I just got my ass kicked by a 75-year old man. Well, he had something like a black belt in haiku and 9 helpers. Three of them were women. One of the cats was packing a B-3.
I just got back from seeing Leonard Cohen in Phoenix (didn’t see any of you Burque foo’s there!) . . . I may never be the same again. From Javiér Mas (guitar, bandurría, laúd) to Sharon Robinson (vocals, songwriting collaboration), to Roscoe Beck (bass) to Rafael Gayol (drums/percussion) to Niel Larsen (B-3 with Leslie), they worked me (and a couple thousand other people) over for about three hours, with something like eight encores . . . we kept coming back for more, and getting gloriously pummelled. Oh, and there were also Bob Metzger (guitar, vocals), Dino Soldo (woodwinds), and the Webb Sisters (on vocals and cartwheels). These cats cooked mostly with an understated clarity that provided the swooping backdrop for the words that are Cohen’s deadly weapon of choice.
This is the voice—and by that I mean the words as well as the instrument--that has famously inspired many a femme to his bed or to her knees. It is the voice that can barely write a song without including the word "naked."
Cohen, dapper and dancing in a suit and fedora, has probably never been in better voice . . . he sounds like silk and whiskey with just the right mix of finely grated bone and a drop of blood to thicken the sauce. The Voice comes from monks in deep meditation, from nicotine and alcohol, from the primal scream of withdrawal, from three quarters of a century punctuated by nights that slipped on a phrase and fell into the darkness that sometimes not even dawn can penetrate.
The Man brought it from 40 years ago and made it real . . . in freaking Phoenix . . . maybe something to do with those lines from I Can’t Forget:
“I'm burning up the road
I'm heading down to Phoenix
I got this old address
Of someone that I knew . . .”
And maybe that was connected with Everybody Knows, because when he sang the line “Everybody wants a box of chocolates and a long stem rose,” someone from the front row handed him a long stem rose and a box of chocolates. So somebody knew something.
Always the devotee to a worthy master, Cohen returned again and again to his knees in front of the fiery Javier Mas, who spurted sparks from his fingers as he invoked gypsy players in smoky camps, with breathtaking bandurría runs that seemed to echo from a distant time across misty water.
With maybe two and a half dozen tunes delivered at Cohen’s signature poetic pace, he paused once to recite a spoken-word version of A Thousand Kisses Deep that seemed to depart quite a bit from the recorded song, and he stepped aside once to sing in the back seat for Sharon Robinson’s soulful ride down Boogie Street.
After some years on a mountaintop, and getting burned into bankruptcy by someone he trusted, the Godfather of Gloom has emerged with a spring in his step and a roadmap that has taken him across Europe, Canada, and the U.S. over the past year. He’s still singing—and still smiling.
Tags: leonardcohen
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