Judy Levinson lived in an upstairs apartment next door to
where I stayed on Elm Street in Kalamazoo. Although barely into her 20’s, Judy
was a welcoming friend and Jewish mother to several of us getting college degrees
but also on a quest for joy and meaning.
I want to say that listening day after day to Leonard
Cohen’s Suzanne at Judy’s in 1968 changed my life but perhaps that’s too
strong. What is true is that the repetitive
guitar strumming and the depth of Cohen’s poetry on that first album was
profoundly impactful. In the haunting beauty of Suzanne, The Sisters of Mercy
or The Stranger Song Leonard Cohen’s words came from deep inside but in ways
that connected to listeners. Such raw emotion, openly expressed, was rare, even
courageous.
Here was I in 1969 a graduate student of economics searching
bookstores for Cohen’s volume of poetry. Finding it, his words flowed easily
from the page to the brain but there was mystery. Set to music, as in his
second album, the poetry became accessible.
There have been several moving tributes to Cohen,
particularly on the BBC where presenters who grew up in Iran, Russia and
Colombia reflected on how Cohen’s songs impacted them even when English was not
their first language. But the finest tribute is David Remnick’s 30-minute podcast on the New Yorker
website that includes Cohen’s own words, his last interview this summer in Los
Angeles.
Like others in the 1970s and 80s I had largely forgotten
Leonard Cohen and I thank Keith Crawford, my north of England friend and squash
partner in Prague, for pulling me back into his orbit in the 1990s. Keith shares much with the Montreal
wordsmith—depth, mild intensity and being a lady’s man. Like Cohen Keith
possesses the vulnerability that like nectar to a humming bird attracts
intelligent women. Despite being disheveled and like Cohen having a face few
would call handsome, Crawford always had an attractive female on his arm. Never threatening but mildly dangerous, Crawford is a Bohemian
analogue of Leonard Cohen.
When Cohen was compelled in 2008 to undertake a global tour
to recoup his life’s savings stolen by an associate, the concerts drew immense
crowds and left unforgettable impressions. On multiple continents venues were
sold out and there were intimate connections between artist and audience. When
my wife and I saw the Cohen concert at Detroit’s Fox Theatre there were three
encores. We sat next to devotees who had driven from northern Ontario because no
tickets were available for the Canadian shows.
In 2010 on a road trip to Montreal I was delighted but not
surprised that there were tours of the Leonard Cohen sights—Our Lady of the
Harbor and the café where Suzanne brought Leonard for “tea and oranges that
come all the way from China.”
When in 2015 I cycled across southern California I passed
near Mt. Baldy, where Cohen spent years in solitary pursuit of Zen
enlightenment. Gazing at the snow-capped mountain not far from L.A., I smiled remembering Cohen’s
observation that he spent endless hours there shoveling snow.
The Stranger Song is the Cohen poem that most resonates with
me. I imagine it as the story of a drifter somewhere in the Canadian west:
“And then leaning on your window sill
He’ll say one day you caused his will
To weaken with your love and warmth and shelter
And then taking from his wallet
An old schedule of trains, he’ll say
I told you when I came I was a stranger.”
Farewell Leonard Cohen, Canada’s gift to the world.
