I'm going to have to ban early morning phone calls from my younger son; they never bring good tidings. In January it was the death of David Bowie, his voice tender because he knew how upset I'd be. Our shared desolation at the outcome of the EU referendum in June was mirrored this Wednesday last by horror at Donald Trump's ascent to power. This morning he was too upset himself to get the words out, but I guessed straightaway. There was no one else left.
I was 14 when I first encountered Leonard Cohen in 1976. I was on an exchange visit to Bordeaux; he was singing in French and called Graeme Allwright. I soon tracked down the originals of these cover versions and Leonard took over the soundtrack of my life, a conglomerate father/older brother/lover/husband/ mentor figure who addressed my needs in a way the actual men in my life couldn't or wouldn't. (Though to be fair, my older brother never existed.) And unlike real-life Leonard - or, indeed, my later, eventual ex-husband - my personal Leonard was constant, always there. If anyone in that particular relationship ever drifted off for too long, it was me.
I've never found him depressing (though I do avoid listening to some of his songs when things aren't good - notably, Dress Rehearsal Rag). In fact, I'd say it was the other way around - when I've been at my lowest and turned to him, his songs and poems have lifted me. I think it's because although his great theme is endings - the loss, mess, despair and emotional exhaustion of them - he shows us their beauty too.
But now - with the exception of Alan Garner - my heroes are gone, all within the space of three years - first, Seamus Heaney, then Terry Pratchett and David Bowie, and now Leonard Cohen. White, English-speaking men - I know - and flawed too, at least in the case of the singers. But as Leonard himself put it 'Ring the bells that still can ring/Forget your perfect offering/There is a crack in everything/That's how the light gets in'. And between them, they've taught me the importance of recognising beauty in the moment and celebrating it, that being good and being nice are not the same thing, that being yourself and pushing beyond your comfort zone is vital to creativity, and how to pick yourself up again and again and carry on with grace to the end. Finally, that I'm not alone.
Recently, some of Leonard's darker, prophetic songs from the 80s have taken on a new insistency as our island turns in on itself, quoting the John of Gaunt death-bed speech out of context as usual, and a quasi-fascistic mindset takes hold in the country formerly known as the land of the free. And, as a friend observed earlier, without the certainty that somewhere far to the west Leonard is writing and sleeping and eating and fiddling about on that Casio keyboard of his makes this lurch to the far right even harder to bear. But from the same song that contains such catastrophic images of war - 'The Future' - one line stands out today. It is 'love's the only engine of survival', and this is the route map he left us.
I first heard of Leonard Cohen in March 1976 when I was 14. I was on an exchange visit to France and this boy I liked had an LP by Graeme Allwright, a Francophile New Zealander who'd translated many of Cohen's songs into French in the late 60s. Consequently, I also fell in love with the songs: 'Suzanne' - 'Suzanne t'emmène écouter les sirènes ... ' - 'L'Etranger' ('Stranger Song'), 'Vagabonde' ('Travelling Lady') and 'Je Voulais Te Quitter' ('I Tried to Leave You'). Once home, I took myself and my pocket money off to Virgin Records, then a cramped little shop smelling of joss sticks and dope near the bus station in Bristol, and bought 'The Songs of Leonard Cohen'. He's been part of my life ever since.
It seems careless, then, to have left seeing this demi-God in concert for another 36 years, during which time Leonard has apparently continued to do what poetry has told him to do, while I have paid dearly for my propensity to confuse love with something else altogether. The last few months since his tour was announced have been nerve-wracking. 'Take it easy, Lennie,' I have whispered, whenever I've been reminded of his advancing years. 'Just chill with the grandkids this summer. Don't die yet.'
The good news is that Leonard didn't die. In fact, he looks, at age 78, a lot more sprightly than I am, frequently falling to his knees to sing to his audience (and springing back up again) and capering across the stage between sets and encores more like a silvery Puck about to put a girdle around the earth in forty minutes than a geriatric. In all he was on stage for about three hours, giving it his all - and what an all it was.
In addition to several songs from his new album, 'Old Ideas', he played what must have been the soundtrack to the lives of most of the people in that space - so many standards that it's impossible to believe one man wrote them. I bet there are singer-songwriters who would give their eye-teeth to have written just 'Suzanne' or just 'Hallelujah' or 'I'm Your Man' - Leonard wrote all three, and 'Famous Blue Raincoat', 'The Future' and 'Alexandra Leaving' as well. Not to mention all the rest.
And he is such a gent, as evidenced by his witty and self-deprecating banter between songs and his generosity towards his illustrious band and backing singers who are always so much more than mere backing singers. The sublime Webb sisters performed a solo, and Sharon Robinson a divine version of the aforementioned 'Alexandra Leaving', surely one of the most perfect songs ever written. Every person on stage had their moment in the spotlight - literally - while Leonard took off his hat - literally - to pay his respects.
One of the most moving moments was hearing the capacity crowd join in with his rendition of 'So Long, Marianne' during one of two encores, each several songs long. I felt very emotional throughout the evening, however. So many of the lines seemed so apposite. And it felt like I was back in the same place I'd been at 14, waiting for my life to start. All those intervening years, the horrible errors over which I've grieved didn't matter any more. I could begin all over again.
Oh so long, Marianne, it's time that we began to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again ...
The birds, they sang at the break of day Start again, I heard them say Don't dwell on what has passed away or what is yet to be ...
Every heart, every heart to love will come, but like a refugee ...
Love's the only engine of survival ...
And even though it all went wrong I'll stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
