They say turnabout is fair play.
Since writing about our less-than-stellar experience at the (otherwise excellent) Eagles concert, I did not expect nor desire to attend another concert in Saskatchewan other than the one I’d already bought tickets for. Imagine then my surprise, at the age of 46, to find myself walking into Credit Union Centre—okay, being dragged in—to see a concert by none other than…
The New Kids on the Block?!
I do not even have a teenaged daughter to use as an excuse. What I do have is my wife Maya, who works in the hospitality industry. She served the “Kids” when they were in town, and as a result, was offered free tickets. Never being able to pass up anything freely offered, she naturally felt obliged to accept. At least the eleven-year-old seated on my other side was better behaved than the unfortunate twenty-year-old brainstem from the previous event.
But Maya cares little for the singing voice of Leonard Cohen. Not the music—she agrees with me that he is an excellent songwriter—but the singing itself. She insists that he can’t sing, and my efforts to convince her that it is the manner in which he can’t sing that does the trick fall on disbelieving ears. “It’s like the way Neil Young or Bob Dylan can’t sing,” I insist. “It’s all in the technique.” She just agrees that they can’t sing either.
She also doesn’t get the whole Cohen lady-killer thing. “What do women see in him?” she wants to know. “Besides, isn’t he like seventy years old?”
“Seventy-four,” I corrected. “Here’s your ticket.”
Mr. Cohen recently graced a Saskatoon stage, immersing the audience in a deep pool of talent that included Sharon Robinson, his collaborator of recent years. The gents in the band dressed smartly, complete with top hats like the ones businessmen used to wear. Even the guys at the sound board wore them. The stage had an aura of a more sophisticated era.
One might be forgiven for expecting this esteemed gentleman poet to rustle softly onto the stage with three generations of autumn leaves swirling about him (along with a few “cigarette” papers from the sixties). One would be wrong. With his entourage in place, Mr. Cohen ran onto the stage like someone ready to pound out a rock concert. I know sixty-year-olds that would fall and break an ankle had they tried to do the same.
The second the music began, Leonard fell to his knees, facing one of his extremely talented musicians, to croon “Dance Me to the End of Love”. The crowd went suitably wild, and LC won a few points with Maya. I’d shown her a YouTube copy of the song’s poignant video (the “live” version) the night before, and she’d actually liked it. We were off to a good start.
I can honestly say that I have never in my life enjoyed a concert so utterly much. There was not a missed note anywhere, even when the guitarist lost a string in mid-flight (right on the big screen, as Leonard serenaded him again). Further, they knew in just what order to lay out the wares: by the time we were treated to “Halleluiah”, we were ready for it.
That one was amazing. As anyone familiar with the song knows, it starts low and rises, finally breaking through the clouds like God sailing down a sunbeam. To see Cohen in the flesh performing this is a memory to keep. For one thing, he’s seventy-four, and for another, he’s a little guy, maybe five-six, and razor-thin. As I watched him build to the song’s crescendo, it seemed to me—I swear it really happened—that his pant legs actually began to ripple. You couldn’t help but know something amazing was about to erupt.
Erupt it did, and the crowd went to its feet as if on cue. The woman in the row in front of us broke down and cried. I confess, a tear came to my own eye as well; it’s good to have lived to see and hear this.
It took a while, a long time really, for the applause to die away, and then the concert continued. We received at least a full three hours, with a break in the middle. And when he performed the player’s anthem “I’m Your Man”, there wasn’t a dry lady in the room. Six years away from 80, and the cheers and happy sounds emanating from the female half of the audience were something to behold. In fact…
“Woo-hoo!” shouted someone near.
I blinked. There was something oddly familiar about that particular “woo-hoo”. It sounded awfully similar to one I’d heard at my side at the Kids’ concert. I turned to Maya and found her radiant, flushed with the sort of female glow that I generally only see on special occasions such as our anniversary or a new James Bond film.
Mr. Cohen, you rascally lady’s man, you’ve won over another one.
By the end, I myself was tired—I’ve no idea how someone Cohen’s age does it—but happy. He wisely saved some of the biggest for the three or four encores, and then he skipped off the stage. Skipped, I tell you, like a kid.
If the concert could be summed in a word, it would be this: respect. Mr. Cohen is both a Jew and a Buddhist, and the discipline shines clear through. Whenever anyone plays a solo, or takes the lead vocal, he has always turned toward them, making himself part of the audience to focus our attention on the other and not on himself. Now he’s added the removal of his hat, which he holds to his chest as a sign of respect to the person performing. When introducing the members of his team—twice—-he bows to each in turn. The guy has class, and a deep respect that you rarely see anymore. To see him perform is an honour.
He also has a new fan:
“Okay,” Maya admitted as we made our way to the car. “I get it now.”
I couldn’t resist snapping this picture of a car that snaps pictures of us.
If the street has been covered, you’ll get a recent (say last year or so) image, one you can move around in. It will show you the address as you do so, so you’ll always know whose house you’re looking at.
This doesn’t include areas being scanned now, like Saskatoon. Google does make concessions to privacy: faces and licence plates are digitally blurred. They’re done so by computer, of course—imagine blurring every face down every road on the planet. As a result, sometimes a face gets missed.
There’s good to be had from Street View. Let us assume, for example, that you are being transferred to a new city. Now, not only can you hunt for houses virtually, you can check out the neighbourhood. Are those car parts on the neighbours’ lawns? Does anyone here mend a fence? Best to try a different neighbourhood—which you can do with a single click. And Google only sees what you would see driving down the street. They stay off private roads.
