He had no choice, he was born like this, with a golden voice – and blessed be his word, because it is without equal. Bob Dylan may polish his shoes; I refer to the towering force of majestic melancholy, the one, the only, the lonely Leonard Cohen, poet, preacher, river and mountain of true beauty.
Long ago I gave up hope of ever setting eyes and ears and all my adoration upon Leonard Cohen. When I gave up grunge and long hair for something a bit more intellectual, and contextual [as in relation to life], Master Cohen was already lost in monastery limbo, where contemplation of existence turns to mere, bare existence.
I found peace in his albums, which I gathered like a hamster, one by one, until I had all and treasured them alike. Together with Jack Kerouac, he taught me how to write. No better teachers around; blame the student.
Jack died before I was born. And Master Cohen grew older and further and further away from me, 74, the age of brandy and death. Still, I kept on carrying a little torch of hope in my chest – sometimes for no other reason than to keep me warm. Standing in the presence of a performance, I was forced to concede, was probably another one of the dreams that stay and only stay in the sphere of twilight.
But! Come Friday night! Look, tickets, crumpled by concentration alone! I dragged my Madli along to bear witness to what turned out to be the best concert of my life, of our lives. And while I have been accused of using superlatives like you get three for the price of two, I mean what I say; t’was the best concert of my life.
I’m still reeling from the experience. There were times when I was afraid to close my eyes, there were times when I could not help but close my eyes, there were times and they were all times where I was in awe, such was the power of the tower of songs of love and death and life and longing and hallelujah, it goes like this, the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift.
Hallelujah is possibly the greatest song ever written. Strike possibly. Immediately. It is so. And I was there, to mouth the whole song in mute, never to utter a sound, because I dared not soil it. I mouthed all the other songs, too. By heart finally reaches accuracy in statement, so to silently speak.
I better get up from the position of worship now, and steer into bed. The night is dark and the morning won’t be. Besides, if it wasn’t, and if it was, there is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.