Rory Gallagher was my first rock gig. In the stadium in 77. And it was good. But my second was on another dimension entirely. The dark witty sombre timbre of Leonard Cohen in the boxing stadium reeking of home grown weed. The still stoic beauty of his deep sonorous voice. I then got to all his gigs including the 7pm and 9pm shows in 88 - when Dublin was great.They were to prove to be his last for some 20 plus years until he reappeared a groovy cultural icon In Kilmainham. The clouds of homegrown gave way to champagne selling Citroën vans. And the earnest poets in dufflecoats were now trendy cunts in pink cashmere. But I spoke or shouted to Leonard "Please don't make us wait another 25 years."
He took off his fedora, placed it over his heart and spoke back to me: "I don't think I have another 25 years in me."
Elvis orgasmic.
Beatles squeals.
I forgot the cunts in pink cashmere. And Gerry Adams behind. And sightings of Bertie. And the minister of something and his slightly alarmed missus sitting beside me in the front row and probably the rightful owners of the empty seat I had just colonised, Fitzcaraldo like.
"I might not have a ticket but I have a right."
But the bouncer from Northern Ireland didn't agree.
And Leonard was mid song and probably too preoccupied to save me.
So with bouncer forehead almost kissing my nose, I left the front row to the pink cashmere cunts.
And discreetly claimed an empty seat in row 4.
Beggers, choosers.
And there was beauty. And he was wonderful. You could waltz with his generosity of spirit and his true sense of delight at performing and at being received in such an adoring manner.
Here's to Buddhism.
He went up the mountain.
And he truly transcended worldly goods.
In other words his manager spent all his money.
So he had to dump the saffron and sushi.
And hit the road, Jack.
Then once he was on it, it seemed he couldn't stop coming back.
Until cancer and the armies of old age threw up insurmountable barricades.
It was all very sad and moving.
But I preferred the pre Armani days.
Jusy Leonard alone strumming a guitar with his deep deep voice weaving a hypnotic spell of barbituate beauty.
Sadness so deep it shimmered with beauty.
That was my Leonard.
"I found a silver needle
I stuck it into my arm
It did some good
It did some harm
But the night was cold
And it almost made me warm
How come the night is long."
That Lorca like lyricism.
That was my Cohen.
Sure I was thrilled to see in the black Armani, surrounded by beauty and him, bizarrely, tinkling with.a synthesiser.
In lesser hands it could have been cocaine narcissism.
But Leonard wasn't with Warhol or sitting across from Trump in Club 54.
No, he may have been in a glittering tower but he was talking to Hank Williams.
About what?
About how lonely it gets.
In the Heartbreak Hotel.
Lonely. Like back in the stadium.
Solo.
Strumming.
Singing.
Of tea and oranges.
Amidst the crystal silence.
And cabbage like reek of the homegrown.
Spellbinding.
Then he gets you
On his wavelength.
And he lets the river answer.
