 |
| A file picture dated 25 July 2008 shows Canadian singer Leonard Cohen performing on stage in Loerrach, Germany.ROLF HAID / EPA |
Leonard Cohen's lyrics were a reminder of the importance of good art.
“There is a crack, a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.”
Song lyrics are powerful pieces of art. Across every style of music, there are countless brilliant lines to suit every imaginable emotion. If you're feeling something, someone else has felt it too. And they've probably written a song about it.
So, it's impossible to play favourites.
But the above line from ‘Anthem', which is not even remotely close to Leonard Cohen's best song, could be my favourite lyric of all time.
I've never told anyone that. And I've never heard anyone else say that before.
But, in the wake of Leonard Cohen's not completely unexpected but still sorrowful passing, I've seen the line pop up in far more tweets and Facebook posts than I ever would have expected.
It's hopeful, a little cynical, and realistic. It's a lyric people can relate to and, like so much of Cohen's work, draw their own meaning from.
It never really had much meaning to me, until 2010, when I first saw Leonard Cohen live.
“Ring the bells that still can ring,” he said midway through the set. “Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack, a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.”
His band, who were beyond flawless, launched into ‘Anthem'. Cohen sang the first two verses. Then the arrangement swelled and that chorus just exploded.
‘Ring the bells that still can ring,' he sang. ‘Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack, a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.'
The death of a close family member, the brutal and abrupt ending of a long relationship and a wave of uncertainty in my personal and professional life had made much of the year fairly miserable. It wasn't depression, but it was depressing. To put it bluntly, life sucked.
While I'd always believed that you can't appreciate good times without experiencing bad times, Cohen's ‘Anthem' - and that line in the chorus in particular - framed it in an altogether more powerful way that night.
I felt overwhelmed as they played the song. As it finished, I felt liberated. Sure, it didn't last forever, but I still cherish the rush of relief I felt as I realised that Leonard Cohen not only understood what was happening, but assured me that things would get better. And they did.
There were dozens of incredible moments from that show. I seem to recall their version ‘Waiting For The Miracle' was my surprise favourite. But the first thing I think of when I reminisce is how I felt when he sang that line.
I now return to it when I need it. There are tons of Cohen songs I like better. I wish I could write about the genius of ‘Famous Blue Raincoat', ‘Chelsea Hotel #2', ‘Who By Fire', ‘The Partisan' and ‘Everybody Knows', to name a few.
But there's a special place in my heart for ‘Anthem'. I use it as a tool. A way to realise that everything is going to be okay. A reminder to be thankful for the hard times.
Leonard Cohen was not a doctor. He wasn't a psychiatrist or psychologist. And music won't cure mental illness. But it can make us feel better, it can give us a new perspective on what we're going through, and can make us see light in the darkness.
So, this note is partly a way of saying thank you to a writer I consider to be the finest in history.
But it's mainly a note of encouragement to anyone who aspires to write beautiful things.
Please, keep doing it.
Your work is more valuable than you know it. You might help someone through a hard time. You might even change their life. The ability to do that is inestimable.
Powerful (and not so powerful) people will try and undervalue art forever, but they are wrong. I needed Leonard Cohen in 2010 and the world needs you now that he's gone.
First published at Double J, November 11, 2016
No comments:
Post a Comment