Customer Name: pikeyboy
Date Of Review: 2008-08-28
Review Summary: Bruised And Naked Cohen
Review:
This is definitive stuff, make no mistake. Dense, dark, full of self-loathing, at times almost impenetrable, it always draws parallels in my mind to those blurry, dank portraits that Francis Bacon conjured out of the depths of his psyche, in order - to paraphrase his words on the subject - "to capture the essence of the soul as if it had left behind slime-trails on the canvas." The album cover bares enough clues as to what was going on inside Cohen's mind at the time. He looks uncharacteristically scruffy, half-starved, manic and mystical, with his name and the title spelled out in stark, bold white letters against the harsh, black backdrop. Released in 1971, stung to the core by the death of free-love and sixties idealism, it didn't contain much inside the groove to exactly cheer anyone up, but as a document of where the artist's head was at at the time it is unparalleled. Nearly forty years on, we now know it is a leviathen of raw, primal music and imagery as ever plumbed the depths of popular song, akin perhaps to the 'John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band' album or the darker parts of Johnny Cash's 'American Recordings'. In other words, it is fairly unremitting stuff, and not a place to which many are permitted to travel whilst still retaining majesty and grace. Yet grace is what it possesses in abundance, not least in the closing, haunting refrains of 'Joan Of Arc' and the messy love-triangle depicted in the magesterial 'Famous Blue Raincoat'. The self-loathing, however, kicks off from the very start, in perhaps Cohen's most bleak and oblique recording ever: I speak, of course, of the towering 'Avalanche,' with Cohen comparing himself to a "hunchback" with an "ugly hump at which you stare," and advocating to those "who wish to conquer pain...to learn to serve me well." I have turned these words over and over again in my mind, yet they never shed any light on what lay behind such self-castigating imagery. The closest I come is to thinking of Cohen as the ugly troll who imprisons Rapunzel in a tower in the famous fairytale, but it is still wide of the mark. This is followed up by 'Last Year's Man,' which more-or-less speaks for itself, though couched in sometimes oblique Biblical references to Jesus who was "the honeymoon/And Cain was just the man." Primarily though, the song is a beautifully-woven fabric around the subject of writer's block, which itself contains a stunning paradox. 'Dress Rehearsal Rag' is surely the song which forever fixed Cohen's image in the media press-pack as "doom-laden troubadour," but closer inspection proves this a complete falsehood. The song is chock-full of sweeping grandeur, replete with a wickedly dry and very jewish shot of humour, in that the song's protagonist is chastising himself for being too much of a coward to ever carry out such a highly dramatic act as self-murder. The humour continues in 'Diamonds In The Mine' and 'Sing Another Song, Boys,' which plays out like some deranged Victorian melodrama. This desolate beauty owes much to the closely-mic'd and bare-bones arrangements of Bob Johnson, who also produced 'Songs From A Room' and 'Live Songs' (on which he also plays organ and keyboards, as part of Cohen's backing band, The Army). In many ways the album is Cohen's definitive statement, and it is an absolute must for anyone who shares an admiration for the man.