Leonard's house is a modern-style duplex. He lives upstairs, over an apartment where his daughter Lorca lives. I walked up the wooden steps to a screen door, an apology on my lips. I was greeted by the smell of incense drifting out from inside the house, and knocked. A friendly voice called out: "Come on in!".
There was Leonard Cohen, in the flesh. Leonard Cohen dressed in a smart beige suit with a light blue t-shirt, smoking a cigarette. Leonard Cohen standing in his office, filled with antique furniture and lined with books and religious objects. He is now 65, and looks it. His hair is all grey and the skin on his neck is loose. But he is still handsome, and wiry. I encourage you to try and imitate his voice while you read the rest of this letter. It's easy: lower your voice and make it husky, and then move it to the front of your mouth. Then, speak slowly, like an aging jazz hipster. Bbut be careful to speak very distinctly, choosing your words carefully. Then you'll sound like Leonard Cohen.
Kelley Lynch, his manager, was standing next to him, dressed, as I remember, in a black suit with a white shirt. She was also smoking. She is somewhere in her 40s, and her hair is tinted blonde. She's no dummy: she's a lawyer and, as I later found out, makes serious attempts at being cultured and informed. Her voice, however, carries that valley-girl tinge so typical of movie angelinos, and she speaks with the unearned world-weariness we have come to expect from West Coast entertainment people.
To my surprise, they both had amused smiles on their faces. I shook their hands, apologizing: "I'm really very, very sorry. I got lost. I owe you both an apology". Leonard was terribly gracious: "We were worried about you. We didn't know where you were, so we called Jacob, but he wasn't in. We sent you an e-mail, too". (The e-mail is reprinted here):
Dear Tony,
We're here at Leonard's house waiting for you. Are you ok? It's 2:30. The
address is: (DELETED HERE TO PRESERVE HIS PRIVACY) (upstairs) -- two blocks east of Highland. One block south of Olympic on righthand side of street. Call us -- (NUMBER ALSO DELETED)
Kelley and Leonard
I apologized some more, saying I had gone to Mount Baldy by mistake. Leonard said: "Mount Baldy? That’s funny. Listen, you must be hungry, would you like to eat?". Me: "Yes, I’m starving". Leonard: "Well, come on then, we’ll go out to eat, we’ll have a drink, we’ll relax and have a good time. Do you like Greek food?". Free Greek food? Oh, yeah. Kelley pouted: "You know, I feel like I need to just relax with some hummus and some retsina". I thought hummus was Lebanese food.
There was Leonard Cohen, in the flesh. Leonard Cohen dressed in a smart beige suit with a light blue t-shirt, smoking a cigarette. Leonard Cohen standing in his office, filled with antique furniture and lined with books and religious objects. He is now 65, and looks it. His hair is all grey and the skin on his neck is loose. But he is still handsome, and wiry. I encourage you to try and imitate his voice while you read the rest of this letter. It's easy: lower your voice and make it husky, and then move it to the front of your mouth. Then, speak slowly, like an aging jazz hipster. Bbut be careful to speak very distinctly, choosing your words carefully. Then you'll sound like Leonard Cohen.
Kelley Lynch, his manager, was standing next to him, dressed, as I remember, in a black suit with a white shirt. She was also smoking. She is somewhere in her 40s, and her hair is tinted blonde. She's no dummy: she's a lawyer and, as I later found out, makes serious attempts at being cultured and informed. Her voice, however, carries that valley-girl tinge so typical of movie angelinos, and she speaks with the unearned world-weariness we have come to expect from West Coast entertainment people.
To my surprise, they both had amused smiles on their faces. I shook their hands, apologizing: "I'm really very, very sorry. I got lost. I owe you both an apology". Leonard was terribly gracious: "We were worried about you. We didn't know where you were, so we called Jacob, but he wasn't in. We sent you an e-mail, too". (The e-mail is reprinted here):
Dear Tony,
We're here at Leonard's house waiting for you. Are you ok? It's 2:30. The
address is: (DELETED HERE TO PRESERVE HIS PRIVACY) (upstairs) -- two blocks east of Highland. One block south of Olympic on righthand side of street. Call us -- (NUMBER ALSO DELETED)
Kelley and Leonard
I apologized some more, saying I had gone to Mount Baldy by mistake. Leonard said: "Mount Baldy? That’s funny. Listen, you must be hungry, would you like to eat?". Me: "Yes, I’m starving". Leonard: "Well, come on then, we’ll go out to eat, we’ll have a drink, we’ll relax and have a good time. Do you like Greek food?". Free Greek food? Oh, yeah. Kelley pouted: "You know, I feel like I need to just relax with some hummus and some retsina". I thought hummus was Lebanese food.
Leonard had some things to do in the house, so Kelley and I got into his Toyota and chatted for awhile. I knew that she was home-schooling her 9 year-old son, so we talked about that for awhile, amid other small talk. She was typical of a certain kind of woman her age: slightly out of control, often talking about former lovers, smoking constantly. Leonard got in the driver’s seat and said: "I still think it’s funny that you went to Mount Baldy. I was just there’. I answered: ‘I wish I’d seen you coming back. I would have known I was going the wrong way". And he laughed, graciously.
Perhaps because I had been so stressed out, I, to my absolute surprise, felt immediately comfortable with Leonard, and not at all star-struck, as I had expected to be (when I met John Cleese, I was squirming and fumblingwhile he looked down on me from his great height, amused, I hope, by my Woody Allen-ish stammering). I asked Kelly if she had read the copy of our script for Leonard Cohen’s Beautiful Losers that Jacob had left for her, and she said yes. I asked if she had enjoyed it, and Leonard said, from under his sunglasses: "oh, we don’t ask her what she thinks". They have this kibbitzy, mutually mocking relationship, you see, which greases the wheels of a relationship in which she’s the kind of manager who carries out orders, rather than actually manages the managee. Kelly nevertheless opined: "Oh, I liked it a lot. I read it all the way through, and it kept my attention, which is more than I can say for a lot of scripts I read". Leonard had a bunch of books in his back-seat, which I believe were gifts, including William Weintraub’s City Unique.
I would never make that remark about scripts but as Cohen once told me - the news media lies so get used to it. We were talking about the LA Times and a piece I helped them with once.
TONY: Have you read it?
LEONARD: No, but I intend to. Have you?
TONY: Yes. I know you don’t want to read our script, but if you ever get the urge to pick it up and leaf through it, you’ll find that it has the same respect for period detail.
As we drove toward an area called Larchmont Village, I said:" I want to thank you both very much for taking time out on a Saturday to see me. It’s very kind". Leonard answered: "It’s o.k.. It’s shabbas". As he said this, I noticed two orthodox jews walking in the street, and I asked if there was an orthodox community in the area. Leonard answered: "yeah, they chose this area because they can walk to the shul". He conversation then turned to rules against using mechanical devices on the sabbath. I asked why people couldn’t take cars driven by someone else, like they use Sabbath elevators, which stop at every flor so no-one has to press any buttons. He said: "I believe there are special injunctions against wheeled vehicles".
We neared our destination, and I made more small talk:
TONY: My cousin claims that he was friends with your daughter Lorca.
LEONARD: Where was this?
TONY: At the American School in Paris. They must have been, I don't know, 14 or so.
LEONARD: What's his name?
TONY: Nicholas Ruszkowski
LEONARD: I didn't think she had any friends back then. She was rather…subterranean as a teenager.
TONY: (LAUGHING) I hear from Jacob that she owns an antique store here in L.A.. How's she doing?
LEONARD: She makes a living.
TONY: And how's Mr. Layton (this was sometime before the recent report in the Ottawa Citizen on Irving Layton's decline)
LEONARD: Not so good.
TONY: Mentally or physically?
LEONARD: Both. He comes out of it sometimes, and then he's old self, I'm told. But then he goes back into it.
TONY: That's terrible.
LEONARD: Yes.
At this point, we were descending into a parking garage, with much kibbitzing and worrying from Kelley. Leonard joked: "we don't like to go underground". When we parked, he said, with some relief: "we made it".
We climbed a set of stairs and exited onto a sunny boulevard lined with tall trees and classy shops. We crossed the street to a Greek restaurant where a large, smiling woman greeted Leonard: "hello Mr.Cohen, how nice to see you". Proving that his years on Hydra weren't wasted, he then exchanged a few words with her in Greek. He and Kelley then graciously offered me the seat facing the street.
LEONARD: So what brings you out the coast?
TONY: I came to pick an advertising award.
LEONARD: From who?
TONY: Oh, it's nothing. It's from the American Medical Marketing Association. It's for a corporate brochure we did.
LEONARD: Have you got it with you?
KELLEY: : Leonard!
LEONARD: No, come on. I'm interested in design, you know that.
TONY: No, sorry. But I can send you an example if you'd like.
LEONARD: Are you married?
TONY: Yes, for almost eleven years now.
LEONARD: Any kids?
TONY: On daughter. She's nine.
LEONARD: Have you got any pictures on you?
TONY: Not here, but I do back in my car. They're both in Leonard, light my Cigarette. you might recognize them.
LEONARD: I'd love to see them. I loved your film, by the way. I thought
it was excellent.
TONY: Thank you so much. That means a lot.
LEONARD: Do you like it? Your business?
TONY: With some reservations, yes. I get to work with some very creative people, which is great. But I'm not that comfortable moving in the corporate world. It becomes more and more of a strain as I get older. But it keeps body and soul together
LEONARD: That's important.
KELLEY: It sure is!
Leonard ordered for all of us, asking me: "do you like Moussaka? Do you like Tarama?". We sipped on our drinks (retsina for Kelley and me, ouzo(sp.?) for L.C.. We chatted a little more, about some common acquaintances. One is Ian Terry, a recording engineer who has worked on his albums, and with whom I worked on several commercials some years back. A man of few words, yet each one comes out dipped in wit.
LEONARD: Ian is more than acquaintance, actually. He's a good friend…
KELLEY: (MAKING A SILLY JOKE) He was your gay lover, wasn't he?
LEONARD: I'm not saying…
TONY: Well, he didn't tell me that. But then, he's a very laconic fellow.
LEONARD: Yes, he is.
TONY: I've also played with Geoff Fisher (A MUSICIAN WHO PLAYS ON "I'M YOUR MAN" AND "THE FUTURE). I was playing drums (badly) at this advertising party, and he was on keyboards.
LEONARD: He's a brilliant musician.
TONY: I know. We were jamming, and he was playing these extended solos, constantly switching voices on his keyboard. Fantastic…
LEONARD: Oh, he can play anything. (LAUGHING) Kelley, Kelley, I wanted to bring him out here to work on "The Future" with me. And he wouldn't come out, because he's so afraid to fly. He also told me he was afraid of being caught during an earthquake. It was just after the last big one we had.
TONY: You're due for another…
The appetizer arrived: pita bread and servings of tarama, tatziki, and hummus. He turned the hummus toward Kelley: "the hummus is for Kelley". Despite what the papers have said until even recently, Leonard, while still practising Bhuddism, is no longer living at the Mount Baldy monestary. I said: "I heard you cooked at the monastery". Leonard: "Yes. For my teacher."
I asked him if he'd been working on anything, and he said yes, a book of poetry: "I told my editor at MacLelland Stewart that I'm a bit worried. I hope the public doesn't confuse my obscenity with what's being called obscenity out there today." He also told me that he had set a poem of F.R. Scott's to music, on the occasion of the centenary of Scott's birth: "I'd like for you to hear it at my place afterward. I'd like to know what you think". I was delighted to say yes.
Up until this point, the conversation had been friendly, but still somewhat formal. I felt like Leonard was taking the measure of me, sometimes by asking direct questions (as above), or sometimes by watching and listening very carefully while Kelley and I discussed various ephemera. As I said before, Leonard was extremely gracious, and was clearly in a mood to laugh and delight in stories of other people. Still, there was some distance between us (as one might well expect). This soon changed.
Between courses (the food was delicious, incidentally), Leonard excused himself to go to the bathroom, and , when he got back, we had the following conversation:
TONY: Leonard, I've got one that I think will stump you.
KELLEY: That will be the first time!
LEONARD: O.K.
TONY: I have an uncle who's a painter in Brazil. His name is Maciej Babinski. I barely knew him, but he came to Montreal a couple of years after we made L.L.M.C,, very excited because he heard I'd made this film inspired by you. He was familiar with your work, and he had this theory. He hung around with the Automatistes in Montreal before he left in 1957, and he was sure that you were profoundly influenced by them…
At this point, I must explain that the Automatistes were a group of Quebecois painters and poets. Decades after the surrealists and dadaists had done it in Europe, they proclaimed an anarchic, revolutionary ethos that some people say helped sparked the quiet revolution. I knew nothing about them when my uncle mentioned his theory, but I did my homework soon after. The fortieth anniversary of their manifesto was marked with much fanfare last year, mostly in the French-language media. When I mentioned this theory, Leonard started visibly. I had touched something in him.
LEONARD: Oh my God, that's true. I really was. You're the first person to spot that. Your uncle is absolutely right.
TONY: He'll be delighted to hear that. He paints in his studio to music, and he just recently discovered your older stuff, I think, when a friend gave him some tapes. He felt as if someone had written directly from his own life.
LEONARD: You must tell your uncle he's moved me very much.
TONY: So you knew those guys, the automatistes?
LEONARD: (GETTING MORE AND MORE ENTHUSIASTIC) Oh yeah. (sculptor and his old friend Morton) Rosengarten and I used to practically live in the cafés with these people, where they would propound these fantastic theories. Morton and I would hang around there and take the opposite position, you know, sometimes just for the hell of taking it. And they were life and death struggles! Of course, we'd forget about it right away and move onto something else…. One of them came up to me and said: "Hey, Cohen, Elvis Presley is a better poet than you!". I said: "Oh yeah? Why?". And he said: "because he said 'Love me Tender'. You would have said 'Love Me Tenderly!'".
TONY: That's great. I thought he was right. When Jacob and I were reading Beautiful Losers, I mean, there are passages in there that read like they were plucked right out of the Automatiste manifesto
LEONARD (SMILING BROADLY): Man, someone was writing a new manifesto every five minutes back then! Kelley, the atmosphere was so special back then. I'd heard about the so-called café society in Paris or New York, but I never found it there. Not like it existed in Montreal at the time. There was this guy Armand Vaillancourt, Kelley, he was the first guy I ever saw who wore a beard and long hair. He was a beautiful-looking man
TONY: He still is. They’re actually using him as a model for a jeans campaign. He
Looks remarkable for a 70 year old man.
LEONARD: He used to carve these sculptures out of tree trunks! He sculpted these things in Carrée St-Louis — I think they're still there—they look like big turds! He was an incredible womanizer, too. He had just one problem, though: he'd marry the women! His wife's name was Suzanne. She was the one who took me down to the river…
TONY: Yes. You know, he came a under a lot of criticism for doing the jeans campaign. He’s supposed to be a big anti-capitalist. He claims he was doing it for "esthetic reasons".
LEONARD: Vaillencourt was always after money.
From here on in, the conversation took on a looser aspect.
TONY: Denys Arcand says you and Claude Jutras once called him and said he should help you plant bombs. Back in the 60s.
LEONARD: Yeah, it’s probably true. It was the spirit of the times. We were very animated. Claude Jutras and I were close friends.
TONY: It’s terrible what happened to him
LEONARD: Yes. I was in sympathy with the seperatists. I was friends with a lot of them. They were artists. I thought they had a noble cause. But I was also in sympathy with the federalists. I could understand both positions.
TONY: I hear Mordecai Richler got pretty mad at you for turning down the Order of Canada.
KELLEY: Why did you do that, Leonard?
LEONARD: (LAUGHING) I don’t know. He walked up to me in the bathroom after I turned down the award at the ceremony, and he was really mad. He said: "why did you do that?". And I said: "I honestly don’t know!". So he said: "If you’d answered anything else, I’d have decked you!"
KELLEY: (Who was reading Some of a Smaller Hero) What did you and Irving think of Mordecai?
LEONARD: Oh, I think we – quite wrongly – looked down on him.
KELLEY: Why?
LEONARD: Because he wasn’t a poet. But we were being silly.
We spoke a little about Quebec politics, and I repeated my oft-stated opinion that the W.A.S.P. establishment chickened out when they ran away after the election of the P.Q. But Leonard defended them,
LEONARD: It wasn’t just the W.A.S.P.s. Irving went to Toronto, too.
TONY: Why do you suppose?
LEONARD: We didn’t like the atmosphere. Some of these people were supposed to be our friends. But we’d be sitting at a table with them, and they’d point their fingers at us and say: "you know, you Jews…". Like that: ‘You Jews’. Well, we hadn’t heard that kind of language since 1944!
The conversation drifted toward Greek grammar, and pets. I caught a glimpse of the legendary ladies man when a young oriental woman on the sidewalk called her dog, who had drifted behind Leonard: "Come here!". Leonard looked up, smilng, and said: "Oh, you’re calling the dog? I thought you were calling me." She giggled.
We drifted through other topics. I had heard that he was supposed to write an opera with Philip Glass, and he said: "We still talk about it. Glass is amazingly productive!". He then returned to the subject of F.R. Scott:
LEONARD: Scott was an incredible teacher. We used to sit in a group, and he would be very critical of our work. Then, one time, he read a poem to us, and it really wasn’t very good. So we attacked him rather viciously. And he started crying! We couldn’t believe it! He cried, and he admitted that he had been too busy with his law practise, that he hadn’t attended to his duty as a poet. It meant a lot to him. He set a wonderful example. His poem, which I just set to music, is a villanelle: it’s an old French form where there are three line stanzas, and one line is repeated in each stanza. It’s a lovely poem.
KELLEY: Here we go talking about the old Montreal gang again…
TONY: I’m sorry. Does it bother you? We can change the subject.
KELLEY: No, no. I find it very interesting. Why was Irving so special Leonard?
TONY: Well, from what I understand, Irving and Scott and Dudek – all those Montreal guys – changed the face of poetry in Canada.
LEONARD: Yeah. Scott used to say that, before Irving came along, there were three types of poerty in Canadian: pre-Victorian, Victorian, and neo-Victorian.
TONY: What about Dudek?
LEONARD: Well, Dudek resented what Irving and I were doing. We would go on these poetry tours, and appear on television and radio. He thought this was a crime against poetry. He sincerely believed it belonged in the ivory tower, where it couldn’t be blemished.
TONY: He must have really been unhappy when you became a songwriter.
LEONARD: Oh, yes. But, over time, he realized he was wrong. And he copped to it publically when he presented me with my honourary degree at McGill.
TONY: Have you ever experimented with writing to a certain form, say a sonnet, to spur your creative juices?
LEONARD: (LAUGHING AGAIN) Actually, when I wrote that project with Lewis Furey (The "qualified success" I am a Hotel), I wrote it all in Spenserian sonnets. Nobody knows that, of course, but I did.
I knew that, in his New York days, Leonard used to visit a shrine to Catherine Tekakwitha – the Iroquois saint-in-the-making who plays such a strong role in Beautiful Losers – at Saint-Patrick’s Cathedral in New York. I had tried to find it during a previous visit, but couldn’t.
LEONARD: It’s in a place that’s hard to find. It’s carved into the front door, which is usually held open. You have to look for it. I used to go and hang flowers on it.
TONY: The next time I’m in New York, I’ll do the same.
LEONARD: Good. There’s a flower shop around the corner. I think it’s on 57th street. Incidentally, will you have your script checked out by the Mohawks?
TONY: Oh, yes. Jacob and I made sure that was stipulated in our contract with the producer. And I went out to Kanawahke before we started writing. Her shrine still receives thousands of visitors a year. An enormous international cult
Is still devoted with her. There are tons of these little rolled-up prayers to her around her tomb.
LEONARD: I know.
TONY: I was also thinking of having it checked out by some Jesuits.
LEONARD: (SURPRISED) Really. I have some good friends who are Catholic monks. When the book came out, some of the more forward-thinking Catholic critics supported the book, which is quite remarkable, when you think of it.
TONY: Well, these Jesuit friends of my parents have all read it, and seem to like it. I’m not surprised. Jacob and I understand that the book is deeply spiritual.
There was more talk. Had he read Mishima?(Yes). Had he seen the film biography of Mishima by Paul Schrader (also called Mishima? (No). He should: its form influenced our writing of the Beautiful Losers script. I would send him out a copy.
We had a couple of more drinks, and some coffee. At one point, I looked up to my left, and there, at the end of the boulevard, was the famous "Hollywood" sign. At some point, two young men at a nearby table indicated us and I heard one of them say: "Look, they’re talking about a screenplay!". I was late, but I had arrived.
The subject turned to Cuba, and Leonard told me that he has been there, and was arrested, during the revolution, a big smile on his face. I asked him if he’d been there since, and he said: "No. I’ve been at Mount Baldy with my teacher. I haven’t been anywhere in five years. I just left there and took a trip to India for three months). Not long after, some Australian fans walked over to Leonard and said: "Mr. Cohen, we’re big fans. We just wanted to say hello. My friend here is an artist". Leonard got up to shake their hands and said: "It’s very nice to meet you". Gracious once again.
Kelley wanted to go to the bookstore across the street, so we got up and waded through the traffic. Leonard said: "I’m a little tipsy". Kelly started to singing Burt Bacharach’s "What the World Needs Now", and Leonard joined in: "is love, sweet love…", offering me an exclusive cover version (I said: "you should cover that!").
In the bookstore, I headed straight for a large paperback called: "The Elements of Catholicism". Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Leonard open a book right next to it called "The Elements of Judaism". He then walked over the poetry section, squatted down, and began scouring the shelves. He emerged with a huge pile of books of poetry and books on poetry, and told me: "I haven’t been in a bookstore for two years, and here I am buying $500 in books". We stood in front of a copy of shelf full of Forster:
TONY: Were you deliberately subverting Forster in Beautiful Losers?
LEONARD: Oh, yeah… what did he say?
TONY: "Only connect"
LEONARD: (HIGHLY AMUSED) And I said "Connect Nothing". Yeah.
He paid his $500, and we walked outside while Kelly continued looking around. We sat together on a bench in the L.A. sunshine, mellow from the food and drink. Knowing what a huge influence Garcia Lorca had on his poetry, I asked: "Do you know enough Spanish to read Lorca in the original Spanish?"
LEONARD: No, I read mostly bilingual editions, with the Spanish on one side, and the English on the other. I don’t think my French is even good enough to read original French text.
TONY: Really?
LEONARD: Yeah. I like a poem to work on me at first brush. I’m not the type of person to try to analyze the minutae of every line to try and crack it, like a code. I’ve done it! Irving and I used to sit and analyze poems together for whole evenings, years ago. But if it works on you at first brush, you let it work on you. The you can analyze it. You know, I bought these books because setting the Scott poem to music was such a good experience that I’d like to do it with other poems by other people that I’ve always loved. I’d like to give it a try and see what happens.
TONY: Well, I love what you did with Lorca’s poem ("Take This Waltz" from "I’m Your Man".
LEONARD: Thank you. You know, he was already dead by the time it came out, but his sister wrote me a letter to tell me how much she liked what I had done. I was very touched. I worked for 150 hours on it!
TONY: Wow.
LEONARD: Well, you know, you write and you write, and you try to shape it.
TONY: Ian Terry is a big fan of your rejected verses
LEONARD: (SMILING) Oh, I have books full of rejected verses. But that’s the way I write. (BOB) Dylan used to cover a song of mine called "Alleluia", and I hung around backstage once when he was playing it. When I told him it took me over 20 hours to write, he couldn’t believe it.
TONY: Do you feel you have to write so much to generate inspiration?
LEONARD: I just think we’re in two different tribes. Hank Williams wrote "Your Cheating Heart" on an envelope in the back of a cab in 20 minutes, and I think it’s one of the best lyrics of all time. I just can’t write like that.
Kelly walked out of the store with a book on Adolf Hitler. Back in the Toyota, Leonard said: "every time Kelley walks out of bookstore, she has a book on Hitler. " I said: "I believe that the editors of the French edition of Mein Kampf go to great lengths to point out that the poor quality of the writing comes form Hitler’s original, and not from the translation". Kelley quipped: "Bad writing was the least of his crimes".
Back at Leonard’s place, Kelley asked us if she would mind if she went back home to her son. We didn’t mind. We shook hands, she left, and Leonard invited me back into his house.
The house is sparsely but tastefully decorated: a poet’s house. Very little pretention: religious trinkets and pictures of friends everywhere. Wooden floors, persian rugs, no ostentation. One gets the impression that he wants to keep his life as simple as possible (he is a zen bhuddist after all). He checked his messages, and told me that Jacob had called. He told me I should call Jacob back and let him know that I was o.k. So I did, leaving a message on his machine. Then, as we sat in the living room, he pulled a home-made CD out and put it into a small CD Player. He said: "It’s the Scott piece. I’d like to know what you think".
What I heard was a beautifully played and recorded demo of Leonard reciting the poem over original music. The usual Cohen elements were in place: a gentle, swaying rythm, the women back-up singers. It was brilliant: he had turned Scott’s poem about love lost and regained and, ultimately, about Grace, into a Leonard Cohen piece. The song ended, he turned to me and said: "what do you think?". I said: "Man, you’re at the height of your powers. "He mentioned again that he wanted to do more poetry covers, and I was enthusiastically supportive.
We stopped for awhile in his kitchen, where he opened the presents I brought for him, One was a Levitt’s kosher salami, which he gripped with both hands and gave an enthusiastic shake to.
TONY: Can you get that here?
LEONARD: Not this kind…
I then handed him a box of five Cuban cigars:
TONY: I know you can’t get these here.
LEONARD: Fantastic.
There were a number of little statuettes of Catherine Tekakwitha (or Kateri) in his kitchen, and I showed a lot of interest in them. He walked over to his bedroom, and searched for awhile through the top drawer of his dresser. He then handed me a small button with a portrait of Kateri on it and the words: "La vierge des Iroquois Catherine Tekakwitha". He said: "This is for you. I’m sorry I don’t have one for Jacob. Would you like to see my studio?"
Just in case you’re wondering, I had stopped believing my luck the minute I showed up 90 minutes late and didn’t get yelled at. I said: "Sure"" he led me down the back stairs into his small garden, which contained an orange tree, a grapefruit tree, his daughter’s motorcycle, and a jacuzzi. There was a two-floor "granny shack" back there as well. L.C. led me up another flight of wooden stairs into his studio, a one-room affair with antique furniture from Lorca, polished wooden floors, and tons of sunshine. As we walked over, we discussed his style of playing:
TONY: Leonard, you have a very distinctive approach to guitar playing. How’d that happen?
LEONARD: I’m just playing to my limitations. My musician friends like to joke about it. You know how they have "chops"? They say I’ve got a chop.
TONY: One.
LEONARD: Yeah, but it’s my chop.
He invited me to poke around, and we discussed the various equipment he uses: keyboard, microphone, recording medium, baffle. I played his keyboard a little, and looking up, noticed a sheaf of papers with lyrics on them, and my eyes glanced across them. I said: "Sorry, I shouldn’t be looking at this". He said: "No, no, go ahead".
We sat by his coffee table, on which sat a another thick sheaf of papers in a thick leather binding. He said: "That’s the book of poems I’ve been working on for the last little while. It’s a kind of parody of a monk’s life. I hope to come to Montreal soon to finish it". I felt as if he wanted me to pick it up and read through it, but, by this point, even I wasn’t ready for this much familiarity with an icon I’d just met. "I don’t know how people are going to respond to it. The climate out there has changed so much". He spoke a little more about Scott, saying: "You know, Scott was a big drinker, and an incredible womanizer". Unbidden, he opened up even more:
LEONARD: You know, I’m in a very happy phase in my life right now. For one thing, I’ve finally got some money. Contrary to popular misconception, I’ve never had a lot. I just sold all my publishing for a very respectable amount.
TONY: All of it?
LEONARD: All of it. I’ve got a lot people to support, and the Zen center. You know, "I’m Your Man" only sold 1.3 million. And that was 10 years ago".
TONY: What about "The Future"?
LEONARD: About the same. But again, that was in 1992. And you have to pay everyone for production. I only make an album every five years. And it’s hard work. I’m very happy with "I’m Your Man’, but it was work. And I had to stop I the middle of "The Future" because Adam (his son) had a very bad motorcycle accident and I went to be with him in the middle of it. I came back, an I think the work suffered. It was a very expensive album to do. I was satisfied in the end, but it was rough. But these, days, I feel 17 again: I’m free to explore, like you’re doing. I’m not pursuing any agenda but excellence.
TONY: So no more touring?
LEONARD: I never say never.
TONY: Why do you think Dylan still tours?
LEONARD: Because that’s the only life he can lead. His personal life is a terrible mess. I don’tknow what kind of a relationship he has with his children. There is no normal life for him. What’s he going to do? He won’t hang around in the enormous mansion he has out here. So he tours. On tour you’re treated very well. The audience loves you. And of course there are women. Don’t forget that.
TONY: And that’s what he does best. It’s probably the only thing he can do.
LEONARD: I think you’re right. But I’m worried about him. I haven’t met him socially for some time now, but when I see him on t.v.., he doesn’t look very good.
He then spoke to me about my work. He said: "what you’re doing is wonderful. As long as you’ve got a paying gig, keep it. It gives you the freedom that I’m truly enjoying now. You’re very lucky to have it. Keep on going. With those words of advice, he told me that he was concerned that I might be tired from my day: "Would you like to stretch out and have a nap? There’s an apartment downstairs". I said no, I was fine, buzzed actually. I said that I didn’t often get time to myself, and that I was actually looking forward to the solitude of the drive back to San Diego. He smiled: "Yeah, I know what you mean".
With that, we stepped back out into the sunshine, still talking.
TONY: What time did you have to get up in the morning at the monastery?
LEONARD: Around 2:30 or 3:00 a.m.
TONY: What time did you get to sleep?
LEONARD: I was an officer of the camp, so I couldn’t sleep until all the physical work was done. You were lucky if you got to bed at 11:00 p.m."
TONY: My Gode. Did all that sleep deprivation affect you?
LEONARD: Yeah, but it’s probably like the marines. I’m not sure if sleep deprivation has any affect on meditative practise, though I did have some remarkable experiences when meditating. I suppose it’s like the marines. If you survive it, it makes you tougher.
TONY: You have a very nice house. The trees are beautiful
LEONARD: I should have gone into real estate. I would have made a fortune. I have great instincts. When I bought the house on Marie-Anne with Rosengarten,it cost around $20,000. The house on Hydra cost $1,700! When I bought this house, the neighbourhood was mostly black, but now it’s changed and gone way up in value.
I showed him my pictures of Julie and Sophie, and he said something in Greek that meant "Long may they flourish". We walked back toward my car:
LEONARD: I’m glad I met you and Jacob,. You’re very talented guys.
TONY: Thanks. And thank you again for your wonderful hospitality and generosity. Jacob and I want you to know how much we value you and your work and we want what we do to honour you.
LEONARD: That reminds me of a story. There was once a very old man who decided to marry a voluptuous, sexy young woman. His friends asked him if he intended to have sex with her, and he said of course. So they got very worried and said: but sex is an exertion, it makes your heart pound, it makes you sweat. And he said: what can I do? If she dies, she dies.
In other words, you just have to do these things. If they’re good, they’re good. If not, you tried your best.
TONY: Yes, but I think you’re a very important figure right now, especially when it comes to the seriousness of the religious impulse in your work.
LEONARD: One thing I’ll say is don’t read the what the critics said about the book. Remember what I said about confusing my obscenity with the usual obscenity. A lot of them fell into that trap. It killed the book. It only sold 3,000 copies when it was first released.
TONY: But it still sells 30 years later.
LEONARD: In various editions around the world.
TONY: So, as a product, it has turn-over – just very long cycles.
LEONARD: (LAUGHING) Yes. It’s got legs.
He talked a little more about his fear of the new puritanism, and how it leads to mistakes in interpreting certain behaviours:
TONY: It’s like Pete Townshend said. A lot of people don’t realize that mods rode scooters and wore raincoats because they were looking for God. Maybe people on the extreme right just don’t see that.
LEONARD: I know. But everybody’s looking for God. Even members of the extreme right. Believe me, I understand them sometimes. You have to impose order in certain situations. You just can’t go too far.
With that, I told him to enjoy the salami and cigars. He answered: " I’m going to smoke one right now!". We shook hands , and I got into the car. As he walked away, I realized that I hadn’t asked for directions, so I got out and flagged him down. He walked back toward me:
TONY: Hey, Mel Torme died today. The Velvet Fog.
LEONARD: I heard.
TONY: That makes you his successor! The next fog!
LEONARD (LAUGHING): Yeah. The Velvet Mist.
He came back, gave the directions, and said: "I’ll see you in Montreal. We’ll have a smoked meat or something".
I got back in the car. As I started the engine, I heard a knock on the passenger window. It was Leonard. I rolled down the window, and he went over the directions again: "Watch out for the signs to the airport. The highway’s tricky".
With that friendly comedy, I drove back to San Diego high as a kite, listening to music the whole way. I did not get lost. When I got back to my hotel, I could not sleep for hours.
Since then, Beautiful Losers has inched forward just a little more, thanks in no small part to our taking the initiative to visitLeonard on our own. I never wanted to be rich and famous (well, rich, yes). My biggest hope in pursuing these artisic projects has been to do good work of some value, and maybe to meet artists I admired and speak to them at what I hope is something close to their level. I like to think that happened during my lunch with Leonard, but I’ll let you judge from the evidence here.
As for Leonard, the last I heard he as packing up his Toyota for a two-month drive – alone – to destinations unknown. There are rumors that he may end up in Montreal. If he does, and he calls, the smoke meat is on us.
