Conceit or modesty aside, even the most accomplished and prolific songwriters could seldom attest to having created a genuine masterpiece. Leonard Cohen is of the rare few who can, of course, but last Thursday night at the Beacon Theatre it was abundantly clear that he could lay claim to far more than one.
Taking the stage for his first American concert in fifteen years, Cohen received a reverent welcome by the sold-out audience, its applause overlapping the opening bars of βDance Me To The End of Love.β Dressed to the nines in a dark suit with bolo tie and fedora, the 74-year-old bard cut a distinguished figure, his sophic disposition tempered by a laconic, often self-mocking sense of humor.
What Cohen imparted most, though, was a selfless commitment to his songs. After a mirthful trip through βThe Futureββduring which he pirouetted as the ominous βwhite man dancinβββand having plead his case on βAinβt No Cure For Love,β he dropped to his knees at the start of βBird On The Wire,β turning out a truly stunning rendition that soon saw him singing at full stride. Likewise, he enlivened an avalanche of imagery and delicate melodies on βChelsea Hotel No. 2β and βHey, Thatβs No Way To Say Goodbye,β his rich voice at times recalling the lissome timbre of his younger days.
The esteem to which Cohen paid his compositions extended to his superb nine-piece band. Each time a musician soloedβas when guitarist Javier Mas played a gorgeous, flamenco-styled prelude to βWho By Fire?ββor when a background vocalist assumed a leading role, as did long-time collaborator Sharon Robinson on a soulful version of βBoogie Street,β Cohen stood aside in deference, his hat held to his chest, his face betraying an appreciative smile.
The ultimate pleasure and privilege, however, lay in listening to Cohen. With the conviction of one whoβd labored more in composing these works than most others couldβve otherwise endured, he stepped into each songβfrom the understated grandeur of βThe Gypsyβs Wifeβ and βFamous Blue Raincoatβ to the synthesized thrust of βFirst We Take Manhattanββand rendered each one with rich perception. He recited βA Thousand Kisses Deepβ as written in Book of Longing (as opposed to singing the version from Ten New Songs), drawing out evocative lines and phrases in cadenced tones. And at his most transcendent, Cohen surrendered βSuzanneβ and βHallelujahβ to those fortunate enough to have attendedβto those who knew theyβd witnessed something very special. Now, everybody knows.
Taking the stage for his first American concert in fifteen years, Cohen received a reverent welcome by the sold-out audience, its applause overlapping the opening bars of βDance Me To The End of Love.β Dressed to the nines in a dark suit with bolo tie and fedora, the 74-year-old bard cut a distinguished figure, his sophic disposition tempered by a laconic, often self-mocking sense of humor.
What Cohen imparted most, though, was a selfless commitment to his songs. After a mirthful trip through βThe Futureββduring which he pirouetted as the ominous βwhite man dancinβββand having plead his case on βAinβt No Cure For Love,β he dropped to his knees at the start of βBird On The Wire,β turning out a truly stunning rendition that soon saw him singing at full stride. Likewise, he enlivened an avalanche of imagery and delicate melodies on βChelsea Hotel No. 2β and βHey, Thatβs No Way To Say Goodbye,β his rich voice at times recalling the lissome timbre of his younger days.
The esteem to which Cohen paid his compositions extended to his superb nine-piece band. Each time a musician soloedβas when guitarist Javier Mas played a gorgeous, flamenco-styled prelude to βWho By Fire?ββor when a background vocalist assumed a leading role, as did long-time collaborator Sharon Robinson on a soulful version of βBoogie Street,β Cohen stood aside in deference, his hat held to his chest, his face betraying an appreciative smile.
The ultimate pleasure and privilege, however, lay in listening to Cohen. With the conviction of one whoβd labored more in composing these works than most others couldβve otherwise endured, he stepped into each songβfrom the understated grandeur of βThe Gypsyβs Wifeβ and βFamous Blue Raincoatβ to the synthesized thrust of βFirst We Take Manhattanββand rendered each one with rich perception. He recited βA Thousand Kisses Deepβ as written in Book of Longing (as opposed to singing the version from Ten New Songs), drawing out evocative lines and phrases in cadenced tones. And at his most transcendent, Cohen surrendered βSuzanneβ and βHallelujahβ to those fortunate enough to have attendedβto those who knew theyβd witnessed something very special. Now, everybody knows.