His themes are universal and serious: the inevitability of loss, imperfectability of human nature, the ephemeral transcendence of love. Over the years, he studied Scientology, became an ordained Buddhist monk, and studied at an Indian ashram—along with pursuing various intoxicants from acid to alcohol and ascetic practices particularly fasting. His goal was less the abstract pursuit of enlightenment than to ameliorate the bouts of depression that struck him throughout much of his life.
And it paid off in the long run—Cohen is one of the rare artists who pursued his craft with intensity and diligence all his life, and peaked as a performer in his 70s. In a surprising twist that serves as a hopeful beacon to us late bloomers, after his business manager embezzled his money and left him broke early in the s, he decided to go on tour to support his ex-wife and children.
Although he had previously hated performing, he put together a stellar backup band and collaborated with them to develop innovative arrangements of his work.
The result was almost a decade of some of the best live performances in popular music history you can find many of them in YouTube. Cohen not only accomplished his goal of earning back a fortune, he left a shining legacy that touches millions. He was referring, of course, to his imminent death, but what struck me was that he associated it with the open ocean—and freedom. The trip ahead was long: miles, from New York to Florida, where I hoped to pick up my boat and spend a few days camping and paddling.
Music would keep me from getting bored. While the endless gray-and-green strips of landscape unfurled outside the car, references and long-forgotten images flashed through my brain. There was the song I played repeatedly when I went out running on the hot autumn nights in Texas when my father lay dying.
