Live at the 02 Arena in Dublin, taken from Sept. 12th, a brand new song from LC…
A review of this box set, which I heard has already sold out its limited edition amount, comes from The Second Disc and was written by Joe Marchese, Dec. 13, 2011. This also comes in a smaller studio-album-only edition. Also, don’t forget to pick up LC’s brand new album, Old Ideas, out now…
It’s hard to believe that Leonard Cohen was once tarred with the infamous “New Dylan” brush, even though he was in rather rarefied company alongside other “New Dylans” like Loudon Wainwright III and even Bruce Springsteen. Sure, both Mr. Cohen and the former Mr. Zimmerman shared non-traditional voices and a gift for truly literate lyrics. Both made their recording debuts on Columbia Records, and even shared a producer, Bob Johnston. But the similarities largely end there. When Songs of Leonard Cohen was issued in late 1967, Dylan himself was still the new Dylan! Currently about to enter his 50th year as a recording artist, Bob Dylan barely had five years under his belt in 1967. Thanks to the herculean efforts of Columbia Records and Legacy, Leonard Cohen’s own 44-year career can now be assessed in one remarkable collection sure to inspire a breed of “new Cohens.” Read the rest of this entry »
Neil McCormick’s Jan. 27th review of the new Leonard Cohen album (coming out tomorrow), from The Telegraph…
“He wants to write a love song/ An anthem of forgiving/ A manual for living with defeat/ A cry above the suffering/ A sacrifice recovering/ But that isn’t what I need him to complete,” whispers Leonard Cohen on the opening track of Old Ideas, his first album of original songs in seven years, and only his 12th studio album since 1967.
Writing in the third person about his struggles with his muse, Cohen slyly describes himself as “a lazy bastard living in a suit” but his legendarily slow working methods have less to do with sloth than depth, precision and judgment, the exacting standards of poetic genius.
The song that emerges from this particular struggle is “Going Home,” an elegiac act of surrender, in which there is little doubt about the final destination. As the angelic Webb Sisters add heavenly sighs, Cohen’s weary Read the rest of this entry »
A review by Pico Iyer from January 2007 the Shambala Sun website. Anjani Thomas recorded this album with the production and lyrical help of the one and only Leonard Cohen, who happens to be Anjani’s romantic partner. Anjani has also provided backing vocals for Mr. Cohen over the years. This is definitely an album worth picking up for any Cohen fan, but even if you’re not…
Thanks for the Dance
Pico Iyer considers Leonard Cohen—the ladies’ man, the balladeer, the Zen poet, and the essence of cool with a new love giving voice to his songs of parting and old age.
Through the long hot nights of summer and early autumn I have been listening to the ten newest songs from Leonard Cohen, almost unbearably sad in their themes and beautiful in their bareness, yet turned sultry and smoky and rich with a full-bodied looseness thanks to his collaborator in life and in art, Anjani. The songs on Anjani’s album (as it is officially), Blue Alert, are all about goodbye and “closing time” and passing away from the scene. “Tired” is the word that recurs, and “old,” and the picture that Cohen uses for himself on the back cover (as the album’s “producer”) makes him look out of focus and almost posthumous, fading from our view. Yet when such songs of parting and old age are delivered by a young, fresh, commanding woman singer, they take on a much more complicated resonance. Sweet as much as bitter, with the echo of spring in the dark of early winter. Read the rest of this entry »
This review comes from the DVD Talk website, and was written by Jamie S. Rich, Aug. 31, 2010…
In 1972, dour folk philosopher Leonard Cohen went out on a European tour that began in Dublin and ended in Jerusalem. He had a band that included Jennifer Warnes, Ron Cornelius, and Bob Johnston, and Tony Palmer and his film crew followed them from one venue to the next. The footage was compiled into the 1972 film Bird on the Wire. Reminiscent of D.A. Pennebaker’s similar portrait of Bob Dylan, Don’t Look Back, the movie showed the ups and downs of touring, giving as much room to the backstage as it did the concert hall. A weary Cohen fends off pretty women, needy journalists, and angry Germans upset by technical difficulties, all while searching for a transcendent experience at the microphone. Bird on the Wire is a peek at an artist stretched at his most thin, the bird barely able to stay atop his precarious perch. Read the rest of this entry »
This review was written by Arthur Schmidt in the Sept. 2, 1971 issue of Rolling Stone (issue #90)…
Songs from a Room, Cohen’s second album, was for me a great improvement over his first because of restraint in the use of strings, clarions and angelic choirs, and because the compositions themselves were fairly even in quality (with “Bird on the Wire” and “Story of Issac” two really tight, clean stand-outs). And short — he shouldn’t be straining the frail but frequently quite lovely melodies to five and six minutes, as he does on Songs of Love and Hate. But this record, alas, goes back to all the trash that cluttered up the first album — schlock horns, schlock strings, schlock chorus — as if to make of it a style. Recognizable, yes no one but Leonard Cohen could have come out with these arrangements but a style, no. Read the rest of this entry »
August 1967 Sing Out! article about LC in his early days as a singer-songwriter…
Leonard Cohen, Canadian born author, poet, songwriter, singer, the subject of a film. Leonard Cohen, incredibly handsome, immensely articulate tough-tender young man of our times. Or possibly he is a man of his times, and we are just arriving.
Judy Collins spoke of him at Newport, and put two of his songs in her recent Elektra album. His novel, Beautiful Losers, is making waves as a Bantam paperback. His Columbia album is scheduled for release as this magazine goes into the mails.
His songs, the consummation of his music and his poetry, speak of love and lovers, of aching, tender intimate love, of obscure love, born of that something else we all feel in bittersweet moments, and of reasonable facsimiles thereof. He is also curiously and uniquely preoccupied with orthodox religion.
Although it almost seems irrelevant, there was a beginning for Cohen. He was born in Montreal. He attended school there, and was graduated from McGill University in 1955. His work, which includes in addition to Beautiful Losers another novel, The Favorite Game, and three volumes of verse, has been much anthologized and has appeared in periodicals in Canada and the U.S. He has twice won the Canada Council Award.
Cohen maintains a home on the Greek isle of Hydra, but frequently returns to the States to renew his “neurotic afflictions” and brings more songs and poetry with him. Lately he has been prowling New York, Los Angeles and Montreal folk and rock houses for a taste of the new sounds. In April he gave a reading of his poetry and Beautiful Losers at Buffalo State University, and sang some of his songs. This reading was in conjunction with their Festival of Arts program.
No comparison can be drawn between Leonard Cohen and any other phenomenon. Many will undoubtedly attempt such a comparison, but the result will be, at best, fragmentary. For Cohen is a rarity, if not a scarcity. And though he will always be rare in the true sense of the word, he will be listened to, sung, and read by an ever increasing entourage, those of the new awareness, those seeking artists of sensitivity.
Recent article, from Aug. 17, 2009, from Barnes & Noble Review (on the Barnes & Noble website)…
As someone who admired poet Leonard Cohen’s second and last novel “Beautiful Losers” in 1966, before Cohen was a recording artist or I was a music critic, I followed Cohen’s musical career with admiration from the beginning. But the admiration was always cut with skepticism – a skepticism that the focus and reach and three-hour duration of his February 19 comeback concert at Manhattan’s Beacon Theater blew away. My conversion experience was far from the only one that night, and proved replicable – when Cohen stopped in Seattle two months later, a friend walked in with my level of show-me and left with my level of holy-moley. Having kicked off the U.S. phase of a world tour already nine months old, the Beacon concert was soon followed by Live in London, a double-CD and/or DVD vividly documenting pretty much the same songs and stage business I’d witnessed. It prepared the way for two sold-out May concerts at NYC’s much larger Radio City Music Hall, which will be followed in turn by, holy moley, an October 23 appearance at Madison Square Garden. Tickets begin at $113 and top out at $4,800. Crave a little conversion? Pony up.
Scheduled to turn 75 September 21, Cohen is on a roll that began five years ago, when he found out his money was gone. The somewhat murky story begins in 1994 after his last previous tour, which left him so exhausted that, as is his wont, he decided to transform his life. So he relocated for five years – five years! – to a Zen monastery on Mount Baldy in California, where he assisted his longtime guru Joshu Sasaki Roshi and was ordained a monk in 1996. Cash flow much diminished, he was persuaded by his manager and friend Kelley Lynch to sell his catalogue to Sony in 1997, and once off the mountain set up a foundation to protect his assets from the taxman. In 2004 he learned by happenstance that the foundation had been drained of funds, and although Cohen eventually won a $9.5 million judgment against Lynch, who by 2005 was claiming she was homeless, he hasn’t been able to collect.
Cohen clearly got screwed. But if it’s hard not to sympathize when the creator of a lament as gorgeous and profound as “Bird on the Wire” will never see another penny from it, it’s also hard not to snicker when a tax shelter goes belly up. The just plain sympathetic part came with this tour, as Cohen, having envisioned an old age of comfortable seclusion, transformed himself into a public workhorse. A rabbi’s grandson who still keeps Sabbath yet has always been fascinated by the redemption myths of the Catholics who dominate his primordial Montreal, he was born again by going back to work.
Cohen never intended to shut down altogether. In early 2001 he released Field Commander Cohen, a circa-1979 live CD sprucer than 1994’s Cohen Live!, and then, shortly after September 11, put out his first studio album since 1992’s The Future. In historical context, the brave pessimism and sage metaphysics of Ten New Songs seemed so prophetic that it should have been called The Future II. But Cohen’s unbeautiful voice proved so sere it was swamped by the attendant women on 2004’s Dear Heather, where a Lord Byron cover and “Tennessee Waltz” outshone originals so paltry that not one was deemed worthy of the tour four years later. In 2005, awash in lawsuits, Cohen talked up Blue Alert, his collaboration with jazz singer Anjani Thomas, who happened to be his attorney’s ex- wife as well as his own current consort. But it barely sold, and only the title track belongs in the same sentence with any number of songs Cohen has composed with backup-singer-turned-producer Sharon Robinson. In a long, eloquent 2005 interview for Norwegian radio – the Marianne of “So Long, Marianne” comes from Norway, and he’s a chart-topper there – Cohen reported that he’d begun a new album, which, unsurprisingly, never materialized: “I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel. I need ten songs, you know, I have to fill up 50 minutes, and you want it to be good.”
In the same interview, Cohen explained with practiced humility, “I just keep working until something arises that is better than me. . . . Sometimes the songs are really good, sometimes they are okay, I hope.” One hopes that after this tour is over, Cohen will invest his accumulated wealth circumspectly and that by late 2010 the impressive snatches he’s played visitors will add up to a really good album. His voice has revived – exercise has been good for it, and where in the ’90s he was still learning how to sing loud after decades of milking his refined croak for intimacy, now he can declaim in moderation. He’s had more trials not involving the nearness of death than anyone past 70 should bear. And the evidence suggests that he was ordained for cause – that he’s finally achieved equanimity without peacing out.
Rock and roll has produced a surprising bounty of old men with something to say. Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Lou Reed, Randy Newman – rather than credibly courting eternal youth a la Mick Jagger and Paul McCartney, these seniors explore the aging process with an edge that’s been rare in pop music, where nostalgia is such a staple. Cohen fits this paradigm, with two significant differences. The first is that he’s rock and roll only by association. He’s really a Gallic chansonnier, in it for the lyrics rather than the liberating musical intensity even Dylan has made a vocation. The second is that he was always old – older than Elvis and also more sophisticated, the kind of artist you’d look up to at 24 only to find yourself surprisingly, alarmingly entering his age group four decades later.
These disjunctures only strengthen Live in London. Cohen launched his recapitalization armed with a decades-spanning body of really good songs that his cult deserved to hear. Spirit calmed, voice weathered by exposure, arrangements honed by wisdom and practice, he was positioned to revisit this oeuvre without risk of generational grotesquerie, because he’d written from the vantage of maturity to begin with. As always, the DVD provides neither the full social immersion of the concert nor the provocative abstraction of the sound recording, but at least you get to see Cohen trot on stage (at my show, he skipped off), and the worshipful close-ups of concentrating soloists are less banal than usual because the songs reward that kind of attention. The CDs, however, are definitive. There’s more really good Cohen out there, and individual albums going back to 1968’s Songs of Leonard Cohen remain very much worth hearing. But the thoughtfulness of everyone involved renders the new recordings aurally consistent and verbally definitive. Circumstances rarely afford artists the chance to leave a testament. Live in London comes pretty close.
In someone of Cohen’s long-term accomplishment, that’s plenty. But it leaves the content of the bequest open to scrutiny. The standard objections cite Cohen’s bummer quotient – his supposedly terrible voice and his supposedly unremitting pessimism. Me, I’ve always enjoyed his sprechgesang, which he shares to some extent with all the old men on my short list except the goy (who oddly enough is Canadian). True, God gave Dylan, Reed, and arguably Newman more physical voices. But not even the Reed of “Candy Says” has better simulated the one-on-one whisper, and at his most clownish Newman can’t match Cohen’s deft self-mockery. That’s why Cohen’s pessimism has never bummed me. Of course this isn’t party music. But the best of the darker songs are so well-stated they’re bracing too – the poet’s version of Gramsci’s optimism of the will – and in album format they share time with a Jewish-Buddhist fatalist’s spiritually advanced form of gallows humor.
Musical and philosophical questions remain, however. Hardly a master tunesmith, Cohen has nevertheless created, rejiggered, reappropriated, and partnered into existence a body of melody without which his songwriting would mean little. But just as he never aims for rock and roll release, he maintains a distance from that melody – he doesn’t inhabit a song like his beau ideal Hank Williams or his formal counterpart John Prine. Crucial to the distance are the backup girls on whom he so skillfully, respectfully, and obsessively relies. This is limiting, and Cohen knows it: “I ran with Diz and Dante/But I never had their sweep,” shrugs the Zen poet who situates Hank Williams 100 floors above himself in the tower of song. And thematically there are also limits, as Cohen’s female helpmates make manifest.
There are Cohen chroniclers, especially literary ones, who prove how worldly they are by treating his interest in sex as an amusing side issue. But even up against Mick Jagger and Marvin Gaye, Prince and Madonna, Cohen qualifies as a devout erotomane. For its fleeting moment “Beautiful Losers” was radiantly graphic, and I challenge anyone to name another songpoet so fond of the word “naked.” In one of his few stupid public pronouncements, Cohen told the New York Times in 1968 that only after sharing an orgasm with a woman did he believe he’d met her, and at 50 he was still averring that only women kept him sane on the road. At the Beacon, my sense of oneness with my fellow communicants was disrupted by the knowing cheers that greeted two raunchy lines: “giving me head in the unmade bed” and “if you want a doctor I’ll examine every inch of you.”
Now, I think intellectuals underrate sex myself, and to each her or his own. Cohen loves women, and women often love him back – fine. But I sense that many of Cohen’s male fans get a vicarious kick out of his multifarious affairs that doesn’t bring them any closer to the goal articulated by his most crucial backup singer, Jennifer Warnes, whose 1987 tribute album Famous Blue Raincoat helped revive his career: “the place where God and sex and literature meet.” The only friend I’ve ever had who was a major Cohen devotee is also the only friend I’ve ever had to make a play for my wife. That’s not what I mean by to each his or her own. I want to take sex seriously my way, not Leonard Cohen’s way – much less his fanmen’s way.
Striking, isn’t it, that even musician Warnes brings up literature. Granted, her quote arrives via Cohen’s biographer, Canadian English prof Ira B. Nadel, whose valuable if unexpectedly dated 1994 Various Positions could be hipper musically. But I’ve been reading Cohen as well as listening, and it’s been a pleasure except for my second pass through “Beautiful Losers,” which for all its serial orgasms and multivocal texts lacks narrative generosity. “Skip over the parts you don’t like,” Cohen advises readers of the new Chinese translation in 2006’s “Book of Longing,” a self-illustrated miscellany billed as his first poetry collection since 1984 – a delightful profit-taker that includes droll reports on the monastic life; an erotic appreciation of his May-December love object Rebecca de Mornay; a “Thank You Ruler of the World/Thank you for calling me Honey” for a waitress seen in a double mirror; and such epigrams as “oh and one more thing/you aren’t going to like/what comes after America” and “life is a drug that stops working.”
There are also a few lyrics, including a Dear Heather quickie that begins “Because of a few songs/wherein I spoke of their mystery/women have been/exceptionally kind/to my old age,” gets better, and has it all over the recorded version. Due to envy, snobbery, and the devotion to rhyme and scansion that impelled him toward the pop charts, Cohen gets small respect as a poet, but unlike most song lyrics, his do read. Unfortunately, the best proof isn’t for sale in the U.S.: Omnibus Press’s alphabetical Lyrics of Leonard Cohen, 113 all told, and fascinating to down in that arbitrary order. Known masterpieces like “Dance Me to the End of Love,” “Famous Blue Raincoat,” “Anthem,” and “A Thousand Kisses Deep” demand and reward instant rereading. Songs from a Room, Death of a Ladies’ Man, and Dear Heather read as flat as they’d always sounded. Songs from 1984’s Various Positions suggest that maybe Columbia refused that album because the performances didn’t do them justice.
Most interesting, however, was to then read Yeats, who Cohen loves. Yeats smoked him, of course – Yeats smokes everybody. Still, the evolution from the lissome flow of “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” to the steely reassessment of “Vacillation” certainly paralleled the shifts in tone and line I’d felt as old Cohen lyrics followed hard upon newer ones. Cohen went up the mountain to learn how to cast a cold eye, then came down and found himself compelled to tell us about it. And without losing what had been learned, his eye warmed a little. That’s a long-term accomplishment worth cheering.
Hold me close
and tell me what the world is like
I don’t want to look outside
I want to depend on your eyes
and your lips
I don’t want to feel anything
but your hand
on the old raw bumper
I don’t want to feel anything else
If you love the dead rocks
and the huge rough pine trees
Ok I like them too
Tell me if the wind
makes a pretty sound
in the billion billion needles
I’ll close my eyes and smile
Tell me if it’s a good morning
or a clear morning
Tell me what the fuck kind of morning
and I’ll buy it
And get the dog
to stop whining and barking
This isn’t China
nobody’s going to eat it
It’s just going to get fed and petted
Ok where were we?
Ok go if you must.
I’ll create the cosmos
I’ll let it all stick to me
every fucking pine needle
And I’ll broadcast my affection
from this shaven dome
to all the dramatic vistas
to all the mists and snows
that moves across
the shining mountains
to the women bathing
in the stream
and combing their hair
on the roofs
to the voiceless ones
who have petitioned me
from their surprising silence
to the poor in the heart
(oh more and more to them)
to all the thought-forms
and leaking mental objects
that you get up here
at the end of your ghostly life