Leonard Cohen once recounted a story to The New Yorker editor David Remnick about a drive he took with Bob Dylan. During their trip, Dylan recalled a time another famous songwriter had once told him, “Bob, you’re Number 1, but I’m Number 2.” Dylan turned to Cohen and said, “As far as I’m concerned, Leonard, you’re Number 1. I’m Number Zero.”
Cohen said he took Dylan’s remark to mean that Dylan’s own work was “beyond measure,” while Cohen’s was “pretty good.” It was the kind of praise Cohen could accept from the legendary songwriter he had been compared to throughout his career.
Dylan’s admiration for Cohen was genuine. He went on to describe his friend’s gift: “His genius is in his connection to the music of the spheres.”
No faint praise for a man who, after five years of retreating to Mt. Baldy to live as a Zen Buddhist monk, returned to the world to discover that the manager he trusted had nearly emptied his savings. At seventy-three, Cohen, the reluctant performer, found himself back on the road, not chasing fame but rebuilding his bank account.
What began as a financial necessity became one of the most celebrated farewell tours in music history. Leonard Cohen took everything that was broken, his voice, his losses, his doubts, his years away, and somehow made it beautiful.
Open thread.
