Less is More: Leonard Cohen (Sept 21st, 1934 - Nov. 10th, 2016)

The news is as sad as it was inevitable.

Leonard Cohen -- he of the spare, searing lyrics, deep, sonorous voice and deeper messages, who not so much crooned but spoke songs crafted with great beauteous clarity -- has passed away, aged 82. It’s a fair bet that many of a certain generation would have been listening to his great ode, ‘Democracy,’ as the recent US election night unfolded. We wonder what the old bard would have thought of Donald Trump’s ascendancy, the rejection of the old elites and the awesome majesty of a free and fair election leading to an outcome few except the conservative true believers would have predicted.

Over a career spanning fifty years Cohen addressed themes of love and faith, despair and hope, solitude and connection, war, peace and politics. Scores of others have covered his songs, ranging from U2, Aretha Franklin, Justin Timberlake and Trisha Yearwood. It’s a fair bet that two generations have grown up humming his tunes, not even knowing he wrote them.

In many ways Cohen was essentially Canadian: quiet, modest, intensely private, possessed of a simple humility. He started late in life, not recording his first album until the age of 33, and then chose a path that eschewed many of the trappings of modern “stardom.” He played simple chords on acoustic guitars and cheap keyboards. To the end he was an ascetic in an industry swimming in excess and self-conceit.

He was more than just a singer and songwriter. He was astonishingly literate, had been earmarked in youth as a talented poet, and author, whose book ‘Beautiful Losers,’ published in 1966, propelled him to international fame. Not that he seemed to care too much about that for he too was a realist. He once remarked that he was grateful for all the fantastic reviews he received, but that he was starving and unable to pay the bills.

Music gave him that revenue stream. His first record, ‘Songs of Leonard Cohen’ with its spare cover shot of his craggy face, was his calling card to a somewhat more stable lifestyle. He would never be fabulously wealthy, but again how could anyone like him be satisfied with mere dollars? His was a life questing for answers, within himself, and the world without, which he regarded with weary eyes. He would quit the music scene altogether in 1994, get ordained as a Buddhist monk and spend the next seven years till his next album looking for answers in silence and reflection.

He would start touring again in 2008, driven by another personal financial crisis brought on by the alleged graft of his manager, but it was more than just another old turn by an aging poet who transformed verses into lyrics. For the next four years he would crisscross the world in his trademark bollo tie and fedora, giving concerts that felt more like intimate recitals - the kind one might experience at an old style gin joint - just a guy with a song on a small stage with a couple of backup singers and a band which looked as grizzled and careworn as he.

Inevitably in situations like these, one replays the old CDs, wading into the deep pool of Cohen's oeuvre in search of old memories and rekindled emotions. Floating in the depths of his voice through the years on waves of 'First We Take Manhattan,' 'I'm Your Man,' 'Suzanne,' 'Dance Me to the End of Love,' 'The Future,' 'Closing Time,' it's fascinating to note how he didn't sound much different at 70 then at 35. At any age he was unique. Was he Rock? Was he Soul? There are no easy answers, except to say that he was Timeless.

The world will mourn Cohen’s passing, especially as he was of an increasingly rare species: a truly original artist - one who wove commentary into music poems with rare subtlety, panache and skill. Though some will invariably find his works morose, dark, even depressing, others see world weariness in a young/old voice that saw much, a heart that felt keenly, and a zest for life and creativity that kept him coming back for more, in the hope of experiencing the unique kind of joy that insight brings.

To mark his passing, find a quiet corner, at home or a bar somewhere, order a stiff Scotch, put on the earphones, play "Hallelujah," his magnificent, majestic, meditative ballad infused throughout with a kind of religious earthiness...and lift your glass in silent toast.