Leonard Cohen, the 74 year-old Canadian born poet-cum-singer, addressed 2.500+ followers last night with 26 songs of love and hate and all the void that’s in between.
Words to define Cohen are as impure as the world of which he sings. One self-portrait mocks “suicidal, depressive, melancholic and a ladies man, as if women appreciated these other qualities” … others paint spiritual, transcendent, a man with a reverence for song outmatched only by angels. Whatever your definition, Minneapolis’ Orpheum Theater was a sacred place for two hours on May 3, 2009.
Cohen’s 10-piece band was an exquisite composition of talent comprising two guitars, organ, background singers, bass, drums, horn, with Cohen himself on vocals, guitar and sometimes keyboard. Dino, the Kenny G-style saxophone/synthesizerist notwithstanding, the 9/10ths of the band shadowed the grace and taste of their Zen leader. Every note was calculated, mirroring the laborious nature with which Cohen exacts his poems; out of context this may suggest sterility, a lack of inspiration. It was anything but; it was maturity and decourum and precision, and every song benefitted. Indeed, for a man who only turned his poems into songs in his 30s to earn an income, the transport from page to stage under his careful watch was a beautiful thing.
With the first note of nearly every song, Cohen bowed down on one knee to begin to sing, as if to invoke the Spirit which gave him the song, and in turn pass it to the attentive crowd. It was the crowd, however (or, to be honest, a very vocal 1% of the crowd) that continually defiled the sanctity with orgasmic bursts of “We Love You Leonard!” or “You’re the Man!” When a giddy lost soul expounds unnecessary pep chants, one recalls a zealous drunk Homer Simpson cheering from the crowd. Or, it was a church where a group of people mistook the event for their child’s gymnastic meet, with razmatastic shoutouts for their favorite lines and licks. None of this, however, could not outmatch the sheer power of Cohen’s performance. It’s integrity remained intact.
Opening the show with 1984’s Dance Me To the End of Love the skeletal black-suited student of Buddhism received a standing ovation before singing his first note. The crowd seemed there as much to show their lifelong appreciation as much to hear him play and such gratitude would be carried out from song one to song twenty-five.
Next was The Future, from his 1992 release of the same name, followed by 1988’s Ain’t No Cure for Love. Cohen’s spirit and energy was remarkable, likely leaving many of us feeling mildly patronizing. I will concede “not bad for a 75 year-old man” passed shamefully through my head, and I’d hazard a guess I was not the only one. He wasn’t “not bad” for an old man, he was stunning for a mortal.
But it wasn’t until the fourth song, his iconic “Bird On a Wire,” did we realize we were in some holy place. What is the appropriate “review” of this song? Whitespace. Homers in the crowd aside, the vast majority of us sat in silence and let it overtake us.
Cohen performed six more numbers, including Who By Fire and In My Secret Life; before closing set one with 1992’s dramatic Anthem: everything is cracked; it’s how the light gets in.
Set Two began with 1988’s Tower of Song, yet another kneeling to the god of music, a common theme both throughout the evening and Cohen’s overall cannon. Cohen next offered Suzanne (1967) and The Gypsy Wife (1979). Cohen’s spirit continued to grow as the evening built on and when he began his immortal “Halleluiah” (excerpt) this agnostic bowed low with everyone else and felt as hopeless and hopeful as he does upon each hearing.
The intensity of the show culminated, ironically, not with a song, but the simple recitation of A Thousand Kisses Deep. For three minutes Cohen spoke the words something like this. It is not coincidental that this was the only performance of the evening where, during the piece or upon its finish, no one cast an intrusive word or wail. There was only silence, then a profound acknowledgement of the moment with applause.
The final half hour of the show found the famous Marianne true to her form, and wound down to four encores and a hearty farewell and thank you from, sincerely, L. Cohen. His performance had been sublime by even the strictest of measures. He had addressed it all: the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift. — David Krejci
