Head Butler - Music

The backup singers sound like a parody of Motown --- they chant, over and over, "In my secret life." The electronic drum is set slow. The synthesizer is a dirge. And the singer's voice --- imagine a three-pack-a-day man at four in the morning with his dog recently dead. His voice is a whispered croak, a tragic monotone

I smile when I’m angry.
I cheat and I lie.
I do what I have to do
To get by.
But I know what is wrong,
And I know what is right.
And I’d die for the truth
In my secret life.

Well, Leonard Cohen never said he made music for parties. He did say --- not in so many words, but this was the implicit promise --- that he'd stare the mirror down and make his secret life public. That he'd go "a thousand kisses deep" and report back. That, for the women who are his most passionate admirers, "I'm your man."

It's easy to see through Leonard Cohen --- at least that's what his critics say. To them, he's "the poet laureate of pessimism," "the grocer of despair," "the godfather of gloom," "the prince of bummers." His songs: "music to slit your wrists to."

His fans know different. I have been one since 1968, when I read his two novels, The Favorite Game and Beautiful Losers, and heard his first record. That album was like no other. It took itself seriously. And it took you seriously. That was the heart of the transaction --- a search for truth in a world where "even damnation is poisoned with rainbows" and God is always both present and mystifyingly silent.

That world view sounds off-putting. Dark. Unrewarding. In fact, Cohen is --- for some of us --- immensely musical. Even inspiring. Or maybe that's the case when others perform or record his songs: Rufus Wainwright, Jeff Buckley, and, of course, Judy Collins.

Judy Collins, first. "Suzanne takes you down/to her boat by the river." That hit happened when Cohen started writing songs because he couldn't make a living as a novelist and thought --- quaintly --- that songwriting was the ticket. He called Collins one night and sang "Suzanne" through the phone. She knew its measure instantly and promptly recorded it. Later, at Carnegie Hall, she brought him onstage. Gaunt, poetic, handsome in a way that only some women appreciate, he stood there in his suit and shook. "I can't do this," he said, and rushed off.

But he could. He got a record contract with Columbia, recorded Songs of Leonard Cohen. He has now been with Columbia for almost four decades. Like Dylan. Like Springsteen. But with an ironic attitude about Columbia's concern for him: "I have always been touched by the modesty of their interest in my work."

Reviews? He's immune. Or, at the very least, sardonic: "I was born like this, I had no choice/I was born with the gift of a golden voice." The quest is the thing, always: "Like a bird on a wire/ Like a drunk in a midnight choir/ I have tried, in my way, to be free."

Early on, that quest led him to Zen Buddhism, the ideal choice for smarties who need to be quiet and listen. Cohen went further. He sought his teachers' advice on his music:

"Roshi came to the studio one night when I was recording 'New Skin for the Old Ceremony.' That was in the seventies. In those days I was being written off as a morbid old depressive drone peddling suicide notes. (Still am, in some circles). Roshi slept through most, but not all, of the session. The next morning I asked him what he thought. He said, 'Leonard, you should sing more sad.' That was the best advice I ever got. Took a while to put it into practice."

In recent years, that quest has taken him deeper --- he spent a decade in a Buddhist monastery, serving his teacher. He emerged in 2001 with Ten New Songs. Of his recent work, it's a standout --- every song takes you under, wrings you out, shows you something new. And for a guy who has sometime been content to stand on two or three chords, it's musically rich. Sadder? Hard to say.

If you are unfamiliar with Cohen and want to make a smart start --- well, that's a problem. Maybe Songs of Leonard Cohen, because so much ambition is packed into that first, very accomplished album. Maybe, although I generally oppose anthologies, The Essential Leonard Cohen. Or even, for those who don't feel like looking back, Ten New Songs. (There's a newer CD, 'Dear Heather.' It's either a weak effort or too subtle for me. I suggest you avoid it.)

Why is Cohen such a talisman for me? Because of the remarkable consistency of his vision. Others have detoured into politics, been fooled by chimera. Cohen, from the beginning, insisted on love as his topic. We're made in love. We disappear into love. We fail, often and gloriously. But the aspiration alone, however doomed, is triumphant. "There's a blaze of light/In every word."

Rufus Wainwright or Jeff Buckley --- you may have heard them sing what, in the end, could be Cohen's signature song:

I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Not acceptance. Better: Hallelujah. But of course. "The holy or the broken Hallelujah" --- they're the same. In our imperfection lies our glory: "There's a crack in the world. That's how the light gets in."

Wherever you look, Cohen's been there. And moved on. To a place that looks almost exactly like the old one. Just a bit...brighter. Which, though odd, seems correct --- the king of bummers brightens the world.