And sure enough, he reached out from beyond the grave and gave them to us. No one else could do, for few are the artists who are capable to touch upon this frail, fallible existence in a way that leaves the listener both enlightened and filled with lust for life.
Thanks For The Dance is a 29 minute sparingly arranged musical commentary on the idea of humanity, recited in that matchless gritty baritone that Cohen honed at the end of his earthly journey. I dove into the record during one of my evening walks here in the Arctic Norway. The polar night is upon us, and in the darkened landscape shadows move like creatures - a depressing setting that can make any musical effort glum and gory.
However, Thanks For the Dance is such an elating and generous offering, perfectly matched to that other feeling that permeates the polar night - the need for community, communion, compassion.
Just listen to the humble hymn that opens the ball: Happens To the Heart. A self-deprecating artist's letter to a younger messianic figure - reflecting on life, art, connections, motivation and inspiration. Pay attention to the piano, it is minimalist and stellar - the pings of high notes enshrined in silence and an occasional flow of horsehairs over steel.
Moving on opens with a solitary mandolin, a perfect Leonard Cohen trope, tremblingly leading us into memories of lustful encounters, the dripping desire of a man not diminished by age. The love is equated to hormonal instincts, as so often i Cohen's work, without the latter being devalued as distractions but honoured as genuine experiences in themselves.
The idea of random, intense and important connections continues throughout The Night of Santiago, a song that has one of those amazingly Cohenesque descriptions of sexual encounters. Originally a poem by Federico Garcia Lorca it is retold into a popular music vernacular, accompanied by one of the few instances of percussion on the record: Namely, the clapping of the hands in a flamenco rhythm nodding to Lorca's roots.
The lights went out behind us The fireflies undressed The broken sidewalk ended I touched her sleeping breasts They opened to me urgently Like lilies from the dead Behind a fine embroidery Her nipples rose like bread
The spareness of the production is poignant, and brilliant, work by Cohen's son Adam. The percussion-deprived, silence-laden songs are occasionally veiled with the delicate haze of the soprano choristers that for years have been Cohen's companions. But nothing over-powers Leonard Cohen's presence and insistent poetry. The booming It's Thorn touches on mercy, memories of youth, darkness of death and life lived in saturated colours. The song makes me long for languid summers and fear the ripping of the fabric of society, all at once.
He feels as living as ever, the wordsmith surrounded by half literate brutes - growling at the world, laughing at himself and the other puppets, good and bad. A man who lived by the words and still hasn't died in them.
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