Leonard Cohen
Songs From A Room

THE REVIEW

Some superficial critics have claimed that his songs are incitements to suicide; some rude journalist even had the audacity to tell him so in an interview a few years ago, also asking him why. To this, Leonard Cohen gracefully dodged the question and, changing the subject, elegantly avoided sending the microphone-wielding idiot packing. Of course, this veteran singer-songwriter (72 years old) has always been a difficult client for the world of show-business: absolutely indifferent to market rules and promotional operations, he preferred to live as a human being within the possible limits rather than as a star, releasing his own album only when he felt sufficiently inspired. In short, a true artist, moreover versatile: poet, writer, and singer-songwriter only starting from the not-so-tender age of 34. Coming from that kind of bohemian life transported across the ocean from Canada, he achieved somewhat elitist but steady success, more European than American. Indeed, his way of singing, almost declaiming and accentuating the lower registers of his already cavernous voice, suggests a French chansonnier, however, from the other side of the world; moreover, the reflective and "existentialist" nature of his poems set to music brings him closer to European singer-songwriters than to the rock musicians of his continent. Not for nothing in Italy, one of the few to understand him was Fabrizio De André, who made known in splendid translations two of Cohen's most extraordinary and touching compositions, "Suzanne" and "Nancy," passionate and unforgettable portraits of "different" women, supported, at least in these two cases, by absolutely inspired motifs.

To tell the truth, more than occasionally, this poet has revealed a surprising musical creativity, not too penalized by clear technical limits. From an arrangement point of view, Leonard Cohen is the most sparse imaginable: little more than guitar and voice, rare decorative elements used sparingly, like female choirs and the typical "fiddle," a traditional Jewish accompanying violin. But his is a type of music strictly functional to the emotions conveyed by the words, and therefore it absolutely doesn't need "special effects." Following the belated but extraordinary debut of 1968 "Songs Of Leonard Cohen" (which despite the predictable title is a treasure trove of classics), the ideal continuation comes the following year with "Songs From A Room," a title suggesting deep reflections born within the confines of a room, a world completely different from that of the vast spaces mythologized by "West Coast" inspired authors, like fellow countrymen Neil Young and Joni Mitchell, adopted Californians.

Instead of fantastic dreams of freedom and endless prairies, here we find intimate and entirely personal confessions, like the essential and transparent "Bird On The Wire," a kind of mirror-song, whose lyrics revolve around the fundamental line "I have tried in my way to be free," or the more somber "I Know Who I Am," a bitter accounting of an extremely intricate love relationship ("I cannot follow you, my love, you cannot follow me, I am the distance you have placed between the moments we will be... "). More often the reflections are not so explicit and direct, but arise from imaginary encounters with highly symbolic figures, so much so that certain songs end up seeming like brief parables of biblical inspiration, and probably Cohen's Jewish origins influence this aspect quite a bit. The reference is evident in the compelling "Story Of Isaac," where the biblical episode is used as a premise to develop a reflection on the absurdity of war, but also figures like the butcher who slaughters the lamb in "The Butcher," the "woman with wrinkles on her face" in "Lady Midnight," although masterfully sketched, seem to be more abstract symbols than real people. In the end, the more concrete and palpable characters remain the sweet lover of "Tonight Will Be Fine," a rare example of a "positive" Cohen song, and the tragic Nancy of "Seems So Long Ago, Nancy," with her absolute and hopeless solitude, disguised as freedom, and the inevitable suicide. Little room is reserved for political and social topics: it's more Dylan's domain than Cohen's. There's still the horror of war in "The Partisan," which with its angelic choirs is also one of the most musically successful songs, and there's the terrible disillusionment of those who fought for something that turned out to be useless in the ruthless "The Old Revolution." Overall, a classic of singer-songwriter music, a must-have for those who love poetry, music, and their intersection. And above all, no incitement to suicide, but only to thought and reflection, which I don't think has ever killed anyone.