Review: The Leonard Cohen Concert

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.”

Long Road Out of Saskatoon

The other night, I decided I’d treat myself and the woman of my world to a golden flake of our past, by taking $300 out of my wallet and lighting it on fire.

Not literally, of course—or at least not intentionally. No legal tender becomes tinder in the Copeland household; that’s far too similar to touching a flame to entire days of your life.

No, the money involved was spent on concert tickets. Not just any concert tickets, mind you, but tickets for none other but The Eagles, creators of the soundtrack of my youth. I’d purchased them online from Ticketmaster (motto: “We’ll make youse a deal youse can’t afford”). I hooked them three minutes after they went on sale, paying the afore-mentioned premium for medium-priced seats high in the bleachers. I’m not sure where the lowest-cost seats were, but I’m thinking drive-in speakers in the parking lot.

It would be a magical night, nonetheless. The music of the Eagles had spoke to both Maya and myself, years before our lives ever touched. I was that “Desperado” when she found me. She was a “Victim of Love”.

So off we drove to Market Mall, the nearest Park and Ride. The wind chill was -30°C as we waited for the bus, but I had no intention of dealing with the 90+ minutes of car stampede that would ensue after the concert.

We arrived in good order. We took our seats. The lights dimmed, and the crowd went suitably wild as the purple silhouettes of Glenn Frey, Don Henley, Joe Walsh, and Timothy B. Schmit morphed onto the darkened stage. I have to admit, I was somewhat jazzed myself. Soon I’d be singing along to “Lyin’ Eyes”, having carefully prepared myself by memorizing every single word 31 years ago. I only hoped the animated conversation going on behind us would abate.

Then the owners of the two seats next to us arrived. 

Is there, anywhere in the known universe, any one human person as charming, as sophisticated, as witty, as knowledgeable in the ways of the world, as talented, wise and utterly steeped in confidence, as masterful, warm, generous, and forgiving, as selfless, as educated, as cool, hip and chic, as possessive of the kind of quiet, noble leadership we all look for in our heroes...in short, as wondrously, undeniably sophisticated, as a 20-year-old Saskatonian with six beers in his belly?

No, I didn’t think so either.

I’ve been exploring of late a new philosophy, a sort of eight-fold path to kindness and contentment with the world. Anyone who’s explored the same system of belief already knows what I’m talking about. I won't get into it here, because I’m still no good at it, and I’m far from a good example. But I’m working on it.

So I tried to block out the antics of the pair beside me. The music, after all was good and loud, nearly loud enough to drown out the drunken partying going on right up against my shoulder. I focussed desperately hard on the deep pool of talent gracing the stage. I lost my concentration, and found it, and lost it again. Maya, all too aware of my inner battle, glanced at me anxiously.

But I wasn’t the first to snap.

Apparently the same inner battle was going on in the minds of the 30-something couple in front of us. Exactly as the first notes of “Lyin’ Eyes” hit the air, the male half of this couple turned around and grabbed the 20-year-old beside me by the neck.

The battle was on...and stayed on, non-stop, for the remainder of the show.

I know, I know... by their very nature, rock concerts are supposed to be a bit wild. Rock, after all, was born of rebellion, and letting loose at concerts is an age-old rite of passage. Everyone has the right to celebrate differently. I know all this, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s hard to focus on the music when there’s beer and fists flying beside you.

I won’t get into the number of classic rock anthems that slid by, barely noticed, as I gritted my teeth and tried to focus. Suffice to say, by the end of the show, the row in front of us was empty. And the twenty-year-olds at my side—they’d taken the time to tell me their ages—cursed and roared and partied on. They did this, I might add, in clothing adorned with logos of a provincial Crown corporation. They hadn’t even bought their tickets, they proudly informed us. They’d been given them by their parents.

Ah. Suddenly it all made sense.

We were fortunately not far from the main entrance, and as the last notes died, we shot out of there like cub scouts out of Neverland Ranch. The wind chill was now into the -40s C, but at least the buses awaited...or did they? Transportation at previous concerts had been a calamity; the Saskatoon Transit System promised things would be better.

They weren’t.

A terrifying hour later—during which Maya tried to help enlarge the one-foot hole in the frost the driver was valiantly trying to peer through—we arrived at Market Mall. The last thing we heard was the radio crackling: “We’ve got hundreds of people freezing out here and all kinds of empty buses. Should we put the people on the buses?”

Doh! Or maybe, Duh?

In the days that followed, a trio of Saskatoon Star-Phoenix columnists offered theories and opinions. In regard to people talking during the concert, Les Macpherson said, “This I blame more on the sound setup than on inconsiderate concert patrons. If you can hear someone talking in the audience during a rock concert, the music isn’t loud enough.” He may have a point. He went on to say, “A completely positive concert-going experience is perhaps too much to expect. If we can’t improve the experience, we could cut back on the attendant bellyaching.” Fair enough. Next time, Les can sit next to the drunken SaskTel yuppie larvae.

Another SP staffer, Cam Fuller, put forward the theory of decreasing attention span. This could also be part of the problem, the fruit of a generation raised to think watching epic movies on cell phones is a good idea. There’s a surreal aura about arena concerts after all; the band performing often seems the size of a postage stamp, not all that different from what you’d see on an iPod. Is it real, or is it on a flashdrive? In the digital frontier, the line between reality and otherwise is blurring like the Joker’s makeup in a bad mpeg.

Finally, columnist Sarath Peiris weighed in. In his opinion, what’s important for some concert goers is “their presence at the event, not the event itself.” Others at the concert “simply become the supporting cast whose needs can be dismissed without a second thought.”

A friend of mine, who tends to view our fair city with a somewhat darker cast, offers the following: “Saskatoon may not be ready for these kinds of events. As a populace, we’re more familiar with swilling beer while watching local bands at the local pub then seeing world-class-anything live. The bus thing is just another symptom...how many times now have they tried, and utterly failed? We haven’t the infrastructure to put on shows like this. We haven’t the experience to know how to appreciate these events when they happen.”

I’m not certain I agree, at least not entirely. If nothing else, we’ve proven we have the demand. The Rolling Stones put on a second show when they rolled into Regina — tens of thousands at each. The Eagles put on a third, something they didn’t even do for many major centres in the States. And we’ve had other names hit Saskatoon, often to return: Cher, Elton John, Leonard Cohen, Neil Young...

Could the problem just be society? Our increasingly selfish attitudes toward one another? The thought chills, but demands attention.

One final thought from me: The concert, what I experienced of it, was magnificent. The Eagles brought along a great deal of talent and polish...I did not hear a complaint about the performance from anyone. They well deserved our attention and respect. If they're coming to your town—and you are prone to better luck with concerts than us—do yourself a nice, and go see them.

That said...I recently enjoyed another concert where people cheered and grooved to the music, where my view was unobstructed, and where the sound was utterly perfect. It was an Eric Clapton charity concert, and he came with friends: Johnny Winter, Willie Nelson, Jeff Beck, Robbie Robertson, Sheryl Crow and others. It was amazing, beautiful...and I can watch it again and again.

It was a DVD.