Dear Heather

At four in the morning at the end of December, many years ago, Leonard Cohen wrote, "You're living for nothing now, I hope you're keeping some kind of record." A poet's mission is to keep a record. Like Gregory Corso and Allen Ginsberg, Cohen is a true beat poet. He once said that he became a musician because there was no money in poetry. Cohen is a monk, a farmer, a prophet and a philosopher, but never a singer. His singing has always been there as a vehicle for the words, the spirit and the message.

He is also a musician, of significant character and ability. Each of his songs embrace his lyrics like lovers. Each arrangement has a haunting, otherworldly character. His eleventh studio record, Dear Heather is, as was every one that preceded it, all about the lyrics. Dear Leonard has been practicing the "Smokey Life" for decades and his voice has been ravaged by it. But he was never a singer like that, and besides it would still be all right.

Cohen opens the collection with a new setting of Byron's "Go No More A-Roving", dedicated to poet Irving Layton. Composer/producer Sharon Robinson sings (with Cohen) and produced the track. Bob Sheppard provides ethereal sax fills. The tune is simple and the accompaniment sparse. The understated elegance of music supporting poetry is a hallmark of Cohen's body of work. A more soul-chilling cut is "Undertow", with supporting vocals by longtime friend Anjani Thomas. Cohen's own vocal, almost spoken, whispered, is haunting. Both tracks illustrate the retrospective nature of this collection. At 70, Cohen's famous blue raincoat is clearly torn at the shoulder. His vocal delivery is that of a valiant warrior bravely lifting his battered sword arm in challenge and tribute.

Much of this collection pays tribute to the past. Besides Byron (by reference) and Layton (by dedication), Cohen honors Carl Anderson with "Nightingale." Anjani's contribution is again strong here, but her style owes much to Cohen's bard-like, heraldic singer tradition. Cohen also plays Jew's harp here, and his use of this, the sax and, on other occasions, the accordion, give his music a sense of otherness. Like vaguely ethnic folk tunes, Cohen songs hint at places far, far away. "Villinelle For Our Time" sets a poem by Frank Scott in barren terms against a regular piano. Cohen rasps, chants, intones and pleads, "We loved the easy and the smart." This is expression stripped bare and exposed in blatant reality.

Dear Heather closes with a live cut from 1985. Anjani was there then, and the band has an easy groove. Cohen has a voice. He didn't really sing then, but he has more power and expression. The song is "Tennessee Waltz," to which Leonard wrote an additional verse. "It's stronger than drink and it's deeper than sorrow, the darkness she left in my heart" closes Cohen's verse. His is, was and will be, a voice crying in the wilderness. Une Canadian errant Leonard Cohen is ever a fellow traveler. Like the wandering minstrel, he chronicles the all-too-human condition. He wept as he danced.