Odd how four words can make you well
up. ‘The applause was deafening,’ writes Sylvie Simmons at the start of chapter
18 of I’m Your Man, her acclaimed biography
of Leonard Cohen that I have only just got around to reading. It follows a
chapter that describes in horrific detail how Cohen was fleeced of over $10
million by a deceitful manager and another in which, in order to shore up his crumbling
finances, he is obliged after five years away from the spotlight to tour again,
albeit very reluctantly and only after months of preparation in which he
seriously believes no one cares any more. So, when after all this we read that
at the first show on the tour, in the Canadian backwater of Fredericton, ‘the
applause was deafening’, it becomes an affirmation that right will win out in
the end and that this great artist, writer, poet, musician, songwriter and
singer was as missed in his absence as he is adored in his presence.
The absence occurred
because Cohen opted to spend his time in a Californian monastic retreat, dressing in monks’
robes, eating frugally, rising at 4am to observe ritual chanting in the lotus position and generally
devoting his life to acquiring divine knowledge at the feet of his spiritual
master Jushu Sasaki Roshi, a Zen master of the Rinzai school of Buddhism –
‘hardcore’, as Simmons puts it. This might seem unusual for someone who through
no fault of his own was often lazily categorised as a ‘rock star’ but then again,
as this book confirms, Cohen was much more besides. Also, in view of his much
reported fondness for beautiful women – and them for him – it comes as something of a
relief to discover that celibacy was not part of the pact, and that there
occurred the odd tryst with a friendly nun in the front seat of his jeep parked nearby.
Such levity
notwithstanding, this is a serious book, beautifully written, the definitive
work on Cohen, and for the writing of it Cohen gave Simmons his full support
and asked for nothing in return, not even to read her manuscript. This also
explains why her research was facilitated by interviews with many musicians and
producers who had worked with Cohen, friends and fellow poets going back to his
home town of Montreal, not to mention the many women in Cohen’s life, all of whom
seem to adore him still and look back warmly on their relationships with him as
immensely valuable experiences.
Completed in 2012 and not yet updated to take into account Cohen’s death last year, I’m Your Man makes clear that music was by
no means Cohen’s first career choice. Prior to signing with Columbia in 1967,
he was through his novels and poetry already a distinguished man
of letters in his native Canada, and by this time he’d reached the age of 33,
positively ancient by recording industry standards. Also, despite an appetite
for recreational drugs and good wine, he wasn’t the sort to fit into the déclassé
world of rock. He was dapper, erudite, modest, a man of culture who invariably dressed
in dark suits, a legacy from his family’s prosperous clothing business. (‘Darling,’
he tells Simmons, ‘I was born in a suit.’) It is not therefore until we reach page
161 (out of 499, excluding back matter) that we find Cohen in the recording
studio attempting to record ‘Suzanne’, his most famous song until ‘Hallelujah’
slaughtered all before it rather late in the day.
By this time Simmons has
painted a picture of Cohen as assuredly his own man insofar as life decisions
are concerned. He is a seeker, a voracious reader, curious about religions,
restless, often on the move – the descriptions of life on Hydra are as
delightful as the Aegean island itself, as are passages about less well known
visits to Mumbai – rarely looking back, unconcerned with material possessions
or accumulating wealth, though the success of his music would eventually make
him rich. Also, he’s a reluctant performer, largely due to stage fright, but
when the occasion arises – as at the 1970 Isle of Wight Festival – he rises to
it, wondrously. At two in the morning, high but serene on Mandrax, Cohen asks
the huge but restless crowd to light matches – perhaps the very first manifestation
of this now ubiquitous concert practice – which they did. ‘It was magical,’
producer Bob Johnson, watching from the side of the stage, tells Simmons. ‘From
the first moment to the last. I’ve never seen anything like it. He was just
remarkable.’
Cohen was never
prolific. His record label grew used to long waits between albums, though in
the USA Columbia seemed not to care because – extraordinarily – it wasn’t until
very late in his career that American audiences wised up to him. Latterly, of
course, he was welcomed everywhere, especially in Europe where he’d always
enjoyed massive admiration. The ‘Awards And Honours’ listing in the index
extends to 28 lines in the tiniest type, the longest I’ve ever seen in a music biog. The
concerts he performed following the management swindle were amongst the most
over subscribed ever, everywhere, again and again, and in London he was able to
fill the O2, not that he enjoyed it much. Intimacy was Cohen’s game,
but this wonderful lap of honour makes the prefect climax to Simmons’ book, a
fairy-tale ending she delights in telling.
This book has already
been praised to the hilt by numerous reviewers, and deservedly so, and I came
to it late. As Cohen’s most authoritative biographer Sylvie Simmons found
herself called upon last year to talk endlessly and with a heavy heart about
a man whose death she would have mourned more sorrowfully than most. She
discovered him in 1968 as a teenager on the cut-price sampler The
Rock Machine Turns You On,
where Cohen’s ‘Sisters Of Mercy’ shared vinyl space with 14 other Columbia
acts, of which only Bob Dylan and Paul Simon can be said to rival him. For a
biographer, that’s the kind of credential that makes for a great read and
Simmons doesn’t disappoint.
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