Leonard Cohen
Live In London

THE REVIEW

How many times do we talk about the beloved Bob and Bruce? And how often do we ponder our local Francesco, Faber, and Professor Roberto?

How many times do we consider singer-songwriters, both here and across the ocean? About how great, sometimes miraculous and unreachable, it is to encapsulate an entire universe in three sung minutes?

How often can a song approach God, as much as or more than a novel or a painting?

But how many times, for absolutely mysterious reasons that hide a small but unforgivable fault, do we forget this splendid, very thin old man, with a profoundly deep, warm, and husky voice, possessing an invaluable gift for natural poetry?

How many times, and why, do we forget Leonard Cohen?

Faber loved and translated him. So did De Gregori together with his friend Locasciulli.

Vecchioni, in more than one song, has revealed his crazy love, almost to the point of devout and forgivable plagiarism.

Across the ocean, a small page wouldn’t suffice to list his disciples, admirers, and clones.

But he is there. And in 2008 he decided to tour the world again.

When I personally feared that his voice had lowered to the point of disappearing, and that I would never hear the opening of a concert with the beautiful “dance me to the end of love” again, he surprises everyone and returns with a live performance that is simply perfect.

Unlike and as a complement to that of the early '90s, here the repertoire is complete: the album is double and no major piece (or almost) is left out of the setlist. Sure, I would have liked to hear a few more songs from the wonderful "ten new songs," but it’s an irrelevant itch of mine.

The album is, I repeat, simply perfect. Sung and interpreted by Him in a masterful manner. The band lays down there, beautifully and fluidly, an elegant background, never unnecessary or rhetorical. Each in their place to the best of their abilities. Professionalism and lust. Skill, technique, and soul.

The backup singers, of course, perform in a "Cohen style," and how could it be otherwise? And among the tracks, one hears grooves and oriental, ancient suggestions, but more often without place and time.

He is even cheerful: introducing the songs with jokes and little stories, and exalting the poetry of his long and indispensable work.

Then, once arrived, he leaves.

A small great man. A third age to be envied and surely unattainable. We, little provincial musicians, by that time will barely be able to strum a tune on an out-of-tune guitar, and we will be chasing after the nuns at the retirement home.

Leonard Cohen is a wonderful person, and an unreachable poet and musician. He is the hope we do not dare confess. The adult admiration without a shadow of shame.

In the world of daily, loudly-proclaimed squalor, one cannot help but feel gratitude and eternally indebted to Leonard Cohen, a man who whispers beautiful things.