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Rating: We will remain alone
until the times change
and those who betrayed
will return as pilgrims to this moment
when we do not surrender
and will call this darkness "poetry"
(Leonard Cohen from The Energy Of Slaves)
It's not so bad in the Venetian night, occasionally in Piazza San Marco, wet with water but not soaked. Blessed water, from a storm that was supposed to last longer, at least according to the weather forecast, but unexpectedly calmed, almost as not to disrupt such a unique occasion.
I will not talk about ticket prices or latecomers arriving an hour into the concert. Poor those who think they can quantify in terms of money a miracle of illusionism and collective psychoanalysis (ways to screw those who want to charge you up to €172.50 are found: especially in plaza concerts...) and poor those who missed the start of master Cohen: "Dance me to the End of Love", "The Future", "Bird on a Wire", "Waiting for the Miracle", "Who by the Fire".
Really poor.
The genius of Cohen settles on this Italy that seems not to understand anything anymore.
And listening to Cohen, enduring Cohen, I think of, I don't know why, De Andrè. Him, no, I never managed to see him. I think of him because even he, in his pride, was at odds with the facade and bourgeois Italy. We remember his face well. I personally remember his marked face and dark brown glasses, observing, and responding to Italy with songs of love and battle.
Cohen does more. He is not seen. He beats you up, but you don't see him. He can't be a hologram, you think, yet he seems not to be here.
The worlds chosen by the genius, go and understand them. And not because he gets lost in attitudes hostile to the audience, quite the opposite: he amuses that old man crouching to better hear the twelve-string of Catalan Javier Mas, who takes off his hat when Metger, Soldo, and Larsen, respectively with guitar, breath, and Hammond, start with extraordinary solos.
Especially amusing is the face of an old man who has understood women and truly sang about them, an elegant gentleman who looks at Sharon Robinson and the Webb sisters, backing singers and entertainers, challenging them with savoir-faire.
"I heard of a man
who says words so beautifully
that if he only speaks their name
women give themselves to him".
The enigma dressed as an old man with a borsalino does not hesitate to show us his greatness. We can only be left open-mouthed. Silence makes this concert resemble a sort of backwards escape. We all become, for one night, guilty of not being contemporary.
"Suzanne", "Sisters of Mercy" and "The Partisan", in a row, are the best one can ask for from a stage. And those listening accompany the ecstasy with smiles and ethereal gazes.
"Halleluja" comes to shout it out Cohen. Halleluja Italy.
"Take this Waltz" is yet another demonstration that it's not the present, it's not him. And that Venice is more beautiful than Vienna tonight.
The spirit of Cohen does not leave the stage. The scent is there, and the various brief exits go unnoticed by anyone.
The show continues with "So Long Marianne". And if "Famous Blue Raincoat" satisfies, "First we take Manhattan", is another blow.
He leaves the scene to the Webb sisters for a folk version of "If it be Your Will".
And finally, with a heartthrob's dance, he starts with "Closing Time" and "I Tried to Leave You" which represent an adequate seal to the evening.
The enigma greets us and goes away. Whatever it was, it put us to the test.
And as we walk through Venice waiting for the 6.00 train, I think that tonight the poetry beat us.
And it did well.
You go your way
and I'll go your way.
The sweetest little song (Leonard Cohen)
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