30th...The poet in music

Songs of Love and Hate. Five stars.

This seems as good a place as any to propose my theory that no matter how many artistic mediums you span, an artist's oeuvre will always be informed by their true calling. This is provable. M.C. Escher's prints are the work of a mathematician, first and foremost, with the perfect logic, precision and patterning that comes from thinking in such a mode of expression.

Or David Bowie, natural actor. Even a late work like 1. Outside, complete with character voice overs, is informed by a lifelong career as an actor.

And yet, Escher is remembered for his illustrations and Bowie as a musician. And so we come to Leonard Cohen, mainly thought of as a musician, and whose every song is informed by the sensibilities of a poet. However, by 1971s release, he no longer sounds like a poet. The earlier releases both feature a lot of under emoting, so the first thing you notice about Songs of Love and Hate is a sudden confidence in his singing ability (which the liner notes attribute to his having been on tour); that and that his voice has deepened a few notches. So with increased capabilities of expression and livelier musicianship, sessions were held in Nashville, with a few later additions made in London.

Leonard refused to deal with drums, so the result has a very chamber orchestra feel, particularly on the opener, Avalanche, with about three acoustic guitars and turbulent strings to lend a dramatic flair to a subtly disturbing lyric. I'd previously been introduced to it via Nick Cave's fabulous, psychotic reimagining, compared to which, the original has only a vague air of the sinister.

Last Year's Man makes beautiful, if infrequent, use of a choir of children while the story told is of profound writer's block. The verses take in Joan of Arc, the wedding of Bethlehem and Babylon and a parallel between Jesus and Cain, all of which are carefully rendered but serve no purpose to the man of the title, left still where he started.

Gears shift with Dress Rehearsal Rag, as the camera zooms in on one sorry soul contemplating suicide. The relentless cruelty of the narrator to himself keeps it from being sad per-say, alongside an ambiguous finale and a rather lovely memory of past romance that only serves to further hurt the protagonist. And since I'm a writing geek, I love the way it starts in the first person and switches to the notoriously hard to pull off second person.

Even that song does not prepare you for Diamonds in the Mine, a bizarre pseudo-reggae tune that sure sounds upbeat until he starts singing. It's even got electric guitar, ladies on backups, and the most blatant song structure on record (verse- chorus). But there's also Leonard trying to shred his voice in mad dog rage, chewing up...what? In a series of ugly, entirely unrelated images that seem united only by an absence of life, of any sort of bounty or harvest.

Love Calls You By Your Name returns to the staid manner of usual. There's something of grace in its distance, though I still struggle to find some meaning in the evolving refrain which plays on doubles (windmill and the grain, dancer and his cane, etc). I could do without the horn section, but at least it's subtle.

Famous Blue Raincoat is the album's classic and probably the best song. Framed as a letter, showcasing a numbness brought on by despair, a bunch of insignificant details such as the title's raincoat, and a whole universe in the foggy relations between "L. Cohen," his brother and his wife. The self-destructive indifference of the narrator is actually a little frightening. Musically, it's near waltzing (probably the result of having been written mostly in amphibrachs), with a romantic feel, a complex song structure and the backup singers create the best effect on any Cohen song I've heard.

Sing Another Song, Boys has the distinction of being the only track that sounds like it was recorded in Nashville. No chorus; messiness abounds. Love and hate abound on the record, but this is the only case wherein the song's main players are entirely unaware. Instead, it's the omniscient narrator with his bitter knowledge that the relationship was doomed before it started. The best part of it comes after the song is through and there's an outpouring of "la la las." It's rather touching to hear from a poet, who should therefore be relying on words to get the point across.

Joan of Arc takes her executional pyre and turns it into a poetic metaphor, as she marries the flames. Considering the true events, that makes this the most macabre song, though the lyric turns out as a beautiful rumination on the pain inherent in the love we all seek.

Coming to the end, I realise I have described a ruinously depressing album. So why do I find it just the opposite? It must partially be the measure of grace he brings to despair and certainly also the excellence of the end result, that he would tackle, time and again, these heavy themes without triteness of thought or an easy way out.

I do recognise that such music is not for all tastes, but I recommend this CD all the same.