The Finest Wine Ever Heard

The Finest Wine Ever Heard

Several years ago, on the occasion of my uncle’s death, the second oldest of his sons flew in from Italy, and brought with him a bottle of red wine, to share with all of us who were gathered for his dad’s memorial. As he poured some for each of us, I detected the aroma, even before I brought the glass close enough to sample. The sensation was that of sipping a rich, robust cup of gourmet coffee, (amp-ed up to “11”). Unlike most wine, which I usually find sour to the taste, my cousin’s offering was sweet and smooth. It slid against the back of the throat, slick as a lover’s tongue. I remember taking nearly an hour to finish the glass, wanting to make it last as long as possible. After tasting this Italian national elixir, I felt as though I’d never had real wine before…neither did I think I would ever have anything comparable again.

Flash forward to October 27, 2009, and I find myself sitting in the downtown Palace Theater in Columbus, Ohio, surrounded by all its opulent French décor and I’m experiencing that same fine wine—poetically anyway.

There’s a murmuring energy in the crowd; the anticipation is palpable. People are constantly smiling, sipping their drinks, and talking quietly, glancing toward the stage every few seconds, watching the roadies make final adjustments. The house lights dim and the stage lights come on, as band members begin to assemble; six men take up instruments and three women stand straight as angelic soldiers at attention.

As the music begins, there is immediate enthusiastic applause, and then the crowd erupts into what seems to be a premature standing ovation……

Aged to perfect vintage at seventy-five, a tall, thin figure runs out to the microphone and begins to rumble the first lyrics of Dance Me to the End of Love in a deep baritone (now nearly bass). As the song progresses, a simultaneous phenomenon occurs. While the resonance in the voice evokes a soothing cellist’s lullaby, it also causes the seat underneath me to vibrate—and we’re all sitting there thinking the same thing: “Ahhhhh, Mr. Cohen…….do that again!”

Like fine wine, Leonard Cohen is meant to be savored. Indeed, the lengthy three-and-a-half hour duration of his concert gives you time to do this—but it still isn’t enough. You want another glass of him, and another, to be drunk with him, and his sublime intoxication, reassured that there will be no hangover when morning breaks.

The elder poet/writer/singer/artist kneels, bends, twists, jumps up, runs, and skips faster than a lot of us do at half his age. I myself am barely older than Cohen’s own children, and I doubt if I could pull off such a long stage show, with about six encores to boot.

He summons energy from some divine power source, known only to him. The somewhat frail appearance is totally deceptive. His body houses a voice that only a man of his years can possess. His visible bones remind me of the “reeds” of some great pipe organ, sounding in a massive cathedral of the gathered Cohen faithful. When he sings, you hear the years, whether sad or joyous, from the throaty rasp of love-lost desperation to the angst of a young man, which is still there and occasionally growls out, especially when Cohen hits a higher note (and yes, he still can).

Such a sterling performer could have nothing but a shining, polished accompaniment. Sharon Robinson and Hattie and Charley Webb are nothing short of soul-refreshing, (both as soloists and backup), while the gentlemen’s rendering on their chosen instruments absolutely warrants Cohen’s multiple “introductions” of all of them, throughout the show.

Those three-and-a-half hours pass all too quickly. Mr. Cohen and the Unified Heart Touring Company take their final bow. The house lights come up and it hits me that it really is over this time. It’s late, but after six encores, I’m wide awake and I feel like a little kid who wants yet another bedtime story and just can’t get to sleep. When Mr. Cohen finally leaves the stage for the last time, my heart sinks a little. I know you’re tired, sir, but please come back once more….

Because of my relatively young age, I don’t have the audacity to say “Mr. Cohen, I’m your biggest fan….” I wasn’t around for the early years of Cohen’s life—the Hydra years, the Chelsea Hotel incident, or to see the published poet, “stumble”, accidentally, into singing on stage. (Thank God for that mishap!)

I suppose I can rack up some fan points with my purchasing of Cohen merchandise, which, as of this writing, is hard to come by. You can’t exactly walk into the local music store at the mall and ask, “Where are the Leonard Cohen T-shirts?” (The depressed-looking teen clerk with his nose and lip pierced will only stare at you, blankly.) Nope, they have to be acquired by rushing the merchandise table outside an actual concert, risking life and limb. That’s how I get my souvenirs of the Columbus concert, prior to the show.

I hit the table as soon as I get in the door, dodging people mostly older than I, giving me amused looks. It could be because I’m wearing a black fedora hat with homemade lettering which reads, “I Finally Saw Leonard Cohen…Hallelujah!”—anyway, people are staring at me.

I ignore their looks and set my eyes on the prize: The Unified Heart ring, with its two intertwined hearts; a variation of the Star of David. The silver ones are going fast. I fork over the cash to the concession guy pretty quick, with no guilt, because I’ve carefully saved for weeks, taking a little here and there out of my paycheck. I worked for it, I earned it, I want it. It goes on my right hand in an instant, and that’s where it has stayed ever since. I’ll most likely be buried with it, knowing me. (Later, my father will see it and fall in love with both the design and the meaning behind it. He wants one; which means I’ll just have to attend another concert---for my dad of course).

There are a few songs in Cohen’s repertoire that I haven’t yet heard—but I am thoroughly enjoying the hunt. Neither have I had the pleasure of reading all of his poetry, so I have a lot of catching up to do. I have discovered Mr. Cohen in the autumn of his life….. and what a sweet season it is. I know he loves September, and rightly so, but I’m glad to have seen him perform in October’s glory, which is sometimes all too brief. But, I hope it’s long; I hope that this metaphoric October stretches into a Cohen-esque Indian summer, thwarting the inevitable day when God will have him again, and we won’t.

When people ask me, “Who is Leonard Cohen”? I never have an answer ready for them. Where do I begin? I call him the secular psalmist of our day—that’s about as accurate as I can get—and even that’s not adequately stated. I just tell them to listen to him and hear for themselves. A lot of them have, and so far, all of them love what they’ve discovered.

And now to you, Mr. Cohen, among thousands of questions, I humbly ask only two:

How in the world did I miss you in this life?
And,
If you get to Heaven before I do, can you please wait for me at the front gate? Once you get inside, in that crowd, I’ll never find you….

--Rain
December 9, 2009