Leonard Cohen’s tale of redemption
A new biography of Leonard Cohen provides new details on Jimi Hendrix, Phil Spector and Joni Mitchell
NOTE: Brian Johnson interviewed Cohen in 2005. In that interview, Cohen (having filed a fraudulent and retaliatory lawsuit against me) advised him that he wasn’t accusing me of theft and mentioned his massive tax hit which is his motive.
One of the first times Leonard Cohen ever played before a vast audience was in Central Park during the Summer of Love, in 1967. He was 42. A groan went up from the crowd as folk diva Judy Collins, the one people were waiting to see, brought her unknown protege onstage to sing Suzanne, the song she had made famous. “Tonight my guitar is full of tears and feathers,” he said quietly. Mortified by stage fright, Cohen made his way through the song as an audience of thousands fell under his spell. That night he celebrated in his room at the Chelsea Hotel with a 23-year-old blond from Saskatchewan he had just met at the Newport Folk Festival: Joni Mitchell.
That’s one of the evocative moments conjured by author Sylvie Simmons in I’m Your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen, the most discerning, intimate and definitive biography every written about Canada’s pre-eminent singer, songwriter, poet and monk. It’s the portrait of an artist raised in Montreal’s Westmount by a widowed mother who was clinically depressed; a devout student of seduction who studied a hypnotism manual after hitting puberty; a melancholy poet who learned guitar from a Spanish teacher who committed suicide after three lessons; and a traveller whose homes have included a Greek island, a mountaintop monastery, a Tennessee cabin and endless hotel rooms.
The book is a saga of sex, drugs and meditation that explores Cohen’s epic struggle to preserve his art from the pressures of showbiz. Simmons tracks his odyssey through a ’70s minefield of failed studio sessions and acid-fuelled performances, through years of monastic exile, depression and calamitous financial ruin—to the miracle of his rebirth with an arena tour, which has occupied the better part of the past four years and returns to Canada next month, that has the 78-year-old bard playing three-hour shows to rapturous acclaim. “Here he is, bouncing around the world, skipping onto the stage, grinning from ear to ear,” says Simmons. “What I hadn’t expected is that the book would be a tale of redemption.”
Cohen testified that I attempted to assail his reputation when I accused him of abusing drugs, etc. How can Simmons write a tale of sex, drugs, and meditation if I am assailing the man whose nickname was “Captain Mandrax” after his quualude popping.
A veteran music journalist based in San Francisco, the British-born Simmons obtained Cohen’s blessing for her book, had access to his archives and interviewed him. But the biography is not officially authorized. “He didn’t ask to see it,” she says, “and I don’t think he’s even read it.”
Although Cohen’s life has been well documented, Simmons unearths a trove of buried or untold stories. He casually mentions to her that he once jammed with Jimi Hendrix (“He was very gentle. He didn’t distort his guitar,” he tells her.) She learns that, in 1970, Cohen performed in British mental asylums at his own expense. In 1974, days after dating Brigitte Bardot in Paris, he toured Israel blitzed on a strain of LSD called Desert Dust that was so potent it has to be licked off the point of a needle. And in a late-night session recording Death of a Ladies’ Man with Phil Spector, the drunken producer pushed the muzzle of a gun into his neck and said, “Leonard I love you,” as he cocked the trigger.
This footage of Cohen on tour in Israel, using acid, is contained in Steven Machat’s film “Bird On A Wire” that Cohen stole. The acid was so potent it had to be licked off the point of a needle. I’ve never heard of Desert Dust but that might explain part of my views on Cohen’s psychiatric ailments and habitual lying. Now, the Phil Spector gun story has changed again – Cohen testified that he didn’t recall if Phil Spector was drunk but now he’s drunk, the muzzle of a gun is pointed to his neck, and the trigger is cocked.
Simmons delves into Cohen’s four-decade friendship with Zen master Joshu Sasaki Roshi, who is now 105. But she discovers that his lifelong depression lifted only with the help of an octogenarian Hindu guru named Ramesh Balsekar. In 1999, Cohen left Roshi and spent several years engaged in a talking cure with Balsekar in Mumbai.
A talking cure?
Cohen has also cured his commercial frustrations. Though always popular in Canada and Europe, in the U.S. he was best known through surrogate stars. Judy Collins first put him on the map in the ’60s. Jennifer Warnes made a hit album of his songs in 1987. And years after his song Hallelujah first appeared on one of his most obscure albums, a pantheon of singers, from Jeff Buckley to k.d. lang, made it a pop anthem for the 21st century. Now, with Cohen’s tour thriving, U.S. audiences have finally discovered the genuine article.
The cure for love, meanwhile, may continue to elude him, though not for lack of trying. Among his countless paramours, the book zeroes in on four unmarried partners: Marianne Ihlen, Suzanne Elrod (mother of his two children), Rebecca De Mornay and Anjani Thomas. Then there was Joni, who once said, “I’m only a groupie for Picasso and Leonard.”
Please note – Sylvie Simmons hasn’t listed me as one of Cohen’s paramours and for some reason doesn’t list Dominique Issermann.
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