what a thrill it would be to catch a glimpse of the man in that place.
Hydra Port sits on a crescent-shaped harbour with shops and cafes at the bottom and everything else built on a vertical hillside. An enchanting location. They don’t allow motorised vehicles on the island, except one garbage truck that rumbles through the village every couple of days. So, when we got off the boat, a huddle of men stood waiting beside donkeys charged with carting luggage up to the hotels. Irv and I hadn’t actually booked a hotel, thinking we’d find something when we got there.
We’d barely stepped off the boat when a wizened old lady approached.
“Room, room, I have room.”
She had no donkey, but plenty of persistence, so we followed her up a steep cobbled lane, dragging our luggage behind. An agonizing uphill trudge of 20 minutes or more. We arrived sweaty and out of breath to a shabby, bare room with two single beds facing an open courtyard. Sheets were hung to dry on a circular clothesline next to the communal outdoor showers and toilets. Hostel-like and not very impressive, but we didn’t relish the long trek back downhill to find another place. Plus, at a pittance of $15 Canadian per night, we handed over some cash.
Church bells rang from a nearby church at 8 am the first morning, waking us early. Deafening. Very insistent. A very rude awakening. They pealed out four times a day, calling the faithful to mass. It was a neighbourhood of ancient stone buildings with red clay roofs and cobblestone streets. You could tell nothing much had changed there since the 1960s when Leonard Cohen began his career. Nothing much had likely changed in the past 200 years. I was delighted, but Irv was eager to get on to more modern accommodation in Santorini.
The next day, down at a village cafe, I asked a waiter about Leonard Cohen.
“You just missed him. He left two days ago,” he said. Then he pointed to a chair on the outside patio. “He sits there every morning and drinks his coffee when he’s here.”
So, I ordered coffee, walked over, and took a seat in that chair. Basking in the Greek island sunshine, I sipped coffee, thinking about how lovely it would’ve been to have arrived earlier, to have seen him here, at his special creative retreat. Still, nothing about the situation deflated me. It was, in fact, quite wonderful. I’d sat in Leonard Cohen’s chair.
Only once, I’d had the good fortune to attend one of his live shows. It was June 1993, and I was living in Victoria, BC, when I saw a poster on Broughton Street. He was coming to town. I jumped at getting tickets. My boss, Wendy, and her husband, Michael, would come as well. They were originally from Montreal, Leonard’s hometown, and Michael was also a huge fan.
My son Lochlin joined us too, even though he’d never been much of a fan.
“How can you listen to that, Mom? It’s so depressing.”
He was young. Only 23. But I think his opinion of Leonard Cohen changed that night. That stunning performance at the Royal Theatre to a packed house. A small venue — only 500 seats at best. And what a performance! Over two and a half hours. Like an intimate conversation — Leonard singing out his songs of passion to each of us. The audience, spellbound from curtain up to curtain down.
That would be Leonard Cohen’s final live performance for the next 15 years. He retreated from the world, taking up residence at Mount Baldy, a Zen Buddhist monastery in Los Angeles, and he dropped from the public eye.
In 2008, Leonard discovered his accountant had misappropriated his savings, leaving him penniless. This forced him back on the road at 73, playing to packed houses around the world. Sharing his wisdom, and words, and his chilling, but fabulous voice once again. On December 21, 2013, after a world tour across North America and beyond, he gave his final performance in Auckland, New Zealand. Three hours long with three encores.
Leonard Cohen was born in Montreal in 1934. His spirit returned to the cosmos in November 2016 at age 82.