Leonard Cohen turns 80 today. This is very, very important to me.
He has a new album, Popular Problems, coming out this week—you can listen to in full here. It's like a little brother to 2012's superb Old Ideas, a continuation of (yet another) late-period career renaissance. There are backup singers leading him to temptation, there are jokes about his critics, and there are biblical references galore ("Born In Chains"). It could have been recorded anytime between 1982 and today.
I especially love the opening track, "Slow," which is as witty and bluesy as anything he's written. "You want to get there soon/ I want to get there last/ It's not because I'm old/ It's not the life I led/ I always liked it slow/ That's what my mama said." Cohen has never been in a rush—this is one of those things he's always been trying to tell us. Slow down. The only time it ever felt like he was in a rush was Death Of A Ladies Man, and it shows.
I don't really know how to write about someone I don't personally know who means so much to me. Someone whose words and voice have been a constant presence in my life. I find it overwhelming, which is why I was so taken with Alex Balk's very direct writing in the Awl: Cohen reminds "those of us prone to darkness that we are not the first ones to feel that way and since nothing's going to make much of a difference anyway you might as well try to take your joys where you can, even in the places where the pain is the most pronounced."
Cohen reminds me of my childhood. The High Holy Days are coming next week, and although I feel completely removed from the community I grew up in, I crave "Who By Fire." This is as close as I'll get this year.
Cohen reminds me of high school. My friend Will forced me to listen to "Ain't No Cure For Love," even though I loathed that cheesy opening sax. This song (and maybe "Baker Street") singlehandedly changed my opinion about the place of saxophones in popular music.
Cohen reminds me of my grandmother, who died this year. I always hoped she'd live long enough to dance with me at my own wedding, maybe even to this song.
A lot of people think of him first and foremost as the great modern poet of Spirituality and Carnality. There's no doubt that he is. But more often, I think of him as Levity: "I was born like this, I had no choice/ I was born with the gift of a golden voice." When I saw him perform at Radio City Music Hall last year, the thing that most struck me was his gaiety, how he'd gleefully skip off stage waving his fedora in his hand before every break in the show, like an impeccably dressed rock skimming across water.
And how is he celebrating his 80th birthday? By taking up smoking again. "Quite seriously, does anyone know where you can buy a Turkish or Greek cigarette?" he asked reporters at a press conference for the new record. "I'm looking forward to that first smoke. I've been thinking about that for 30 years. It's one of the few consistent strings of thoughts I've been able to locate." The Times is worried about him.
There is a sense that Cohen understands some greater truth that the rest of us will spend our lives squinting at. He doesn't waste words, even when they're off-the-cuff. "I was always like a bear in a honey tree, just trying to get something without getting stung to death," he told Rolling Stone about making music. This is how I feel when I listen to "If It Be Your Will."
I've never met anyone who had a casual relationship with Leonard Cohen's music. You either count him amongst your closest allies, or you can't stand him. An ex-girlfriend of mine would complain about Mr. Pervy Voice whenever I played him. I always thought he'd appreciate that in some way.
I don't blame anyone for not liking Cohen's voice (although it brings me total comfort). Because his songs make other people's seem like jingles, even covers can be majestic. This is my favorite cover of any song in history. This sounds like honey to me.
Leonard Cohen has never recorded a bad song (Death of A Ladies Man is a mess production-wise, but the songs themselves are fine)... except "Jazz Police." That song is terrible, but it makes me love I'm Your Man even more. While I'd recommend that any Cohen novice listen to that one first, my personal favorite record is Recent Songs, which has the platonic ideal of the kind of musicians Cohen should have always been collaborating with: a Gypsy violin player, Garth Hudson on keys, Jennifer Warnes' perfectly complimentary voice, and a clarity of production. It's the moment before his voice dropped three octaves. Almost every song swells on the choruses, but none stand out above the rest, and there is no clutter. "It's light enough to let it go."
Popular Problems is not as good as Old Ideas, but that's just because the latter album was an unexpected masterpiece. Just take "Crazy To Love You"—nothing but Leonard and a guitar. He hadn't been this musically naked since Songs From A Room. "Crazy has places to hide in/ That are deeper than any goodbye." He can still surprise us.
Cohen told Rolling Stone about his process of writing: "There's a few songs that I would like to finish before I die. One in particular, it's a lovely melody that I can't find any words for. I've been trying for a good 15 years. I've tried many, many versions. And God willing, maybe something will happen." Leonard Cohen can't leave us until he does.
