Well, it looks like Loneard Cohen's second try won't have them dancing in the streets either. It doesn't take a great deal of listening to realize that Cohen can't sing, period. And yet, the record grows on you, and if you give it a chance, it has something to offer. But you can hardly be blamed if you aren't willing to take the time.
The first thing that has to be with-stood is his voice. It's monotonous in a literal sense of the word. He seems to be sort of dragging one tone slightly up and down the chromatic scale. His voice almost never has an edge to it; it just remains where it is. Probably this is just as well. He knows his limits. Just why he wants us to know them is another
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question. In our cases, it presents a formidable barrier to the understanding of his poetry, rather than being an unobstructive vehicle for it.
Maybe that, too, is just as well. On paper, Leonard Cohen's poetry is cleanly worded, youthfully direct, and, as George Orwell once said, when writing of "good" bad poetry, "a graceful monument to the obvious." It is also remarkably salable, Recorded, it's none of these, except, maybe the last.
His poems become muddled in his singing and lost in his intonation. When he does come through with clarity, as in "Story of Isaac," he is matter of fact to the point of being dull. When he's not being matter of fact, but rather obscure, as he is in "A Bunch of Lonesome Heroes," he's just irritating. Other singer-poets are obscure, but generally the feeling comes through that an attempt is being made to reach to a heart of meaning. But Cohen sings with such lack of energy that it's pretty easy to conclude that if he's not going to get worked up about it, why should we.
But something else does evolve on the far side of these stumbling blocks. It is a sound portrait of a man and of mood. A picture of Leonard Cohen: a terribly poetic, sensitive person who is depressed and depressing and who is capable of a great deal of honesty. His poetry, which might be considered sophomoric, becomes more serious when you realize that the man is pouring out his life before you. It becomes a somewhat painful thing to hear.
And this portrait is drawn, not so much by the songs themselves as by Bob Johnston's production around them. The backup and arrangements, while they occasionally underscore Cohen's weakness as a singer, are superb at creating mood. The predominant mood is one of nostalgia and a rather wistful tenderness. And to someone who can relate to this sort of mood, the album would be appreciated.
But, if you're looking for more than a portrait of moody Leonard Cohen, and in search of more substantial music, then pass this by. (RS 33)
ALEC DUBRO
Songs From A Room, Cohen's second album, was for me a great improvement over his first because of restraint in the use of strings, clarions and angelic choirs, and because the compositions themselves were fairly even in quality (with "Bird on the Wire" and "Story of Issac" two really tight, clean stand-outs). And short–he shouldn't be straining the frail but frequently quite lovely melodies to five and six minutes, as he does on Songs of Love and Hate. But this record, alas, goes back to all the trash that cluttered up the first album–schlock horns, schlock strings, schlock chorus–as if to make of it a style. Recognizable, yes no one but Leonard Cohen could have come out with these arrangements but a style, no.
There are a couple of terrific songs on this one (Cohen is one of those artists who would benefit greatly by a "Best Of" album), though the record as a whole has not the charm that his first develops after a long while it is not as likable, because it is frequently downright depressing.
"Famous Blue Raincoat." of the two, is the one that really improves with each hearing: it is about something, which gives the lyrics a spine the other songs on the record lack, what with images longer, more obscure and frequently tangled than before. "Famous Blue Raincoat" is the characteristic L. Cohen hymn to promiscuity ("Winter Lady," "Tonight Will Be Fine," among others): "And you treated my woman To a flake of your life. And when she came home/She was nobody's wife."
It is in this song that the female chorus is most harmful–it draws attention to the lyric, for one thing, which is at that point most inane: "And Jane came by with a lock of your hair/She said that you gave it to her ..." But the guitar here is restful, not the usual busy-signal that one finds on "Avalanche" here and "Songs of the Street," for instance, on The Songs of Leonard Cohen.
The other highlight is "Joan of Arc." That Cohen mostly sets music to verses (whether or not he writes the former first) is painfully clear when he recites, above his own singing voice in the distant background: "Myself I long for love and life But must it come so cruel and oh, so bright?" But there is the melody (nice), the chorus works reasonably well, and the lyrics sound perfectly fine when sung: "She said I'm tired of the war I want the kind of work I had before ..."
"Avalanche," the first song on the first side, hears the famous Cohen mosquito-hum guitar, a distracting stutter. The image here is abjection, and I think (hedge) that it is about the temptations of pity ("It is your flesh I wear"). But it is pretended abjection, after all the weakness, a constant theme of Cohen's, is a pose: "The cripple that you clothe and feed Is neither starved nor cold." As on "Love Calls You By Your Name," later on the record: "Wondering when the bandage pulls away. Was I only limping? Was I really lame?"
"Last Year's Man
