It was gone two in the morning by the time he finally got on stage after being woken from a nap in his trailer. Out front the mood among the throng โ an astonishing 600,000 strong โ was a mixture of blissed-out and fired-up after five days of music, ragged sleep and running battles between the organisers and the โfree festival radicalsโ occupying โDesolation Rowโ, the hill overlooking the site. Backstage there were jitters โ already that night there had been an onstage fire, a wilful act of arson, during Jimi Hendrixโs slot. Unfazed, Leonard Cohen wandered onstage cool as an English summer. Shaggy, stubbled, tanned, and sporting a tightly belted safari suit (possibly the only time said garment has seemed dashing), he looked more film star than rock icon. At almost 36, he was, Miles Davis aside, the oldest act on a sprawling, stellar bill. Cohenโs subsequent performance was remarkable for its poise, its passion and the way it defused the tension crackling in the air. Before he had even played a note Cohen had seized his moment by reminiscing about his childhood visits to the circus and getting the audience to hold up a lighted match (a gesture yet to descend into clichรฉ) and by singing, ad lib, โItโs good to be here alone in front of 600,000 peopleโ. When Cohen finally swoops into a solemn โBird On A Wireโ, the crowdโs collective exhalation is almost tangible. Thereafter, Cohen never lets his grip slacken over 80 minutes, towing his audience through songs that were already causes cรฉlรจbres โ โSo Long Marianneโ, โSuzanneโ, โLady Midnightโ โ and startling them withintroductions that are sometimes poems, sometimes narratives. โI wrote this in a peeling room in the Chelsea hotelโฆ I was coming off amphetamine and pursuing a blonde lady whom I met in a Nazi poster,โ is his lead-in to โOne Of Us Canโt Be Wrongโ. The confidential introductions and Cohenโs tousled appearance lend proceedings a drowsy intimacy, though whether Lenโs half-closed eyes and sleepy manner are due to his recent nap or the ingestion of some festive substance is unclear. In this early part of his career, long before the more detached and oblique commentator of the 1980s emerged, the confessional was, in any case, Cohenโs default position, the sense of his nakedness enhanced by minimal backings. Here heโs accompanied by a classy quartet of US session players (including producer Bob Johnston) whose acoustic guitars strum and ripple gently behind him while Johnston sounds hymnal organ parts and a trio of female singers provide harmony and gospel choruses. Incongruously, Cohen dubbed the group โThe Armyโ. The commanding presence, though, remains Cohenโs voice, never a thing of supple beauty for sure, and prone to wander into the wrong key, but by turns sensual and fervid and always perfectly paced for lyrics that chime with poetic grace. The versions here of โThe Strangerโ, โThe Partisanโ, and โYou Know Who I Amโ, to mention just three, have a steely exuberance absent from the more mannered takes on his first two albums. Whether singing, reciting or talking, Cohen never misses a phonetic beat. At times even the band, who had just accompanied him on a European tour, seem as mesmerised by his spoken forays as the crowd. Thereโs a clever underlying structure to the set, too, that alternates a jolt or two of slow, lingering romance with more uptempo offerings. Hence, after โโฆMarianneโ comes a bounding โLady Midnightโ, while โThe Strangerโ is followed by a countrified take on โTonight Will Be Fineโ featuring banjo and fiddle, the latter by Charlie Daniels. In a wry preface to โTonightโ, Cohen sings of his โsad and famous songsโ alongside a cheery dedication to โthe poison snakes on Desolation Hillโ. Ouch! โThatโs No Way To Say Goodbyeโ, forlorn as ever, is pursued by a riotous version of โDiamonds In The Mineโ, one of three tracks here that would ultimately see release on 1971โs Songs of Love And Hate, said album also including the Isle of Wight performance of โSing Another Song Boysโ. This would have been the crowdโs first encounter with both songs, as with โFamous Blue Raincoatโ, rendered here with gruff, arresting determination. After that, โSeems So Long Ago, Nancyโ seems almost an afterthought to a set that, across a 40-year chasm, still astonishes. NEIL SPENCER Latest and archive album reviews on Uncut.co.uk Latest music and film news on Uncut.co.uk
It was gone two in the morning by the time he finally got on stage after being woken from a nap in his trailer. Out front the mood among the throng โ an astonishing 600,000 strong โ was a mixture of blissed-out and fired-up after five days of music, ragged sleep and running battles between the organisers and the โfree festival radicalsโ occupying โDesolation Rowโ, the hill overlooking the site. Backstage there were jitters โ already that night there had been an onstage fire, a wilful act of arson, during Jimi Hendrixโs slot.
Unfazed, Leonard Cohen wandered onstage cool as an English summer. Shaggy, stubbled, tanned, and sporting a tightly belted safari suit (possibly the only time said garment has seemed dashing), he looked more film star than rock icon. At almost 36, he was, Miles Davis aside, the oldest act on a sprawling, stellar bill.
Cohenโs subsequent performance was remarkable for its poise, its passion and the way it defused the tension crackling in the air. Before he had even played a note Cohen had seized his moment by reminiscing about his childhood visits to the circus and getting the audience to hold up a lighted match (a gesture yet to descend into clichรฉ) and by singing, ad lib, โItโs good to be here alone in front of 600,000 peopleโ.
When Cohen finally swoops into a solemn โBird On A Wireโ, the crowdโs collective exhalation is almost tangible. Thereafter, Cohen never lets his grip slacken over 80 minutes, towing his audience through songs that were already causes cรฉlรจbres โ โSo Long Marianneโ, โSuzanneโ, โLady Midnightโ โ and startling them withintroductions that are sometimes poems, sometimes narratives. โI wrote this in a peeling room in the Chelsea hotelโฆ I was coming off amphetamine and pursuing a blonde lady whom I met in a Nazi poster,โ is his lead-in to โOne Of Us Canโt Be Wrongโ.
The confidential introductions and Cohenโs tousled appearance lend proceedings a drowsy intimacy, though whether Lenโs half-closed eyes and sleepy manner are due to his recent nap or the ingestion of some festive substance is unclear. In this early part of his career, long before the more detached and oblique commentator of the 1980s emerged, the confessional was, in any case, Cohenโs default position, the sense of his nakedness enhanced by minimal backings.
Here heโs accompanied by a classy quartet of US session players (including producer Bob Johnston) whose acoustic guitars strum and ripple gently behind him while Johnston sounds hymnal organ parts and a trio of female singers provide harmony and gospel choruses. Incongruously, Cohen dubbed the group โThe Armyโ.
The commanding presence, though, remains Cohenโs voice, never a thing of supple beauty for sure, and prone to wander into the wrong key, but by turns sensual and fervid and always perfectly paced for lyrics that chime with poetic grace. The versions here of โThe Strangerโ, โThe Partisanโ, and โYou Know Who I Amโ, to mention just three, have a steely exuberance absent from the more mannered takes on his first two albums. Whether singing, reciting or talking, Cohen never misses a phonetic beat. At times even the band, who had just accompanied him on a European tour, seem as mesmerised by his spoken forays as the crowd.
Thereโs a clever underlying structure to the set, too, that alternates a jolt or two of slow, lingering romance with more uptempo offerings. Hence, after โโฆMarianneโ comes a bounding โLady Midnightโ, while โThe Strangerโ is followed by a countrified take on โTonight Will Be Fineโ featuring banjo and fiddle, the latter by Charlie Daniels. In a wry preface to โTonightโ, Cohen sings of his โsad and famous songsโ alongside a cheery dedication to โthe poison snakes on Desolation Hillโ. Ouch!
โThatโs No Way To Say Goodbyeโ, forlorn as ever, is pursued by a riotous version of โDiamonds In The Mineโ, one of three tracks here that would ultimately see release on 1971โs Songs of Love And Hate, said album also including the Isle of Wight performance of โSing Another Song Boysโ. This would have been the crowdโs first encounter with both songs, as with โFamous Blue Raincoatโ, rendered here with gruff, arresting determination. After that, โSeems So Long Ago, Nancyโ seems almost an afterthought to a set that, across a 40-year chasm, still astonishes.
NEIL SPENCER