Leonard Cohen at Beacon Theatre
Leonard Cohen skipped on and off the grand stage at Beacon Theatre a number of times last night, which was notable for two reasons: 1) He’s 74 years old, and 2) he’s Leonard Cohen.
The scene outside before Cohen’s first U.S. show in 15 years was incongruously manic, with throngs of reverent fans partaking in that special New York activity of getting angsty and anxious—pushing in line, angling for space, stepping in front of a guy in a wheelchair—to gain entry to a flashy happening with the promise of stillness and quietude on the other side. But once the lights dimmed early (8:15!), the mood was all Cohen’s to mold.
And mold it he did, with a voice still made for the boudoir and a songbook as distinguished as any ever written. Nothing about Cohen’s voice has really changed since his first records in the ’60s, but the way he projects it has. There were moments during the more hushed songs when Cohen himself seemed disembodied from what issued from his mouth—that soothing, chilling croak, highly mannered but penetrating in ways that are highly, divinely human. Cohen spent a lot of time singing on his knees, crouched down with his lanky shoulders drawn in and his hands holding the microphone with something like tranquil desperation. It often wasn’t clear that Cohen even realized there were thousands of other people in the room with him.
In other moments it certainly was. Cohen is a showman as much as a shaman, and he did it up proper: sharply tailored suit, fedora tipped to his brow, shiny shoes that made his occasional little stage moves grand. He didn’t talk much between the night’s first songs, among them “Dance Me To The End Of Love,” “The Future,” “There Ain’t No Cure For Love,” “Bird On A Wire,” “Everybody Knows,” “Chelsea Hotel,” and “Sisters Of Mercy.” When he broke his silence, he was wry and alive. Speaking of the last time he played New York, he said, to ruptures of relieved laughter, “I was 60 years old then, just a kid with a crazy dream.” He went on, joking about taking a litany of drugs (“Prozac, Wellbutrin… Tylenol Full-Strength”) and then turning to religion and philosophy, “but then cheerfulness keeps breaking through.” And then: “I know hard times are coming. Some people say it’s going to be worse than Y2K.”
Musically, the nine-piece band behind him wavered between setting an evocatively moody backdrop and playing overwrought frills that betrayed Cohen’s latter-day lounge-lizard persona. (Note to the sax player: Leonard Cohen songs don’t need so many notes—especially so many round, chirpy, fat ones.) But the night belonged to Cohen completely. His spirit was huge when he played at being small, and he brightened most when singing songs of despondence. The whole show was a triumph for a kind of earned wisdom and slow, creeping staying-power that’s easy to forget the value of these days.
